The Fugitive Queen (18 page)

“Pen and your son have hardly seen each other,” I said, keeping my eyes on Will Thwaite's face with difficulty. The sun was shining on the sword hilt and making the amethyst give off violet flashes. “They have had no time to get to know each other, to know whether they . . .”

“Oh, come now, Mistress Stannard. There's more to marriage than a couple of doves billing and cooing. T'pair can meet and talk before t'ceremony if you reckon that's important but nature's nature; it'll work out just as well if you leave it till after. In any case . . . ah, Andrew!”

“I saw horsemen,” said Andrew Thwaite, stepping into the room and hanging a further hoe and a wide-brimmed hat up on the wall. He was dressed in loose, patched hose and a dirty shirt and had an old leather jerkin slung over one shoulder. In this farming gear he still looked as faun-like as ever, except that he now resembled a rustic English faun instead of a legend from classical Greece. He jerked his head at the fat dairymaid. “Get me some ale, Rosie, and be quick about it. It's hot as hell out there.”

Rosie, glancing at him as though she were scared of him, which I could well believe, scurried away. I wondered if she were the only house servant here in this otherwise masculine household and whether she had other functions besides that of housemaid and cook. Very likely! I thought. There were methods of making sure that the farm wasn't cluttered up with accidental babies.

“I was telling Mistress Stannard here,” said his father, “that we want to ask for Mistress Pen as a wife for thee. Mistress Stannard's talking about love, but as far as that goes, we're halfway there already, aren't we?”

“Indeed we are,” Andrew said. “One glance at Mistress Pen was enough for me. She's charming, Mistress Stannard. I'll love her right enough; no fear that I won't.” The corners of his mouth curved up in the most disquieting grin I had ever seen on a living human being, although I had seen grins like it on the masks that people sometimes wear at May Day fairs, especially when they're impersonating the Green Man of the Woods, who accompanies the hobbyhorse. And is eagerly touched by childless women
because he is supposed to cure infertility. (Vicars of all persuasions are forever trying to forbid the more outrageously heathen aspects of May Day celebrations but they never succeed for long.)

I was in no doubt what the word
love
meant to Andrew. Not that there's anything amiss with that; but it shouldn't stop there. It is supposed to have a context of kindness and concern and anxiety for the loved one's well-being. I felt strongly that this context was as unknown to the Thwaites as it would be to any pagan forest god. Pen, to Andrew and his father, would be just a better-off, slimmer, and legalized version of Rosie.

I thought fast. “The fact is,” I said confidingly and untruthfully, “that while we were at Bolton, Sir Francis Knollys suggested a possible match for Pen. Plans are in hand to introduce the young people. So you see, I am in an awkward position. Of course, if for one reason or another, the plan comes to nothing, then we will have to think further but . . .”

“I know what's wrong, Father,” said Andrew, taking the far end of the settle from Mary Seton, who by now had sat gingerly upright and was leaning back, eyes closed, but complexion improving. “It's this place. It's so untidy. Mistress Stannard, we do realize that.”

“Ah, that'll be it.” The older Thwaite's smile was horridly reminiscent of old Gladys at home, with her witchlike fangs. “Mistress Stannard, what you see isn't what Fernthorpe ought to be. There was a fine enough house here once. This is what happens when a house gets burnt down and there's no money in the family to replace it rightly—and anyhow, it's just father and son and the likes of Rosie to keep order. Even at that, we're a bit more respectable upstairs than down. Up above”—he jerked his head at the ceiling—“we've a couple of decent enough bedchambers and a music room, too. Down here we just think of as t'farm buildings.” He paused. Rosie came back with Andrew's ale and handed it to him, and he waved at her in a
go-away
signal. She went.

Then he said: “If Pen weds Andrew, she can have things as
she likes—it'll be up to her. She'll bring her own money, I take it, so she can make Fernthorpe whatever she wants; pretty it up, more servants; no pigs in the kitchen; she'll be t'mistress. But since Fernthorpe and Tyesdale adjoin, maybe she and Andrew'd rather live there and I'll stop here as steward, as it were. Leave the youngsters alone to make their lives and their babies. There's good blood in my family. Andrew takes after his mother and she were connected to the Lennox family—not close, but some sort o' cousin. You know who I mean? That husband o' Queen Mary, him that was murdered; his father were Earl of Lennox.”

