To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court (17 page)

“To protect him? Yes. That does make sense. But what do either of them think will happen when we tell our side of the tale? Oh, I can’t work it out!” It was cold and I was shivering. All this talk seemed pointless. Who were we to speculate? We weren’t in charge of an inquest on Rafe. Far from it. However unreasonably, we had been accused of murdering him.

Brockley perhaps felt the same. With a sigh, he changed the subject. “We can talk it all over when we see the sheriff of Hereford tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll listen. Meanwhile, we’ve got to wait the night out. We really should sleep if we can. I know it’s cold, but if we keep close together and pull the straw round us and use our cloaks as a double coverlet, we should be able to keep the chill out.”

He was talking sense. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could, lying close so that we might give heat to each other, our two cloaks spread over us. Once more, Brockley’s nearness was reassuring. Despite my fear and discomfort, I began to drift. I edged closer to him, snuggled my nose into his fustian doublet, and slept.

I don’t know how long I was asleep. I recall dreaming of the wet courtyard, and the dirt on Lady Thomasine’s pretty shoes. Then I woke and thought for a moment that I was at home with Matthew, and surfacing from sleep to the gentle pressure of my husband’s desire. Half drowsing, I moved to let my mouth meet his.

Then I was fully awake and aware, knowing where
I was and with whom, but my mouth was still pressed hard against the lips of the man at my side, and his need was still thrusting gently against me.

We stayed like that for … was it a few seconds? Or an hour? Or a century? It was like a moment withdrawn altogether from time. But it ended when at the same instant, we jerked ourselves apart and sat up.

“Madam!” Brockley gasped. “I’m sorry! I was … I think I was dreaming …”

“So was I.”

“I apologize. What must you think of me? I would never in my right senses … you’re perfectly safe …”

“It’s all right, Brockley. I’m not angry, or frightened. Please. It’s all right.”

Gingerly, we settled back into the straw but this time well apart. We lay still. But my eyes stayed open and in the tiny trace of light from the grating, I caught a glint from Brockley’s eyes as well. He was wide-awake too.

I was shaken. It was as though imprisonment and fear and the horror of Rafe’s dead body had stripped away an old pretense. For years now, through many dangers, I had trusted Roger Brockley, exchanged private jests with him, relied on him. How long had we secretly desired each other? Matthew had known. Dale had sensed it. Only the two most concerned had remained ignorant until now; until this moment when we had only each other for comfort in the dark.

And I wanted that comfort. At that moment, in that terrifying cell, I wanted it so badly that even though I did not forget Matthew, but tried on the contrary to visualize him, he wasn’t real to me. He was not there, and Brockley
was. In the darkness, I said, “Brockley?” out loud, with a question in my voice.

The straw rustled. I reached out toward the rustle and his fingers closed over my hand. “I’m here, madam.”

“This is an awful place. We’re in a dreadful situation.”

“It’ll all be put right in the morning. Go to sleep.”

“Brockley …”

“I know. But it wouldn’t be … right. We wouldn’t be able to go back. It would be like falling off a precipice.”

“You mean,” I said, “that we would turn from madam and Brockley, to Ursula and Roger, and we wouldn’t be able to forget it?”

“That’s right. It would do harm,” he said. “Break us on the rocks, as it were.”

I turned on my side. I left my hand in his, letting that small intimacy represent the greater one to which we had no right. Presently, he said: “Don’t think I didn’t want to. And don’t think that when I wanted to, it was just … a thing of the body, madam. I value you more highly than that.”

“Thank you. I value you more highly than that, as well.”

There was another silence. Then I said: “In the morning, we will forget this. We need never mention it again. But I would like to say, just once—good night, Roger.”

“Good night, Ursula,” he said. Quietly, with one accord, our hands let go of each other. Before long, we were asleep.

*

We were roused before dawn, by the grinding of the bolts. We sat up blearily. In the faint gray light from the grating, we saw each other’s grimy face. For one moment, my eyes and Brockley’s met, in mingled affection and embarrassment. Then we got to our feet, shaking straw from our clothing, as the door swung back and in came Lady Thomasine. She was drawn and pale, as though she hadn’t slept at all, and looked at least seventy.

