Queen Without a Crown (22 page)

And then something happened, as strange as magic, as magnificent as the victory of Agincourt and beyond my understanding, then or now. I can only say that I will never, till the day I die, forget it.

Brockley and I were suddenly overtaken by a wild and unreasonable exhilaration, almost a hilarity, and at the same time, it felt as though our brains had fused into one. In the hectic minutes that followed we exchanged only the briefest of words, but we threw ideas from mind to mind as easily as though we were shouting them aloud. Trelawny had told us what to do, and now we did it as if we were one entity.

As our enemies ran down the stairs, Brockley seized one end of the sideboard and with a violent heave overturned it, scattering pewter plates and bowls and tankards across the floor. Then he veered round and in one powerful movement yanked the cloth from the table, tumbling more assorted objects including knives, spoons, half a dozen goblets and the silver salt on to the floor as well.

Whereat, and in response, I truly believe, to a picture in my mind which had sprung direct from Brockley’s brain, I snatched up a fallen knife, kicked a rolling goblet out of my path, leapt to where the pulley rope of the middle chandelier was attached to its iron ring and slashed at the rope. The chandelier plummeted down, smashing into the edge of the table and crashing down to the floor.

Our pursuers, who were now off the stairs and running up the hall to reach us, stumbled on the strewn dishes and found their way blocked by the sideboard. The two women dropped their torches, which fortunately went out instead of setting fire to the rushes. Near darkness, relieved only by the uncertain gleams of moonlight and embers, at once engulfed the hall. Lady Anne slipped on some stray object, landed on her back and for a moment was helpless, flailing and cursing amid the debris and the tangled skirts of her bedgown.

Joan and Ulverdale kept their feet, got round the sideboard and ran at us, but Brockley still had the tablecloth in his hand and threw it over both their heads at once. Unable then to see where they were going, they fell headlong over the chandelier. Exclaiming with pain and struggling to free themselves, they collided with Lady Anne as she was getting up. She staggered and sat heavily down again. I saw that Brockley was scooping up things which had rolled from the overturned sideboard, and I did the same. In the scramble I dropped the knife I had used for the chandelier rope, but I grabbed half a dozen pewter dishes and drinking vessels, before fleeing back with Brockley towards the kitchen end of the hall.

Here the shadows were deeper, and for a desperate moment we blundered about, trying to find the kitchen door. Behind us, the enemy disentangled themselves from cloth, chandelier and skirts and came hotly in pursuit, but the strange, united instinct which had hold of us had apparently made us read the future too. It had made us arm ourselves, even before we knew why. Turning, we held them off, making them duck and shy by bombarding them with our booty, once more spinning the plates to make them better missiles.

I threw all my pieces of pewter within seconds, but Brockley said: ‘This one’s sharp, madam,’ as politely as though he were serving me a new wine sauce at dinner, and thrust a platter with an edge like a blade into my hands.

‘Thank you, Brockley,’ I said with equal graciousness and whirled the dish at Ulverdale. It spun through the moonlight to hit the butler in the mouth, producing a muffled but – from my point of view – entirely satisfactory bellow.

At the same moment, Brockley sidestepped to avoid treading on something on the floor and I realized that the silver salt, which had the usual containers for extra spices including pepper, had come to pieces when it was flung from the table. Brockley had nearly trodden on the pepper pot. It lay in the moonlight, identified by the pattern of little holes in its silver lid. I suddenly remembered Sterry, joking that surplus supplies of pepper might be thrown in an enemy’s face. Catching up the pot, I wrenched its lid off and directed its contents at the foe.

We both sprang away, holding our noses. The enemy reeled about, sneezing, eyes streaming. Flinging the last of our dishes and vessels at them we turned again, this time saw the door to the kitchen in front of us and ran through it.

Like the hall, the kitchen was lit from moonbeams and the glow of a banked fire. And still it held, that mysterious union of our minds. The things we saw, we saw in a new way. They were such objects as you find in any kitchen: knives, graters, skewers, spatulas and tongs, mostly hanging on wall hooks; pans big and little; colanders, cauldrons and trivets; pestles and mortars; basins and jugs, some with lard or olive oil or pottage in them. We judged everything now by its potential as a weapon.

