The Tudor Vendetta (15 page)

“This … cannot be it,” I said, as the wind tore at our cloaks and flung salt spray, to the horses’ snorting discontent. But the map confirmed it could be no other.

We had reached Vaughan Hall.

VAUGHAN HALL, WITHERNSEA

Chapter Twelve

We struggled up a road no wider than a goat path, hugging the precipice and buffeted by the wind as the roke rolled in and blanketed us in a shroud. It was unnerving, how swift the fog’s transformative power was. Within minutes the daylight disappeared, the rumble of waves shattering against the rocks the sole distorted sound in a world gone blank as canvas.

A lichen-stained turreted gatehouse, adorned with heraldic beasts worn smooth by the elements, materialized before us, the only entrance through walls that were higher than they had seemed from the distance. I reined in Cinnabar. Square iron gates served as a portcullis, barring our passage. The manor loomed behind it, fronted by bedraggled hedgerows around an outer courtyard, a cluster of smaller, timber-framed outbuildings huddled at the house’s edge.

“A welcoming sight,” said Shelton wryly. He caressed Cerberus’s muscular neck, easing the destrier’s labored breathing. We had ridden our horses past endurance. Welcoming or not, we had to rest here for the night. We could not risk them going lame.

I dismounted, barely reaching the ground before I espied a figure running toward us from one of the outbuildings. At first, I thought it was a short man, but then he reached the gates, and as he peered at us through the bars, I saw he was in fact a youth, fumbling for a key tangled on a chain about his throat.

From the tube containing the map, I removed the queen’s letter. I did not have time to show it before Shelton barked: “Open those gates, lad. We are here by royal command!”

I scowled. So much for being invisible. Shelton shrugged in response, his shout having startled the gatekeeper, who promptly bent over and jammed his key into the gate’s lock, without removing it from the chain about his neck.

The gates creaked open. The boy stood staring, his mouth ajar.

“I come by order of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth—” I started to declare, until Shelton muttered, “It’s no use. Look at him: The lad’s boil-brained.”

The youth cocked his head as if he understood Shelton’s disparagement. He had wide-set small hazel eyes, an upturned nose, and small mouth. Lank ginger-hued hair was plastered to his brow from the damp and his jerkin and breeches were rumpled, with bits of straw clinging to his hose as if we had woken him from an illicit nap. He was very thin, but not ill formed; I thought he must be eleven or twelve years old.

“Are you here to pay your respects?” he said, shifting his regard to Cerberus as he spoke, his eyes growing wider as he took in the impressive size of Shelton’s steed.

“No, we…” I faltered. “Respects? Who has died?” As I spoke, my stomach sank to my feet. God save us, we had come too late. Lady Parry was dead.

“The little master,” said the youth sadly. “He took the fever. My lady said, why poor Master Henry? Why is that stupid Raff alive when Master Henry is dead? My lady hates me because I never get ill.”

Shelton muttered, “Boil-brained, just as I said.”

I ignored him, taking a cautious step toward the youth—only I still held Cinnabar’s reins and as my horse also clopped forward, shaking his mane, the boy edged backward, his gaze riveted to Cerberus as if he feared the destrier might tramp forth next, right over him.

“Are you Raff?” I asked, and he said, “Yes. That is my name.”

Shelton snorted.

“Can you show us to the stables, Raff?” I said.

His brow creased for a moment before he exclaimed, “Your horses must be hungry. I feed the horses, too!” as though it were a revelation that he might be of use.

Shelton rolled his eyes when I looked at him. “I know. I’m to go with him so he doesn’t overfeed the horses and give them bloat.”

“He won’t,” I said quietly. I returned my gaze to Raff. “This is my manservant, Scarcliff. He will help you with our horses.”

Raff wagged his head. “No, no. No one can help me in my work. My lady says I must work on my own. You take your manservant with you.”

I leaned to him. “It will be our secret, eh? No one should help Master Scarcliff, either. He is supposed to be invisible. Do you know what that means?”

Raff paused, jutting out his lower lip, making me think perhaps Shelton was right, and the boy was a little slow. “It means he’s not supposed to be seen,” I said. “If he goes to help you in the stables, it can be our secret, too. Would you like that? Can you keep a secret?”

