A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) (7 page)

Not that there was much conversation over dinner, which was shared by the three children of the house, a boy of perhaps fifteen and two girls, somewhat younger. They, like their elders, were very quiet. The person most in evidence was the chaplain the steward had mentioned, though he wasn’t dining with us. Instead, he stood at a small lectern in a corner of the hall, from which, before the meal began, he recited a lengthy grace, which included a prayer for Mary Stuart of Scotland—“the poor beleaguered lassie, harassed by that devil’s emissary John Knox and his noble followers, who style themselves the Lords of the Congregation and should know better and will rue their evil-doing for all eternity when they come at last to the fires of hell.”

I had heard of John Knox from Cecil, and I was aware that he was more or less the founder of the Protestant movement in Scotland and was famous for being a fanatic. It was disturbing, though, to hear the hatred in the chaplain’s voice and the fervent way in which Master and Mistress Bycroft said
amen.

After this inflammatory grace, we were able to sit down to our meal, but conversation still didn’t flourish, for the chaplain read to us throughout most of dinner, from the works of St. Augustine, and even when he stopped, shortly before the end, the only conversation consisted of Mistress Bycroft catechizing her son and daughters to make sure they had paid attention to the chaplain.

When dinner was over, I sent Dale, who though not really hurt had received some bruising when she fell and was in any case obviously worn-out, to rest. Meanwhile, I allowed Mistress Bycroft to take me to her parlor, where I seized the chance to explain that I was anxious to resume my journey because we were trying to catch up with my cousin Edward and recall him to Sussex. “Has he been here, by any chance?”

“Why, yes,” said my hostess. “He slept here the night before last and left early yesterday morning. He was going on to the Thursbys.”

So we were now only a day and a half behind him. “We wanted to go straight on to the Thursbys in the hope of finding him there,” I said, “but one of our horses has gone lame.” I had been thinking. “I would like to see my manservant,” I said. “He’s looking after it.”

Brockley, duly summoned to speak to me, said that the horse was improving. “There is a cut but not, I think, a wrench. I’ve dressed it and I fancy that we’ll be able to continue tomorrow.”

“I’d like to see for myself,” I said, staring hard at Brockley to indicate that I meant I wanted a little private conversation.

“Of course, madam.” Brockley picked up the signal. “If you will come with me to the stable . . .”

Presently, stooping over the gelding’s foreleg in the stall, I said: “There’s no chance that we could get on our way to the Thursbys this afternoon, is there, Brockley? If Dale rests for an hour . . .”

“Dale needs longer than that, madam, and so does this horse. Besides, dark would come down on us before we could get so far. It’s nine miles or thereabout, or so you told me.”

“I know. But we’re close behind Edward now and I don’t want him to get to Scotland ahead of us after all. And this place! I’m afraid all the time that either Dale or I will say the wrong thing and give ourselves away. This house isn’t just pious, it’s . . . it’s . . .”

I could hardly find the words to express it. I did not myself know how genuinely I believed in God. He was supposed to be a God of love but I had seen too many horrors to be convinced of that. When not traveling or otherwise prevented, I attended church once a week, as most people did, and in times of trouble, as Dale knew, I might say a private prayer or two. Mostly, though, I left religion out of my thoughts and conversation alike. The Bycroft obsession with it seemed to me like a distortion of the mind, and the savage attitude of the chaplain was frightening.

“I didn’t see you at dinner,” I said to Brockley. “I hope you’ve eaten. But if you’d been there, you would have heard the chaplain more or less damning the Protestant leader in Scotland to hellfire!”

“I daresay,” said Brockley, and as he replaced the dressing on the gelding’s fetlock, he gave his rare
chuckle. “I’ve been hearing from the other grooms how the lady of the house goes down into Grimstone with comforts for the poor and to help the wives with their lyings-in and instructs them in the true religion practically without stopping. Some of them tell lies about when their babies are expected, so as to get it all over before she arrives to harangue them when they’ve other things to think about! But I think we’ll have to put up with it until tomorrow.”