The door we had come through had no lock or bolt, but setting it ajar, Brockley sprang on to a stool. Without a word spoken I handed him a bowl of pottage, a colander and two pairs of tongs, which he balanced on top before jumping down, grabbing two sheathed knives from their hooks, handing me one and thrusting the other into his belt. I shoved the one he had given me into my hidden pouch. Some of the pepper must have landed on us, for Brockley sneezed. We found ourselves laughing.

Together, we ran to a little door out to the courtyard. This was bolted, but on our side. Brockley tore the bolts back while I, seeing a jug of olive oil on a nearby table, seized it and hurled the oil in a stream across the flagstoned floor.

Then we were out, just as, behind us, our pursuers, still sneezing, rushed in. Sweet in our ears was the crash of our booby trap and the sound of feet skidding on the oily floor, and the shrieks and curses (mingled with continued sneezes) which these joyous events produced. As we raced past the window of the kitchen, I risked a tiptoe pause to glance in and beheld Joan and Ulverdale both flat on their faces, while Lady Anne of Northumberland was sitting on the floor with her feet stuck out in front of her, a look of mingled rage and pain upon her face, cold pottage splashed all over her and an upturned colander on her head.

I was avenged for her whip. It was a glorious spectacle: one of the most splendid moments of my life.

Trelawny was waiting for us. In the interim, he had opened the stable gate wide and brought the horses out of the stable. ‘Couldn’t find Mistress Stannard’s side-saddle. You’ll have to ride astride, mistress. There’s been a bit of thaw during the day; likely enough we’ll get through now.’

‘Where’s that young groom?’ Brockley asked, seizing the bridles of his own horse and mine. ‘And what did you do with that crossbow?’

‘I threw it down the well. As for the stable lad, I found him asleep in a stall. I knocked him out and then tied him up. I was sorry to do that to a sleeping man, but times are desperate.’

‘Blanche!’ I said. ‘We can’t leave her here. Can’t we—?’

‘No, we can’t.’ Brockley seized Roundel’s nearside stirrup and thrust it under my nose. ‘Push your foot into this and get into that saddle. We can’t stop for Mistress Winthorpe or anyone else. We have to get away from here! Up with you!’

He had forgotten he was my manservant, forgotten to address me as madam, but because our minds were still linked I knew that he was intent upon saving me; indeed, on saving all three of us. I did as I was told.

As our pursuers recovered themselves and burst out of the kitchen door, we rode out of the side gate. Hooves skidded as we made the sharp turn to go round the corner of the house and Roundel nearly came down but miraculously regained her balance. At a gallop we emerged into the outer courtyard between the main door and the gatehouse. The hounds burst into a noisy howling, but we ignored them. The gatehouse doors appeared to be closed, but leaning from his saddle, Trelawny seized the big iron handle of the right-hand half and dragged the leaf back. As he had said, he had undone them in readiness. His horse snorted and reared as the heavy door went past its nose, and as soon as the gap was wide enough it plunged through. Brockley and I followed. An instant later we were racing downhill, hoping that our mounts would keep their footing on the slush and snow underfoot.

‘We’re away!’ I said.

‘I hope so,’ Brockley answered grimly, and at that moment, I saw that the moonlight around us had been augmented by a faint orange glow, so that we cast weak shadows ahead. I twisted round and saw that our foes had made contingency plans. Knowing that Trelawny was loose, they had feared that he would attempt a rescue. They had put a beacon on the watchtower. It was flaring into the night sky, signalling to someone, somewhere, to intercept us.

We could do nothing but ride for it. My bruises were throbbing again, but it had to be borne. We sat down hard in our saddles and drove the horses on downhill at the best pace we could manage. The path levelled out when it reached the belt of fir trees, and there we went faster, galloping through the wood and on through the village.

But it was more with alarm than astonishment that we saw, as we passed the last house in the village, that the beacon had done its work. Someone had been on watch for it. Blocking the track, where it narrowed between high banks, were ten or so mounted men, two of them holding torches aloft the better to see us coming.

The torchlight showed us their rough clothes, their small shaggy steeds and their haphazard weaponry of kitchen knives, a couple of daggers and one ancient sword. These were Blanche’s villagers. Plainly, not all the able-bodied men had followed their landlord to war, but some of those who stayed behind would nevertheless be supporters of the rebellion. Others might have their doubts, but feared for themselves and Blanche if they disobeyed their fellow villagers or Lady Anne, their landlord’s wife.

