The Other Countess (21 page)

He strode away before his mother could point out that he employed grooms for that purpose.

Outside in the twilight, he took a cleansing breath, rippling his shoulders to shrug off the cares of the earl. Weary of the situation in which he was caught, he wanted, just for a few hours, to be Will only. He gave a whistle. Diego bobbed out of the stable with admirable alertness.

‘My lord?’

‘Saddle Barbary for me. We both need the exercise.’

Diego returned swiftly, leading the stallion at a trot. ‘If my gracious lord would wait, I will fetch a horse to accompany him.’

Will waved him away. ‘No need. Go to bed. I’ll see to Barbary when I return.’

‘I’ll wait up,’ Diego said stubbornly, clearly of a mind that no one but he knew how to tend properly to the stallion.

‘Suit yourself.’ He swung up into the saddle. ‘Oh most obedient and humble of servants.’

He smiled as he heard Diego’s laughter follow him into the night.

Will made no conscious choice to retrace his path to Ellie’s cottage, but he found himself in the lane before he could think better of it. It was inky dark now; only the faint light from a nail paring of a moon preventing him riding completely off course.
A number of times he had felt the hedge brush against his leg before he had steered Barbary back into the middle of the track. The air smelt of damp earth and lank weeds bursting into spring growth. Wild garlic grew somewhere close by – a scent that cut through the dust and faded perfumes of the family parlour, giving him a jolt out of his low spirits like a dose of smelling salts. Deciding the sound of hooves might give his presence away, he tied Barbary to a gatepost some distance from the cottage and completed the journey on foot.

What was he thinking? Will ran his hand over his face, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and horsehair on his glove. Lord of these lands, yet he was skulking around in the lane outside his love’s house like a thief. What did he hope to achieve? Sing a serenade under her window? That would expose his unfortunate passion to the mockery of the dame and, by extension, everyone in the village. No, all he could hope for was to share the same night air with Ellie, be comforted by the knowledge she was hearing the same sounds, seeing the same sights from her window as he was in the garden below.

That’s if she wasn’t already asleep, which was more than likely. He felt vaguely irritated that love was making him such a foolish figure even to his own mind, but he couldn’t help himself.

He approached the house through the garden, trying to remember if the dame kept a watchdog. He thought not. He would have to have words with the dame about ensuring her security. Maybe he could prevail upon Turville to lend her Tiber. Did Ellie like dogs? He’d never had a chance to ask her. He’d seen her with a cat once at Windsor, but there was so much to learn about her.

He stumbled over something, releasing the scent of crushed
strawberries into the air. Idiot: he’d walked on the plants. Taking a step back, he stopped on the path. The upper storey of the house was in darkness. He did not know which was the window to her chamber, but from the stillness within it looked as if everyone was asleep.

Sounds carried in the night: the rustle of the leaves in the orchard, the bark of a distant dog, the trickle of the stream that bordered the lane. A door banged in the house. He was wrong about the inhabitants being asleep: as least someone was up. Was it too much to hope it was Ellie? He brushed his fingers lightly over his lips, imagining the goodnight kiss he wished he could give her.

James would laugh to see his older brother now, languishing over a girl. Or thump him. Will walked quietly back to the lane and approached the front of the house, pausing at the gate to take a final look at his lady’s home. He couldn’t indulge himself like this again; he had a duty to his family and his estate. His feelings were irrelevant.

Someone entered the front parlour, carrying a candlestick. His heart leapt, then sank when he saw that it was only the dame, doing the night round to check all was secure before she retired.

But no, a man followed her. Master March, Will guessed, going by Ellie’s description. He was about to depart when his steps were arrested. March got out a crucifix and arranged it on a table by the window, then took a small flask of wine and a morsel of bread from a leather satchel.

‘No,’ breathed Will. ‘Oh no.’ He watched in horror as the man read from a prayer book, going through the blessing for the Holy Communion. Dame Holton sank to her knees,
listening intently, only raising her head when he offered her the bread.

Only a priest could offer communion.

Only a Catholic would conduct such a service secretly at night like this.

He was harbouring an agent of the Pope in his village – the same pope who had excommunicated the Queen and said it was a Catholic’s holy duty to assassinate her. He could put up with the dame’s old-fashioned ways as long as they did not stray into treason; hiding a priest pushed her behaviour far over the line into being a traitor. It was now his duty to arrest her and her household.