“You must come,” she said in a low voice. “Come with me now, at once. Quickly. There is no time to be lost.”

We tried to ask questions as we picked up our cloaks but she shook her head at us impatiently. “Just come. I know you did not kill Rafe—and neither did my son, by the way. I daresay that’s what you think, but you’re wrong. He really believes it was you, Mistress Blanchard. He thinks you summoned your man here to help you hide the body. He is very angry. You do not know my son; what he’s capable of. I must get you away at once.”

“But who
did
kill Rafe? If we can get to the sheriff in Hereford ourselves, of our own free will …” I began, but Lady Thomasine, already marshaling us out of the cell, brushed all this aside.

“You must get away from here, but you mustn’t go toward Hereford. You wouldn’t reach it. Philip would expect you to go that way. He would catch you and deliver you in chains, and tell such a lurid tale of your supposed crimes that you might find it hard to make the sheriff believe you. Philip might even not deliver you at all! He might decide to dispense his own justice. He was talking of it last night and it would take only a little provocation to make him do it. I tell you—you don’t
know him. He not only wants to be a border baron with power of life and death, there are times when he thinks he really is one. Mistress Blanchard, you once hinted to me that he might not be right in the head. I think it may be true. Your only chance of escaping him is by going off in a direction he won’t expect and hiding till all this is settled. I have thought of a way to settle it. No one will be accused of murder for there will be no murder, as far as the world knows.”

“But Rafe
was
murdered,” I said in bewilderment. “I saw his body myself.”

“Leave all that to me.” Impatiently, Lady Thomasine unbolted one of the other doors off the underground passage, revealing that it led not into another cell but into a farther passage, low-roofed and damp. “Along here, quickly. After a little time has passed, it will be safe for you to come out of hiding, but then you must go straight home, keeping well away from Vetch, and forget I ever called you here. This way. Hurry.”

“What about Dale?” I asked as we followed her through the passage, and at the same moment Brockley said, “What about my wife?” But this time she didn’t answer at all. She merely quickened her steps and we scurried after her perforce, heads bent, following the gleam of her lamp. At the end of the passage was a narrow spiral staircase of stone leading upward. Lady Thomasine climbed it and opened another door, with a key this time. Mounting the stairs behind her, we followed her into a dusty, empty chamber, with narrow windows which let in a wet, gray dawn and just enough light to reveal the quantity of cobwebs and dirt in the place.

“Where is this?” I asked.

“This is the ground floor of Isabel’s Tower. Over here. Hurry!”

“Isabel’s … ?”

“The haunted tower. You’ve heard the story, haven’t you? Your daughter Meg has—she asked me about it.”

“Yes,” I said. “Rafe told it to me.”

“Then you know that a castellan in days gone by shut his wife up here to die with her minstrel lover. The wife’s name was Isabel. She was my ancestress, poor soul. The minstrel’s name was Rhodri. It’s said their bones moldered here for twenty years before her husband would let them be taken out and buried.”

In the time it took to give us these gruesome details, Lady Thomasine had locked the staircase door behind us, crossed the floor, pushed open a door into a further chamber, and led us across that too. At the far side was yet another door, small and low. Here we paused while she nervously wrestled with her key ring, searching for the right key, which at first she couldn’t find. When at last, hands shaking, she managed to open the door, its rusty hinges groaned noisily and resisted her. Brockley stepped forward and added his weight to hers. The door gave way and a moment later, we were outside on the grassy slope above the moat, under a sky of low, racing clouds, threatening more rain.

Brockley shoved the door shut again and Lady Thomasine, once more, locked up behind us. Then she hurried us to the right along a narrow path between the western wall of the castle and the water below. Once more, Brockley asked about Dale and this time got a reply, albeit a terse one.

“The woman Dale is going with you. I did not forget her. Don’t waste time. We go down here.”

We had reached the point where the moat turned away from the castle and became simply a stream flowing in from the west. Beyond that, the fall of the ground was so steep that in the days of siege and foray, no ditch had been necessary. But there had been changes since medieval times. A winding path had been made, leading down. As we descended it, still hurrying, I realized how tired I still was, and also how cold and hungry.

