Queen's Ransom (25 page)

“Yes, madam. I would. Will you be safe?”

“We’re all going together as far as Antwerp, and I shall have Sweetapple and Arnold on the way back.”

“God be with you, madam,” Brockley said. He paused and then added: “I’ve never told you much about my early life, madam, have I? Except that you know I went to war with King Henry in 1544.”

“That’s so. Why?” I asked him.

“I was married as a young man,” Brockley said. “The daughter of an innkeeper in London. Joan, her name was. I had to leave her behind when I went to fight, in the train of the gentleman I served. When I came back, she’d gone off with a group of traveling players.” He saw my startled face and added hastily: “Oh, I’m married to Fran, right enough. Joan died long ago. I found her again, but it took me a couple of years, which was a poor joke on the part of fate, because though I didn’t know it, for most of that time, she’d been living half a mile from my employer’s town house. She quarreled with her lover and left the troupe, and came back to London and she’d been supporting herself—well, you can guess how.” Brockley’s face expressed distaste.

“She’d got with child and got rid of it,” he said, “but whatever it was she did to herself, it killed her. She was dying when I found her. Well, she died and I buried her and I didn’t expect to wed again. The thing with Joan was that she had something mysterious about her. I never knew quite what she really felt or thought; there was always something withheld, just glimmering in her eyes or her little half-smile. I fell in love with her because of that; it was—as if she was always beckoning. But after she was gone, I didn’t want to follow any more beckoning women. And then I met Fran.

“With Fran, there are no mysteries. What you see is what there is. No pretenses, no secrets. And if anything happens to her, because I was a fool and tried to protect her with that damned phial of yew poison. . . . I shall do what the old Romans did, madam. I shall fall on my sword.”

“We are going to save her,” I said. I wished I felt more certain of it, but I put all the conviction into my voice that I could. “You are to take your things down to John Ryder’s lodgings in the town,” I said. “He has agreed to stay with you.”

I had had quite an argument with John Ryder about that.

“I am here to guard you, mistress, under orders from Sir William Cecil. I have to remain with you, not with your manservant.” He was kindly, fatherly, and firm. I looked him in the eye.

“Master Ryder, you are under orders to shadow me in the hope that I will lead you to Matthew. I know quite well that guarding me was just a pretext and that hunting Matthew down is the real reason why Sir William Cecil sent you with me. Well, now that I know this, you can rest assured that I shall take great care not to lead you to Matthew. Also, he is in any case in France, and I’m going to Antwerp, more than adequately escorted. If necessary, I will hire extra men for the return journey. There is no need at all for you to come, too.”

Ryder flushed. “Mistress Blanchard, I can assure you that Sir William was most concerned for your safety and . . .”

“Brockley needs a friend beside him. Sir William never foresaw any of this.”

He thought it over, frowning. It was obvious, of course, that if he had orders both to guard me and to hunt for Matthew, then these two purposes must now part company. He could not seek Matthew while traveling to Antwerp, nor guard me and still remain in France. Nor had he any mandate to stop me from going to Antwerp.

At length, after much hesitation, he said he would respect my wishes and stay with Brockley. By which I knew that I was right, and that he was principally here to find and arrest Matthew. Well, Brockley would be glad of him. I could only pray that Matthew would evade him.

“You can do something for me,” I said to Brockley now. “Keep John Ryder occupied. Keep him beside you. But no more talk, if you please, of falling on your sword!”

We set out, therefore, in terrible weather, saddlebags bulging and satchels bouncing on our backs. Jenkinson (who was now calling himself Simon Drury, which was confusing because we had to get used to calling him that) was carrying the most. His saddlebags would hardly fasten and instead of a proper satchel, he had on his shoulders an overstuffed thing like a leather sack with buckles. We rode like demons, our mounts’ coats often as dark with sweat as with rain. Few inns kept enough horses for us all to change mounts at once, but we took what we could find, in turns.

I drove us onward, keeping pauses for food and drink as short as I could; bullying everyone to make them rise early and get into their saddles with their mouths still full of breakfast; urging us, every evening, to do those last few miles that might in the end add up to one day less on the road.