‘What now?’ I gasped as we automatically slowed our pace.

‘Ride straight through them,’ said Trelawny tersely, and then, startling us with a shout of ‘
Laissez les allez!
’ as though he were a marshal launching knights into the lists at a tournament, he once more threw his horse, regardless of the slippery going, into a gallop.

Brockley shouted: ‘You’re moon mad!’ but at the same time he, too, drove his horse forward, and so did I. Madness it certainly was, but it was our only chance. The horses answered us gallantly. In a moment, we were charging the enemy headlong. Crouching over my pommel, I smelt Roundel’s sweat and her mane blew across my face. An icy wind sang in my ears; mud and snow splashed over me, spurting from her hooves. Trelawny was on one side of me and Brockley on the other. Three abreast, the horses reaching for the ground as though they were trying to consume it, we tore on towards the row of waiting men, and I should have been terrified, except that the wild exhilaration of speed had wiped fear away.

As we neared our enemies, Trelawny shouted: ‘
Keep galloping! Faster!
’

Brockley cried: ‘
Knives out!
’ and from his belt jerked the blade he had snatched from the Ramsfold kitchen.

Fumbling in my skirts, I brought out the knife he had given to me, and I saw the gatekeeper’s dagger appear in Trelawny’s fist.

We bore down on them. I can imagine what we looked like; an oncoming charge which was clearly not going to slow down, let alone stop. The ponies our adversaries were riding had not been trained for war and shied, squealing, half climbing up the banks, taking their riders with them. We simply thundered through them.

From the corner of my eye, I saw someone wave a dagger at us, but Trelawny lunged with his own blade, and with a scream, the man fell from his saddle. Brockley and I brandished our knives, but we never had to use them. We were through and racing onwards, the hooves of the horses drumming and splashing. Our steeds were much faster than those we had left behind. Glancing back, we saw that we were not to be pursued. Trelawny burst into a soldier’s song.

It was all quite crazy. I was still full of the exhilaration of speed and triumph. As we galloped on, I shouted: ‘That was marvellous! Let’s go back and do it again!’

Trelawny stopped singing and began to laugh, doubling over his pommel. We all began to laugh. The horses shook their manes as if in wonder at the insanity of their riders. We were free. We were exhausted, our feet were going numb in their stirrups and our ungloved hands on the reins ached with cold, but we had escaped. We had the night and the moonlit snow to ourselves. We had information which must be delivered as soon as possible to the right quarters, but deliver it we would. We had no doubt of that.

Sobriety did not return until, when we had slowed down again to let the horses breathe a little, Brockley noticed that Brown Berry was moving unevenly. Carefully sheathing his knife and putting it back into his belt, he stopped us while he got down to examine the cob’s near fore. ‘It’s only balled snow again,’ he said. ‘Wedged between the frog and the shoe. I can get it out . . . There we are. That will make you more comfortable, my boy. I think we can take things more steadily now, anyway.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Trelawny.

Brockley, still stooping over Brown Berry’s hoof, turned his face upwards in surprise. I looked at Trelawny too, puzzled.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘
Listen
.’

We did so. It was faint, but even as we cocked our ears, it grew louder. It was the baying of the hounds of Ramsfold, on our scent.

Black and White

T
he cry of hounds is exciting when you’re following the hunt. When you’re the quarry, it freezes your veins and sends your bowels into terrified spasm. In a quavering voice, I said: ‘Whatever do they want hounds for? We’ve left tracks enough in the snow!’

‘They want to bring us to bay and hold us till the pursuit from Ramsfold House can get to us,’ said Brockley. He released Brown Berry’s hoof and remounted. ‘The dogs will probably outdistance their horses. Or ours.’

We could do nothing but ride on, as fast as the conditions and the strength of our mounts would allow, over empty moorland terrain we didn’t know, in the cold and inadequate moonlight. There had been no further snowfall that day, and the air did not seem quite as bitter as it had been, but the going was still quite bad enough. Soon we realized that although we were still going westward and therefore towards the border with friendly Cumberland, and although we still seemed to be on a track of some sort, it was the wrong one. We had missed our way.