He ran back to Barbary, knowing better than to try this single-handedly. Was Ellie a party to the secret? She’d spoken freely of March – praising his learning. If she’d suspected, surely she wouldn’t have mentioned it over supper? No, he could not believe she knew a thing about the guest beyond what she had stated. She would be all right.

A dark thought wormed itself into that comforting apple of a thought: he’d never asked after her views on religion, had he? What if he was so far wrong that she was a Catholic too? Her mother had been Spanish – it would follow she had been brought up in that faith.

He took a moment, leaning his head against the horse’s shoulder, feeling duty and love ripping him apart. She had not hidden March’s presence from him, he reminded himself; she had shown no sign of interest in matters of religion; he knew for a fact she attended the parish church and was well liked by the vicar. No, he was not wrong. Living under the roof of a Catholic did not make her one.

Her father? He would have to be questioned, but his interests were scientific rather than theological. Will doubted he was involved.

But that did not disguise the terrible truth that he had to put one of the oldest, most respected people in the village under arrest. God help the dame if she was guilty of more than soft-heartedness to a priest begging for shelter. God help them all.

Will did not pause even for his usual banter with Diego, but entered directly into the house, casting his riding crop and gloves angrily on the table. Burghley had made him responsible for the security of Berkshire and he had given his solemn promise to do so; any ill-placed leniency because he had known Dame Holton all his life would make him a traitor too. But he needed help. He couldn’t carry out an arrest on his own. He needed James.

He bounded up the stairs and beat on his brother’s door, praying he had returned from his excursion.

‘This better be good,’ James called grumpily from within, ‘I’m in bed.’

Will pushed the door open, then closed it behind him. ‘It’s good – or should I say, very bad.’ James was lying in his nightshirt, fingers laced across his chest, looking far too relaxed for Will’s humour. ‘Jamie, we’ve a serious problem.’

James rolled on to his side and propped his head on his hand. ‘What? Lady Jane refused you?’

‘No!’ Will swiped the air. ‘Why must your brain always revert to that?’

‘Because it’s our best hope?’ he replied patiently. ‘But come on, Will, spill the news. Something’s eating you.’

‘I was in the lane outside Dame Holton’s an hour ago.’

Jamie sighed. ‘Will, you can’t chase after Lady Ellie –’

Will held up his hand to stop the lecture. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. I saw Dame Holton taking communion from a priest – that man March that Ellie mentioned. The dame’s giving shelter to a Catholic priest.’

Jamie threw back the covers and sat up on his knees, running his fingers through his hair. ‘You’re sure?’

Will gave a bitter laugh. ‘I saw him hand her the bread. What more proof do you need?’

James quickly ran through the repercussions, much as Will had done. ‘The Huttons?’

‘Innocent as far as I can tell.’

James nodded. ‘That’s a relief. So, how are we going to apprehend the man and then what will we do with him?’

‘We have to arrest the dame too, I fear.’

James grimaced. He had no more stomach for the idea than Will. ‘Then what?’

‘It is our duty to find out if this goes beyond one priest ministering to those remaining loyal to the old faith. I’d prefer to have the answers before Cecil and Walsingham arrive.’

‘When are they due?’

‘Tomorrow evening.’

James started pulling on his clothes. ‘So we make our move tonight?’

‘I think it best. We can hold them in the dower house and question them in the morning.’

‘We must gather more men.’

‘I’ll wake Sir Henry. You fetch Turville.’

Will found Henry in bed with one of the maids. Her face was hidden under the blankets so he just had to hope it wasn’t one of his household.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, his business too urgent to allow for any embarrassment. ‘I need you to come with me.’

‘You sound very grim, Dorset. What’s afoot?’ Henry pulled on his hose and dragged a shirt over his head.

‘I’ll explain on the way.’

Free of any local loyalties, Henry heard the news with great pleasure.

‘Trapped one of the Pope’s boys, have you, Dorset? Excellent.’ He urged his mount into a trot, eager to get the job done. ‘What’s the plan then? Break the door down and arrest all inside?’

‘I thought we would try knocking first,’ said Will drily. ‘James and Turville can cut off any attempt to escape from the back of the house. And we’re only interested in the dame and her priest. The Huttons lodge there.’