His eyes gleamed. “Yes, I know secrets. I know how to keep—”

“Good, very good,” cut in Shelton, his exhaustion rousing a bout of ill humor. “Raff knows how to keep a secret. Bully for him.” He jumped off his horse, taking the reins. “Lay on, then. Show me the way.”

Raff whirled around. “Come with me!”

Shelton shot me a scathing look. “Isn’t this grand? I’m to bed in the hay with an idiot when I could be up against my Nan’s warm backside right now, a meat pie in my belly.”

“Remember, you are my servant now,” I said. Unhooking my saddlebag, I handed him Cinnabar’s reins and watched him trudge after Raff, disappearing into the fog.

Shouldering my bag, I walked alone to the manor.

*   *   *

Up close, Vaughan Hall displayed the relentless assault by wind and sea, its solid sandstone façade mottled with discoloration, creeping ivy-like tendrils of vine clinging to the mortar like collapsed veins, winding about oblong windows inset with panes of discolored horn. Devoid of ornamentation, the entire structure appeared impermeable, thick enough to deflect the extremity of the weather, if not the pervasive damp. A square watchtower squatted on the west end; gazing up, I noted the tips of chimneys poking through the fog like incongruous fingers.

Passing under a vaulted stone porch, I came before a stout oak door braced with enough ironwork to impede a battering ram. A sprig of rosemary tied with a white ribbon was affixed to the postern, signaling a child’s death. I was reaching up to seize the brass handle when it abruptly swung open to reveal a thin, sallow man dressed in black frieze.

In a supercilious tone, he said, “Yes? What is your purpose here?”

“My name is Master Brendan Prescott and I come by command of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth to inquire into the disappearance of Lady Blanche Parry. If you would be so kind, I wish to speak with the master or mistress of the house.” As I spoke, I handed him the letter of introduction, which he peered at with feigned indifference even though he must have espied Elizabeth’s elaborate signature at the bottom, the paper imprinted with her royal signet. She had not been queen long enough to have a privy seal crafted for her.

The man’s face twitched. It was nearly imperceptible, the slight stiffening of his expression, but sufficient to convey that despite my credentials, he did not view me as anyone of significant rank. Given his attitude, I guessed he must be the household head steward. Only stewards behaved as though they owned the place.

“
Lady
Vaughan is abed, resting,” he said, placing marked emphasis on her title. Suddenly, I realized how little I knew about the people I had come here to question; what their backgrounds were, if they were gentry or noble, impoverished or wealthy. My instinct told me the former in both regards. The house itself might be imposing, but its location, so far from London and the court, indicated that high noble blood did not run in their veins; or that if it did, they had fallen on hard times. Likewise, the dual duties Raff performed as gatekeeper and stable groom betrayed a scarcity of coin. Nevertheless, this man’s manner indicated how my arrival might be perceived, and I inclined my head in an appropriate gesture of deference.

“I beg your forgiveness. I have only just learned the family has suffered a recent loss.”

The man sniffed, opening the door wider. “I am Master Gomfrey and I manage the household. You will address your concerns to me in all matters pertaining to your stay.” He paused. “Your boots are soiled,” he remarked. As I surreptitiously wiped each of my boots in turn on the back of my hose, he added, “Have you no servants?”

“Yes, one: my manservant, Scarcliff. I sent him to assist with our horses. He is a rough sort, ill accustomed to fine accommodations. I thought it best if he bed with your groom. I trust that is amenable?”

Master Gomfrey sniffed again. “It is. Pray, come inside.”

The manor’s interior was stark as its exterior. The steward led me into a large hall with a high timber-framed ceiling and narrow arched windows whose dirty panes barely permitted any light, let alone a view of the surrounding area. The furnishings were sparse—a long central table arranged before a smoke-blackened hearth, with upholstered chairs of a purely functional nature. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, affixed by a rope to a pulley for lifting and lowering, its iron circle festooned with gutted wax stubs, as was the one standing candelabrum. The plank floors were clean but lacked carpets or the usual herb-strewn rushes; I detected a draft coming from somewhere, billowing spider-webs clinging to the eaves and the lengths of white mourning cloth pinned to the walls.

The damp, I suspected, must be a constant presence. A few months here and even the hardiest man would begin to complain of ague in his bones.