There was nothing for it. “Very well,” I said, and went back to Mistress Bycroft, who sympathized with my anxiety to find my cousin and took me to her own room, so that we could both kneel down by her priedieu and offer prayers for a happy conclusion to my errand. The process, believe it or not, lasted three quarters of an hour.

• • •

We got away from Bycroft the next morning without anyone saying anything disastrous, and for a change, the weather was kind to us. The ride to the Thursbys at St. Margaret’s took us through some wild and barren hill country, but it went smoothly. Dale’s gelding was walking sound again, Dale was rested, and I felt hopeful. According to Helene, Edward knew the Thursbys well. He must have reached them the day before yesterday, but if he made a stay of any length anywhere, it would be with them. Once again, I was full of hope.

However, by the time we reached St. Margaret’s, just before noon, Dale was drooping again and her horse was once more showing signs of lameness. I was relieved that our ride was over. Like Bycroft, St. Margaret’s
was defended, with an encircling moat and a curtain wall topped by battlements. It was a further reminder that the Scottish border was close. The Scots had a wild reputation. Cecil had once traveled to Edinburgh and he had told me something of the north. Their border had always been liable to trouble; it was a state of affairs that went back for centuries. Raiders still from time to time swooped across into England to seize sheep or cattle. The English pastures, on the whole, were lusher than the Scottish ones and the stock correspondingly fatter.

Once past the gatehouse and the frowning wall we discovered that St. Margaret’s, though it didn’t greatly resemble Withysham, was obviously a former abbey. I supposed that this explained its name. It was built around three sides of a cloistered courtyard, and adjacent to it was a chapel nearly as big as the house. I wondered gloomily whether the Thursbys were as pious as the Bycrofts.

But they were not. Euphemia and John Thursby turned out to be older than the Bycrofts but much sprightlier. They were a pair of small, jolly, rotund people, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, Robin and Robina Goodfellow in the flesh. (Aunt Tabitha did not believe in such things and once beat me for even mentioning them, but at Faldene, the servants had believed in Robin Goodfellow, the mischievous fairy who could either wreak havoc or confer blessings. They regularly placated him by leaving dishes of milk out for him at night, which the cats usually drank.)

The Thursbys were amazingly alike, even to the point that when they smiled, each revealed a gap to the
left of their upper front teeth. I was not surprised to learn when, after washing and changing I rejoined them in the parlor, that they were second cousins and had had to get a dispensation to marry.

They chatted merrily about themselves and seemed to enjoy their resemblance to each other, for it even extended to their clothes. His doublet and her gown were made of the same deep green velvet with yellow flowers embroidered on it.

Their home was a delight, its stern outer walls a complete contradiction to the comfort within. I had been shown at once to a bedchamber, as though it were taken for granted that I would stay the night, and it was a delightful room, the walls elegantly paneled and hung with pleasing tapestries, and gracious mullioned windows overlooking the cloisters and the knot garden. All the hearths that I saw looked as though they had been enlarged to accommodate welcoming fires instead of the meager affairs that were in keeping with vows of poverty. The knot garden was exquisitely laid out with low box hedges to outline the beds, and even the stableyard had a couple of apple trees.

“The horses eat the windfalls,” Mistress Thursby said. “And so do the stableboys, and why not?”

They obviously loved their house and enjoyed showing it off to guests. They were apologetic even over a mild delay in serving dinner. “Our steward is not here just now. He is a Scotsman with family over the border—as indeed we ourselves have—and went off yesterday, to see a kinsman who’s been ill or had an accident or some such thing,” Mistress Thursby said. “Our household isn’t being overseen as well as it is
when Hamish is here. He’ll be back soon, of course, but he’s missed, I assure you! He is so attentive to detail. We have a fair amount of company, even in this lonely place. We breed horses and people come to buy our stock at times, and now and then, of course, groups of traveling players come by, or a stray peddler or merchant. I am expecting an uncle of mine soon—he comes each year to stay for a few weeks. And of course, we often see our neighbors the Bycrofts. Although to tell you the truth, the Bycrofts . . .”

And then we all looked at each other and laughed, and Master Thursby said solemnly: “But they are excellent people in their way, and Mistress Bycroft never ceases from good works. She often goes to Grimstone to take charity to the poor villagers and her husband sees to it that their cottages are kept in good repair. Nor do they neglect to tend the souls of their tenants. No one can fault them.”

