Queen Without a Crown (17 page)

It was not unoccupied, for three men in soldierly buff garments were playing cards at a small table near the fire with the help of the only extra lighting in the entire hall, a triple-branched candlestick in the middle of their table. They paused in their play to eye us sharply. As we waited for Ulverdale to show us where to go next, a door opened at the far end, and a woman came in. She entered diffidently, but when she saw us, she hurried towards us, though she detoured slightly as if she didn’t want to pass too close to the card players.

‘I saw from my parlour window that we had guests. How delightful – in January, too. I am Blanche Winthorpe. May I know . . .?’

I had a strong impression that Ulverdale would much rather she didn’t know, but after all, we had been brought in to be presented to the mistress of the house. He introduced us, remembering to say that I was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth.

I stepped forward, my hand extended. ‘I am happy to meet you, Mistress Winthorpe,’ I said, smiling, ‘Madam, I am here with the knowledge and approval of your mother, Bess Tracy. I hope I find you in good health?’

‘Tolerably, tolerably. The winter is always a wearing time. And my mother? Is she well?’

‘You should not have left the warmth of your parlour, madam,’ said Ulverdale. He was trying to sound solicitous, but to me he seemed irritated. ‘This hall is draughty. Might I suggest that you and your guests withdraw? Joan is with you, I trust?’

‘My maid,’ said Blanche to me. ‘Yes, indeed . . .’

Ulverdale had said she was ill, but I didn’t think she was, though I felt that something was amiss with her in some other sense. Blanche Winthorpe was a plump lady with a pile of thick light-brown hair in front of her starched white cap. Her green, quilted satin sleeves were thick with fine embroidery, and her ruff was trimmed with costly lace, which spoke of means and position.

But that swerve as she crossed the hall and the nervous expression in her big grey eyes told another story. Also, when Ulverdale mentioned my connection with Elizabeth’s court, I thought I had seen a flash in those eyes, though whether it was of hope or fear I couldn’t tell. My companions had seen it, too.

‘Something’s going on here,’ muttered Trelawny, just clearly enough for me and for Brockley to hear him.

‘Your mother is well,’ I said to our hostess, ‘and sends her love. Madam, could we speak to you privately? These gentlemen are family connections, who have accompanied me to guard me along the way and are fully aware of the business in hand.’

‘Of course, of course. Come through to the parlour. Ulverdale!’ As though our presence had given her confidence, she adopted a more commanding tone. ‘Take my guests’ cloaks and bespeak some hot food and drink. They must be chilled, riding in this weather.’

Ulverdale bowed politely, and I felt sure that he was gritting his teeth. He took our cloaks as instructed, and we followed Blanche across the hall. Once more she swerved to keep a distance between herself and the card players, although this time she had the three of us close to her. I thought that she didn’t realize she was doing it.

She led us through the further door, where we found ourselves in a parlour which was neat and pretty, if somewhat small for the mistress of the house. A young woman, who was sewing by the fire, rose as we came in and bobbed to us.

‘My maid, Joan,’ said Blanche. ‘You may be seated again, Joan. Please, everyone, be comfortable.’

The parlour seemed to form part of a suite, because a spiral stone staircase came down into one corner of the room; very likely, there was a bedchamber above. The room was certainly a pleasing contrast to the bleakness of the hall. There was a bright fire, many lit candles, embroidered cushions and a smell of polish. And, hanging on the panelled wall opposite to the door, there was a portrait.

It was quite big, a good two feet by two. It showed a man seated at a desk, and the fashion of his ruff and doublet suggested that it had been painted at least twenty years earlier, perhaps more. I went straight across to it and looked at the artist’s signature in the lower right-hand corner.

Jocelyn Arbuckle.

‘Mistress Winthorpe,’ I said, ‘may I know the name of the man this excellent portrait shows? I have a good reason for asking – it has to do with my purpose in coming here. Your mother knows all about it.’

‘That’s my cousin Gervase,’ said Mistress Winthorpe, sounding surprised. ‘I always liked the picture, and my mother gave it to me as a wedding gift. He was her nephew. I believe there was some estrangement between him and his father, who therefore refused to keep the picture in his own home. Ah. Here is Ulverdale with some wine. Now, Mistress Stannard, you can explain this mysterious errand of yours to me.’