Below the castle mound, the path joined a sunken lane. To the right, it evidently led to the village. I could see the church tower in the distance. To the left, it crossed the stream by means of a ford and led westward and away from Vetch altogether. Waiting for us at the junction of path and lane were the butler Harold Pugh and the falconer Simon Evans, on horseback. With them, mounted astride and peering out at us from the hood of a woolen cloak, was Dale, and Evans had two more saddled horses on leading reins.

I exclaimed: “Dale!” and Brockley said: “Fran!” at the same moment, both on a note of thankfulness. I looked at Dale’s dear, trustworthy face and was grateful beyond belief that last night Brockley and I had not betrayed her. Brockley assuredly felt the same. On her side, Dale burst out, “Oh, ma’am! Oh, Roger! I’m that glad to see you both safe!”

If Dale were to come with us, she couldn’t warn the Hendersons, but just for the moment, we were all too relieved to be together again to worry about it. We had no time to talk to each other, however. Lady Thomasine was pushing us toward the horses.

I say horses, but they were really ponies—sturdy, but no more than fourteen and a half hands tall, shaggy of coat, with thick manes and tails and strong legs. Their riders wore stout hooded cloaks like Dale’s. Evans glanced at us and said: “Good, your cloaks have hoods. You’ll need them. Get mounted. We’ve a long way to go.”

“Just go with Pugh and Evans,” said Lady Thomasine. “Trust them. You can eat as you ride. They have food in their saddlebags. It’s a long way, but it’s for your safety.”

We did as we were told for there seemed to be no alternative. I regretted that we were not to ride our own horses and could only hope that we would get them back eventually, somehow.

Rain had begun to spatter. “Go back to the castle, my lady,” Pugh said. “Leave the rest to us.”

“Godspeed,” said Lady Thomasine.

“Look,” Brockley said, “why can’t we just make for Ledbury? We’ve—er—got friends there.”

“You’ve got to be out of Sir Philip’s reach,” Pugh said shortly. “Lady Thomasine knows what she’s doing. Hereford way and Ledbury way; he’ll be after you in both directions. We’ve our orders; just don’t make difficulties.”

I think we wanted very badly to make difficulties and we weren’t convinced by Pugh’s arguments. I would have said—and Brockley presently muttered to me—that it would have been well worthwhile to ride hard for Ledbury and why hadn’t we been given our own comparatively long-legged horses to do it on? What stopped
us from saying so or simply putting spurs to our mounts and making a dash for it, was the overpowering presence of Pugh and Evans, and the fact that although once mounted, Brockley and I were free of leading reins, Evans had kept Dale on one. Possibly this was because he had noticed she was a poor rider, but it also had the effect of making her into a hostage. We could not break away without abandoning her.

We did ask where we were going, of course, but Pugh, who seemed to be in charge, merely answered: “To safety in the mountains,” and then exhorted us to get a move on.

So we rode westward, wondering where in the world we were bound but knowing that all the time we were putting more and more distance between ourselves and any help Rob Henderson might have given. A drizzling rain set in. Our cloaks and hoods kept us fairly dry, but the rain still blew into our faces, borne on a west wind. Its sweeping, misty curtains often obscured the view but when they parted, we saw that we were riding through a rolling, hilly land of pastures, heath, and woodland, but journeying all the time toward a rumor of higher and wilder land in the distance.

We soon noticed that our escort was avoiding habitations and taking little-used tracks. When we were forced to approach dwellings, because bridges tend to be put where there are towns or villages and we often had to cross rivers, Pugh took precautions.

Pugh was now very different from the put-upon butler we had known at Vetch and he was visibly in authority over Evans. At his orders, the party would be divided into two. Pugh would ride ahead with me, and
then Evans would follow with Brockley and Dale. I supposed that the idea was to make sure that no one would report seeing a party of one man and two women, traveling together. Lady Thomasine must have given some very precise orders.

Once, as we were riding over a bridge, I said: “If you won’t tell us where we’re going, would you tell us where we are? What place is this?”

“This is Ewyas Harold, and we’re crossing the river Dore. There used to be a priory here,” said Evans, and that was about the longest speech that either he or Pugh made throughout the whole journey. They were supposed to be rescuing us from pursuit by Mortimer, but their stony reluctance to talk to us was unnerving.