‘The luscious Eleanor mixed up with Catholics?’ Henry laughed. ‘The lady does have a talent for trouble, doesn’t she?’

‘It isn’t a joking matter. And in any case, I believe she knows nothing about it.’

Ellie had always been a fairly light sleeper so she was the first to hear the firm knock at the door in the small hours of the morning. Such summonses rarely brought good news – illness or accident being the usual causes. Groping for her shawl, she wrapped it round her shoulders and ventured out into the hallway. Dame Holton’s snores could be heard from her room – her hostess was deeply asleep.

The knock came again. Deciding to find out who it was before waking the household, Ellie padded downstairs in her bare feet to the front door.

‘Who’s there?’

‘Ellie? It’s me, Will. Open up.’

‘Will?’ Ellie fumbled with the bolts. ‘What’s wrong? Is it your mother?’

‘No, no, nothing like that.’ He sounded urgent, annoyed even.

Ellie took two hands to the big key in the lock. She then opened the door and took a step back, blinking in the light of the lantern he carried. To her surprise, Will wasn’t alone. He had Sir Henry Perceval with him.

‘Oh, um, my lord, what brings you here?’ she asked, regretting how informally she had addressed him moments before.

‘Step aside, Ellie. Go into the parlour and stay there.’ Will advanced into the house.

‘What? Why?’ Ellie didn’t move, blocking the way to the upper floor. ‘Is it my father? You’re not going to harm him, are you?’

‘No, not your father and not you. I have business with your hostess and her guest.’

‘Business? At this time of night?’ Ellie’s voice rose in alarm.

‘Ellie, who are you talking to?’ Her father appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Sir Arthur, go back to your room please. This doesn’t concern you.’ Will brushed past Ellie to climb the stairs. Sir Henry did more: he picked her up bodily and deposited her inside the parlour with a pat on her head like she was some dog performing a trick for him. She didn’t stay put but followed him back out into the hall. She could hear Will knocking on the dame’s bedroom door.

‘Mistress Holton, Mistress Holton!’

The door banged open and footsteps made the ceiling creak above Ellie’s head. She could hear what was said quite distinctly.

‘Mistress, I have come for your guest. I believe you are harbouring a Catholic priest.’

A priest? Ellie closed her eyes and sagged against the wall. Of course. She hadn’t wanted to know but she feared Will’s suspicions were true. Had she given Master March away by carelessly mentioning him at dinner? Was this all her fault? She swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat.

‘My lord, w-what is the meaning of this?’ The dame’s voice was trembling, her indignation a cover for her fear.

‘Please get dressed. I am taking you and Master March away for questioning.’

‘But we’ve done nothing!’

‘If that is true, then you have nothing to worry about. I will step into the hall to allow you to dress.’

Sir Henry appeared at the head of the stairs dragging March with him. He’d not let the man don his clothes so the poor scholar was clad only in a nightshirt. Ellie pushed past the pair without a word and rushed into March’s room. The bedclothes were on the floor and the table overturned, the small vase of spring flowers broken, water seeping through the boards. Ellie grabbed March’s hose, cloak and hat and ran quickly back downstairs.

‘Your things, sir,’ she said breathlessly, ignoring the amused look Henry gave her.

‘Thank you, dear girl,’ March replied with great dignity. ‘You must not worry. All this will be sorted out in the light of the morning.’

Ellie attempted a smile but she felt horribly guilty. ‘The earl is a fair man; he’ll hear you out.’ At least, she hoped. She’d never tested his views on religion; if they were anything
like his prejudices against alchemists then March was in deep trouble. But then, Will had never actually carried out any of his threats against them, had he?

‘Better him than Walsingham,’ Henry interjected, clapping March on the shoulder and shoving him towards the front door. He had to hop on one leg as he was only halfway through pulling on his hose. ‘Just your luck, priest, the Queen’s chief minister is arriving tomorrow night. I was wondering why he was straying in our direction – maybe there’s something brewing that we need to know about? So, if I were you, I’d tell Dorset all you know, and quickly. He’s likely to be far more merciful.’ He gave a whistle, signalling to the men outside that all was secure. ‘Just a thought, March, Walsingham employs his own specialist in extracting information. From the look of that stoop of yours, I imagine you’re well acquainted with the rack. Think about that, won’t you?’