I stared at the portrait. So that was Gervase. Mark wasn’t much like his father, except for one thing. They both had the same dramatic, sweeping eyebrows, marked enough to remove one question from my mind. I had wondered if Gervase’s hatred of Hoxton had been because Mark was not, in fact, Gervase’s son at all.

After all, if Hoxton had fathered him instead, then no one could say he was a poisoner’s son, though whether the Masons would regard an irregular pedigree more kindly than a criminal one, I did not know. Now, looking at the portrait, I felt that, judging from those eyebrows, the man in the painting had to be Mark’s true father.

Otherwise, Mark took after Judith. Gervase was dark, like his wife and son, but his eyes were blue and he had Bess Tracy’s eagle profile, which Mark had certainly not inherited. The painted Gervase was looking straight ahead, but on the table before him lay an inkstand and a sheet of paper with writing on it, and he held a quill, as though he had been interrupted while working and had just glanced up.

The hand in which he held the pen was his left.

The Scent of Treason

‘
D
id you say,’ asked Blanche, ‘that my cousin’s portrait is connected to your purpose here?’

Silently, I cursed. I had made a bad mistake, the kind which no agent of experience should ever make. I had admitted that to find Gervase’s picture was why I had come to Ramsfold, thus spoiling an excuse to ask to be shown round the house to look at all its pictures. Ramsfold was a suspect house, and for a moment I had let myself forget it.

It was too late now to retract. I sipped mulled wine, smiled as pleasantly as I could and told Blanche of the errand on which Mark had sent us. I could least make sure that I sounded candid and innocent.

‘Having seen the painting, I now know which hand Master Easton senior used for writing,’ I said. ‘Alas, it comes near to confirming his guilt. Your cousin’s guilt, I should say. I am sorry.’

‘Oh, it means nothing to me,’ Blanche said. ‘I never met Gervase. He never came north, and I have never been anywhere else. I’ve never cared for travelling. Joan – Master Brockley’s goblet is empty, I think.’

Joan, who was sharing the wine and had been put in charge of the tray, rose gracefully and went the rounds with the jug. ‘My mistress is happy, living quietly in her home,’ she said in a gentle voice.

I drank, wondering what, after so foolishly ruining my most obvious approach, I could do about my second errand. Was Blanche friend or foe? I had an instinctive feeling that conspiracies would frighten her. I ventured what I hoped was a natural and commonplace question.

‘Have the recent troubles in the north affected you?’ I asked Blanche. ‘You are in Northumberland here, are you not?’

It went home. I saw it in her eyes; saw the quiver of her lip. And also saw the quick glance she gave towards Joan who, busy refilling Brockley’s goblet, did not notice.

‘It has not quite passed us by.’ Her tone was flurried. ‘Some men went from here to join my lord of Northumberland. I fear they won’t come back. They have fled with him into Scotland. I may be fined, though they didn’t go at my orders. I am loyal to the queen.’

‘Is your home held from the Earl of Northumberland?’ I asked. ‘If you are his tenant, he could demand that your men join him and you would have no say. You might then avoid blame.’

‘It’s held from him now,’ Blanche said sadly. ‘It used to be freehold, but my husband ran into debt. He gambled, you know, and then there was an unwise purchase of a new breed of sheep. The north was too harsh for them, and we lost the whole flock and a whole year’s wool. To keep Ramsfold, we had to sell it to the earl!’

‘Oh dear,’ I said sympathetically. I understood, all too well.

‘It sounds funny, doesn’t it? To keep it we had to sell it!’ Under her forced brightness, I heard something close to hysteria. ‘So now I am a tenant, and when the earl demanded that I provide two dozen men, I had to do as I was bid. And more than enough men were willing.’

Joan, who had finished topping up the goblets and resumed her seat, raised her head proudly. ‘But, madam, why should they not be, when they were called to help reclaim England for the true faith?’

‘Joan is Catholic,’ said Blanche. ‘I am not. Though she is much attached to me; indeed, she scarcely ever leaves my side.’ A flicker of a glance from Brockley told me that he, too, had heard the curious nuance in Blanche’s voice. And now, in her eyes, I saw a signal. It was a plea.