The men could stand up to it and so could I, for I had been accustomed to an energetic life, but although Helene and Jeanne both rode quite well, neither was used to long hours of riding. By the end of the first full day, Jeanne looked worn-out and Helene was complaining that she was sore. I told her brusquely to pad herself with saddle-dusters.

When at the inn we had found for our third night’s lodging, Jeanne had to be helped off her horse and almost carried inside, Jenkinson came to speak to me. “You’re overdoing things. If you kill yourself—or us—with exhaustion, will that help Dale?”

He was right, of course, and I should have listened. Traveling together, we had become friends. I had by now told him a good deal about not only Matthew but also my runaway match with Gerald, and I had told him as much as I could of my reasons for detesting Dr. Wilkins, and why I believed that he might have something to do with our present emergency. I was careful not to speak of my work for Cecil but I could say I had been one of the queen’s ladies, and complain that Cecil had used me as bait to catch my husband without mentioning that I had ever been a spy myself.

“I notice,” he said, “that you are not on very friendly terms with Helene. What is wrong between the two of you?”

“Helene went through our baggage once and found that phial,” I said. “Though it wasn’t Helene who told De Clairpont about it; I challenged her with that and she denied it and I think she spoke the truth. She swore on the cross and I don’t think she would have done that if she were lying. Anyway, she hasn’t had much chance to go tattling. I suspect that the phial was found by someone else—I don’t know who—much earlier.” I told him about the mysterious search of our luggage in Le Cheval d’Or. “That was probably nothing to do with Helene. Cecil’s men might have been looking for signs that I had been in touch with Matthew . . . but on the other hand . . . perhaps it was someone else. Oh, I am so tired of mysteries. I just want to get to Antwerp and get back with Dale’s ransom and then get out of France forever and say farewell to Helene forever, too. I don’t suspect her of harming Dale, but I still can’t forgive her for poking into my bags, or for her insufferable sanctimoniousness.”

“She’s an aggravating girl, I agree,” Jenkinson said comfortingly. “And I don’t like Dr. Wilkins any more than you do. I met him briefly at St. Marc’s Abbey.”

But although he was now a friend I trusted, I didn’t trust him to be right when he said we were riding too hard. I made us press on at the same pace. The continent of Europe, when one is in a hurry, seems unending. In England, even the topography seems to know that it is on an island and that each landscape, each area of chalk hills, forest, upland plain, fen, or moorland, must be confined within a reasonable space if all are to be fitted in. On the Continent, everything has much more elbow room and uses it. Deer grow bigger antlers, wolves continue to thrive, and landscapes go on apparently forever.

The bad weather seemed determined to go on forever, as well. The wind and rain did not abate and although we all had stout leather cloaks, the end of the day always found us soaking wet as well as exhausted.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, Jeanne virtually collapsed again and had to be shifted onto Sweetapple’s horse and held there with his arm around her. We were obliged to slow our pace, and then, just to add to my exasperation, Blanchard’s mount went lame. We could do nothing but halt at a most uncomfortable hostelry attached to a hamlet in the middle of nowhere. There were allegedly a couple of horses there for hire, but they were out and not expected back for two days, and Jeanne, in any case, needed to rest.

We were at least over the French border by then, though not by much. This had cheered my father-in-law up a good deal, but it did little for me. We were still a long way from Antwerp.

I cried that night, thinking of Dale in her prison and Brockley, waiting in anguish for my return. At breakfast the next day I knew my eyes were red. Jenkinson noticed, and later on, came to the damp little parlor where I was listlessly sitting with Helene while Jeanne lay in bed.

“We shall get there. Don’t be afraid. We can pass the time,” said Jenkinson firmly,“by laying a few sensible plans. I intend sailing for England, as you know, but I’m unlikely to find a ship at once and meanwhile, if I can help you, I will. Now, exactly what do you intend to do when we arrive? I do know Antwerp a little.” I wondered if there was anywhere that Jenkinson didn’t know. Cathay possibly, although I wouldn’t have gambled even on that. “Where precisely is the warehouse?” Jenkinson asked. “Near the river Schelde? Most of the warehouses are by the river or close to it.”