Whereupon, we all chuckled again. A servant brought in some wine and poured it, and as I sipped mine, I remarked that St. Margaret’s must have been altered a good deal since the days when it was an abbey. “I know,” I said, “because my own house was once an abbey and that, too, had to be much adapted before it became a real home.”

I paused, and then, catching at a chance to establish my Catholic credentials, I added gravely: “If the true religion should ever be restored in England, I suppose the Church might reclaim Withysham from me. I should be sorry, although I know in my heart that it would be right.”

There was a sudden hush. All the puckishness went
out of Mistress Thursby’s face. She actually put up a hand to brush tears from the corners of her eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said miserably.

Easygoing as the Thursbys seemed to be, I had accidentally touched a tender spot. “What is it?” I asked.

“Now, don’t you go making too much of it, my dear,” said Master Thursby to his wife. “The fact is,” he added to me, “that we love St. Margaret’s too much and can’t help but hope we will never lose it.”

“It would break my heart if we did,” said Mistress Thursby.

“Yes, well, that’s as may be. But if it’s ever God’s will that our religion be restored in England, well, as Madame de la Roche says, it’s a sacrifice we might have to make.”

“The heartache would be so terrible,” said his wife sadly.

“Yes, it would,” her husband agreed somberly. “But as yet, it hasn’t come to pass. So let us talk of something else.”

I obliged by asking about Edward, hoping against hope that he might be somewhere on the premises, but I was disappointed. He was not.

“Oh yes, he’s been here,” Master Thursby said. “But . . .”

“I take it he’s gone on to Edinburgh,” I said heavily. “I know that he meant to. When did he leave?”

“The day before yesterday, after dinner. He’ll likely be there by now. He didn’t even spend a night here, for all we invited him,” Mistress Thursby said. Silently, I cursed. “He seemed so impatient to finish his journey,” said my hostess. “He spoke of you once,
you know—when he was here last summer. Not that he said much, except that it was you that went with his wife’s guardian to bring his bride out of France. But we knew he had a cousin Ursula.”

It had never occurred to me that Edward might have talked about me. I thanked providence he hadn’t said more. According to Uncle Herbert, he knew that it was I who had got my uncle, Edward’s father, clapped into the Tower. I certainly didn’t want any of Edward’s friends to know
that.
Perhaps the talkative Thursbys had interrupted him too soon! (The Bycrofts were probably too busy praying to listen, anyhow.)

“I need to find him as soon as I can,” I said. They regarded me with expectant interest and I added primly: “It concerns his family at home—it is a private thing, which I’m not at liberty to discuss—but it really is serious. You gave me a charming bedchamber in which to change my dress and I suspect that you would be happy for me to stay here overnight . . .”

“Indeed, we expect you to stay!” Euphemia exclaimed.

I shook my head. “I think we should travel on after dinner and try again to catch Edward up. We could cover a few more miles before nightfall. Can you advise us about the route and where we can stay overnight? What inns are there along the way?”

The Thursbys at once began to shake with mirth. The brief distress over their fear of losing their home had passed and now they resembled nothing so much as a pair of merry gnomes. I looked at them in astonishment.

“You’re almost into Scotland,” said Mistress
Thursby, “and there are no hostelries in Scotland. Drinking places, yes, but not places to stay.”

“There are traditions of hospitality, though,” said her husband. “Nobles stay in each other’s castles and houses; ordinary folk look for lodgings in cottages and farmhouses and so on. There are a couple of places along the way where you’ll get beds for the night and supper, of a simple kind, and I can give you some addresses in Edinburgh where you can find lodgings. I know where Edward was probably going to stay; I can tell you that as well.”

“I’d be grateful,” I said, and added politely: “You know Scotland well?”

Once more, their cheerful countenances clouded. “Oh yes,” said Mistress Thursby, “we have relatives there, as I said. More cousins. We share Scottish forebears, John and I.”

I must have looked inquiring, for Master Thursby said: “We used to visit them at times, but the last such time was a sad business for us. We never dreamt . . .”