“My lord attends the gravesite at present,” Gomfrey told me in an emotionless tone. “Master Henry’s funeral took place only this morning and the family is naturally quite bereft. If you care to wait here, I shall have our maidservant stoke the fire.” He paused, as if to measure the echo of his explanation and decide if he had relayed it as well as he should. “Are you intending on bedding here in the hall or would a private chamber be required?”

“A chamber, if it does not inconvenience,” I replied, thinking that surely Gomfrey could not expect the queen’s appointed representative to sleep on a pallet in the hall.

“I will inform our housekeeper, Mistress Harper.” Stiffly, the steward turned heel.

“Master Gomfrey.”

He stopped, not moving for a moment before he turned back to me. “Yes?”

“The gravesite: Is it nearby? Could I go there to pay my respects?”

He regarded me in silence. Then he pointed past the hall. “Through that archway, to your left, past the private chapel. The cemetery is situated outside behind the house, near the bluff.”

“Thank you.” I made my way past the hall and an empty watching chamber into a passageway narrow as a tunnel. Here, I felt the damp keenly, making me pull my cloak closer about my shoulders. As I neared a set of tarnished filigree gates, I smelled the unmistakable must of incense. Beyond the gates lay a chapel carved of stone, upheld by pilasters that showed prior evidence of gilded paint. The altar was nearly lost in shadow, its frayed cloth adorned with a dull-stoned crucifix set in its center. In a niche to my right stood a chipped wooden statue of the Virgin, a peeling oversized Christ child in her arms. At her feet rested a bouquet of dusty silk lilies.

It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing. When I did, I stepped back quickly. I heard Kate in my head:
Yorkshire is still loyal to the old faith; many there are not happy she is queen and will not welcome a man of hers in their midst.

The household was Catholic. This would explain my sensation of feeling unwelcome. I’d come at the behest of the new queen; while Elizabeth had yet to declare her stance on religion, it was no secret she’d been reared in the Reformed faith like her late brother, Edward. Such were the vagaries of faith since King Henry’s death that in less than twelve years, we had gone from stringent Protestantism under his son to vicious Catholic reprisal upon Mary’s accession, and now, back once more, to an unknown future embodied by an untried queen.

Turning about, I made my way back down the passage to a narrow door, pulling it open to reveal a mist-shrouded garden—or what I assumed had once been a garden. Now, it was more of a haphazard collection of ragged herb beds and overgrown paths, lichen-stained birdbaths and lumpen statuary giving it an air of forlorn neglect.

The wind had ceased, and the roke blanketed everything as far as I could see. With tentative steps, I moved toward where I could glean a huddled pile of gravestones, several of which were blackened, inscriptions erased by time, teetering against each other like decayed teeth. The soil here must be chalky, brittle to excavate; I wondered how many of the dead had actually ended up seeping out of their graves to dissipate, ash-like, into the air. I did not see anyone until abruptly, near a copse of wind-twisted pine, where the crash of the sea below thundered, I saw a small mausoleum guarded by forlorn stone angels. Above its closed gates was chiseled the name of Vaughan.

Two figures stood before it, clasping hands—one tall but stooped, with a cloak hanging limply from its shoulders, the other diminutive, in a short cape and gown.

I cleared my throat, not wanting to startle them. Without warning, I heard a low menacing growl and turned to see a large black mastiff stalking up to me, a studded leather collar about its bullish neck.

I went still, aware that any sudden move or sign of panic would indicate I was prey. The little figure turned to look over her shoulder, her pinched wan face overpowered by aqua-blue eyes, a cascade of fair ringlets escaping her askew hood—a girl no older than six, clinging to the veined hand of a man whom I assumed must be her father, Lord Thomas Vaughan.

She whispered to him. The man turned to me, without surprise. He had a long, furrowed face, with jowls sagging against his high collar, as if he had recently shed a great deal of weight. His thick beard could not conceal the stricken expression on his features, his hollowed eyes deep in their sockets, his downturned mouth bracketed by etched lines.

He whistled sharply, bringing the mastiff to a halt. “Bardolf, hold!”

The enormous dog immediately dropped to its haunches.

“Do not fear him,” the man said, beckoning me forth. “He only attacks at my command. Otherwise, he is gentle as a lamb.”