Darkness was falling. There was no question about whether or not we would spend the night at Ramsfold. We had no alternative. We were shown to two rooms on the other side of the courtyard, one for myself and one for the men. They were above the stables, but were nevertheless perfectly good, well-furnished guest rooms. Rab, apparently, had already taken himself and his mule off on the road back to Carlisle.

I longed to speak to Blanche in private, but it was all too true that Joan scarcely ever left her side. The maid was apparently bound to her mistress by an invisible fetter. I also wanted to confer with my own companions and found that even this had suddenly become difficult. It was as though we were being kept under surveillance. The house seemed short of servants, but nevertheless, a diminutive lass called Annet was found to act as my maid and Ulverdale himself hovered round Brockley and Trelawny, offering to unpack their saddlebags. As I finished washing and changing, I heard them shooing him out and then Brockley called me, but when, taking a candle, I left my room, tiresome little Annet tried to tag after me.

I sent her back, saying that my things needed tidying, and joined my friends in the narrow passageway which ran outside our rooms. In daylight, this was lit, though none too well, by arrow-slit windows looking outwards. No doubt, in wilder days, the passage had been a standpoint for archers. Now it presented us with a row of closed doors, any of which might conceal interested ears.

Trelawny, who like myself was carrying a candle, put the situation succinctly and in a low voice. ‘If there isn’t something odd going on here, I’ll eat Brockley’s helmet.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But how do we find out what it is? I’ve found the portrait, by the way; it’s in Blanche’s parlour. And I’ve gone and told her I’ve found what I came for, so now I can’t ask to be shown round the house to search for it!’

‘Did you learn anything from it, madam?’ Brockley asked.

‘I’m afraid so. The confounded man
was
left-handed. But now, how do we go about investigating this house?’

‘We keep our eyes and ears open,’ said Trelawny, ‘and evade our kindly hosts and explore on our own whenever we get the chance. Who knows what we may come across – or who we may find? Let’s start by seeing where this passage goes.’

Our first foray along the passage ended in a locked door. Turning back, we tried the other direction and soon found ourselves turning into a wide gallery along the upper floor of the wing forming the rear of the courtyard. It was cold and dark, and I jumped when a lantern glimmered and Ulverdale, ghostlike, appeared from the shadows, to ask if we had missed our way and to tell us that supper would be served in an hour.

‘If you would care to go down to the parlour, madam, Mistress Winthorpe would no doubt enjoy your company.’ I noticed that this time there was no reference to poor health. ‘And perhaps the gentlemen would like to come to the hall for a hand of cards before the meal is served.’

Exploration was decidedly at an end.

Supper had been served to Blanche and myself and the watchful Joan in Blanche’s parlour, while Brockley and Trelawny had been asked to sup with the other men in the hall. After supper, Blanche and Joan retired and Ulverdale came to say that my escort were staying in the hall for a game of backgammon. I left them to it, thinking they might draw the men out, and, like Blanche, went to my room.

Annet tried to help me undress and offered to spend the night on a truckle bed in my room, but I declined both services and sent her back to her usual bed among the other maids. I had gathered that there were three others apart from Joan; a very small number for a house of this size, but nothing seemed to be normal in Ramsfold.

Having bidden Annet a civil goodnight, I bolted my door and sat down, still fully dressed, on my bed. I was uneasy and wanted to talk to my companions. I would wait, I thought, until I heard them come upstairs.

There had been a clock in the parlour, and I knew I had retired at about eight. I had a clock candle in my luggage and lit it from the candles already provided so that it would tell me of the passing hours. I waited, listening.

At nearly midnight, I heard the sound of feet along the narrow passage outside. Thinking that this must be Trelawny and Brockley, going to their room, I rose and went to my door, but then stopped. The footsteps had come from the wrong direction, from that of the locked door which had earlier barred our way. They were now receding towards the dark gallery where Ulverdale had intercepted us. There was certainly no sound of a door near mine being opened or shut.

Before I came to my room, someone had been in and closed the shutters. Quickly, I blew out all but one of my candles, put that one where it couldn’t shine through my window and quietly opened my shutters again. The window looked out across the courtyard. I glanced at the gallery to the rear of the house, and there was indeed a light moving through it, but something even more interesting was happening in the hall.