“It’s close to it,” I said,“maybe a couple of miles north of the cathedral. There’s a kind of network of waterways and docks leading off from the river and it’s beside one of the waterways. It has a landing stage. There’s a land entrance, too, onto a street on the other side. The street’s called Hoekstraat—Hook Street, that is. When Gerald took me to see the warehouse, we walked through Hoekstraat first. It’s shaped like a hook, with a straight stretch and then a curve. The straight part runs parallel with the waterway and the warehouse is one of a row in between them. But the best way to get there is by boat. After he’d shown me Hoekstraat, Gerald hired a rowing boat and we went along the waterway and entered the place by way of the landing stage.” I frowned, remembering. “I rather think that the easiest way to transport the treasure would be by water. There are dwellings beside some of those waterways. If we could arrange to stay somewhere from which we can go by boat all the way to the warehouse . . .”

“But surely,madam,” Helene said,“the owner will long since have learned that your former husband is dead and that you have gone away. What if he’s let it to someone else by now?”

“I have a key,” I said.

“So we are to—burgle it?”

“Yes,” I said bluntly.

“We shall need to find a hostelry at first,” Jenkinson said thoughtfully. “But we could look round then for a rented house on a suitable waterway. A house would give us more privacy, anyway. You’ve said that you and your first husband were in the household of Sir Thomas Gresham. Will you call on him?”

I had been thinking about that. If one has something to hide, it is well to behave as normally as possible.

When I reached Antwerp, to visit Sir Thomas would be the normal thing to do. If I didn’t, and he learned of my presence by accident, he might wonder why.

“I might,” I said, “but I must be careful what I say to him. He would want that treasure sent to England. The plight of one tirewoman in France might not seem to him so very important.”

“Yes, I see.” Jenkinson stroked his brown beard thoughtfully. “I have met him,” he said. “I would like to call on him. There are some matters of commerce I might fruitfully discuss with him, and he could help us obtain passages for England. We could all visit together. You can simply say you and Master Blanchard wished to get out of France quickly. I see no difficulty about that.”

“I wish we weren’t having so much difficulty in getting to Antwerp in the first place,” I said.

But for all my impatience, I was tired, and secretly glad to rest from the hard riding for a while. I was sleeping badly, too, and when I did sleep, I had nightmares. Twice, the following night, I woke from terrifying dreams. Once, I sat up with heart pounding, sure that someone had set fire to the inn. I sat bolt upright in the darkness for several moments before the quietness and the complete lack of any smell of smoke convinced me that all was safe.

I lay down again and drifted off to sleep once more, and this time dreamed that Dr. Wilkins had come into the room and was telling me that I would never bring the treasure back from Antwerp. He sat on the end of my bed and laughed at me, making the bed shake.

I shot upright again, to find that it was morning and that the rain had stopped. The wind still plagued the trees that grew at the back of the hostelry, but it was less boisterous and there were traces of blue between the racing clouds. Helene was already up; indeed, it was she who had been shaking my bed, although gently.

“It is time for breakfast, madame. See, I am dressed already and I have been out into the open air. The weather is much better.”

“But Master Blanchard’s horse is still lame and the horses belonging to this place are still out. And how is Jeanne? Is she much better as well?”

“Yes, madam, she is. She can go on tomorrow, she says, if only we need not ride for quite such long hours.”

“The horses should be back today,” I said. “But they will need a night’s rest . . . tomorrow will have to do, I suppose,” I said grudgingly.

Tiredness and worry were making me bad-tempered. I was angry with Jeanne for falling ill, even angry with Blanchard’s horse for going lame. We could have been much farther on our way but for these maddening mishaps.

Hoping that fresh air would help me, I took a walk myself after breakfast. I went through the small village, looking at the farmland, listening to the local patois, which was a curious mixture of French and Low German. I was glad to get out of the inn. True, it wasn’t quite as primitive as the one before, which had the last-century system of dormitories for men and women and no private rooms at all. This one, despite its remoteness, did at least have some separate rooms for hire. But the beds had bugs, the tables were inadequately scrubbed, and the wooden platters carried the encrusted remains of previous guests’ meals. The place was run by a father and a middle-aged daughter who snapped and shouted at each other all the time. Le Cheval d’Or was a haven of comfort and good cheer by comparison.