Andrew's resemblance to Darnley was clearly no accident. To my mind, looking like a Lennox was bad enough; actually being one was frightful.
Good blood?
Bad blood, I thought. Murderous blood. I made a vague noise to signify that I had indeed heard of the Lennoxes, and Ryder chipped in uninvited.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that all this has come as a great surprise to Mistress Stannard and that she can hardly be expected to decide at this moment, even if there were not a prospect for Mistress Pen at Bolton.” He spoke as smoothly as though he had been present at detailed marriage negotiations in the castle. “We only called here because Mistress Seton was ill. Mistress Seton, how are you now?”

“Better, thank you,” said Seton. Her voice was faint, but she straightened her back, and glancing at her, I found her eyes fixed steadily on me, conveying a message just as mine had done to Ryder earlier on. She had sensed that I wanted to get us away. “I can't manage the ride to Bolton yet,” she said bravely, “but I heard you say earlier that Tyesdale wasn't very far off, Mistress Stannard. I might get there, perhaps. I think I am a trouble to these good people.”

“Just how far is Tyesdale from here?” I asked.

“Matter of a mile and a half, house to house,” Andrew said. “My horse is in t'meadow but I can catch him and show the way.”

“Our thanks, but there's no need,” said Ryder, at his most fatherly and protective. “I've an eye for country. I can guide the ladies to Tyesdale. Master Thwaite, I think we should leave. Mistress
Stannard and Mistress Pen should have a chance to talk over your most kind proposal in private and—er—compare it with the offer at Bolton.”

“We're Catholics, as I've told thee,” Thwaite said, “and if we haven't a chaplain, we do have a chapel, out at the back. Rites can be done twice—once by t'vicar in Fritton and once here, to make it sure. Wed in the eyes of God and Queen Elizabeth, they'll be, then.”

“As Ryder says,” I said, rising and laying my empty beaker aside, “I must consider the matter and speak to Pen. Mistress Seton, if you think you can endure a little more riding . . .”

“I'll get the horses,” said Ryder.

I knew that the Thwaites wanted to keep us for longer but there was nothing they could do. At least, I thought, they hadn't seen Meg. They couldn't know that she had recognized them.

The fear that had kept my pulses hammering through every moment I spent in that house sank away when at last I got into Roundel's saddle. At that moment, anger took its place. I would have liked to seize Will Thwaite by his scrawny throat and pound his head on the farmhouse wall until he told me where Harry Hobson was buried.

But that was hardly possible. For the moment, I must say farewell in a polite voice and ride off. I yearned to give my feelings an outlet by leaving at a gallop, but for Seton's sake we still had to proceed at a funereal plod.

As we went, Ryder said: “I think I spoke out of turn in there, madam. I'm the escort; not the man in charge. Only, I thought you needed help.
Is
there a marriage prospect for Mistress Pen at Bolton?”

“Not yet. I invented that. I had to. You were right to think that I needed help but you've no idea how much! Meg wouldn't come in because she recognized the place and recognized Will Thwaite's voice as well. She'd come across them before. Can you guess when?”

Ryder's thick, graying eyebrows shot up again. “When she was kidnapped? Is that what you mean?” I turned my head to
look at his face and saw his eyes widen. “That sword on the wall! With that great big amethyst in the hilt! Was it—is it—?”

“I think so.”

“Strewth!” said John Ryder, appalled.

It was still only the afternoon when we arrived back at Tyesdale, though the air was cooler. A breeze had sprung up and cloud was drifting from the west. As Ryder helped Seton down, Jamie Appletree and the Brockleys came out to meet us. Fran at once took charge of Seton, putting an arm round her and leading her indoors.

“I'm glad to be home, Brockley,” I said to him as he handed me out of my saddle and Jamie led the horses away. “Where are the others? Are Pen and Meg back safely?” For some reason, Brockley's inexpressive face became more blank even than usual, which was a sign that he was disconcerted. “What's the matter?” I said in alarm. “I sent them off with two men to guard them and . . .”

“They're all here, madam—Master Littleton, Tom Smith, and the young ladies. I'm glad to see you safe. I would have come to find you before long, if you hadn't come home. Fernthorpe is no place for you, from what Mistress Meg had to tell us when she arrived. To think that
they
—our neighbors!—were responsible for . . .!”

“It was a blessing that they didn't realize Meg was there. But there's more, Brockley. While we were in the farmhouse and waiting for Mistress Seton to be well enough to leave, Will Thwaite made a formal proposal for a marriage between his son Andrew and Pen. I managed to put off giving him an answer and got us away. But I don't like it. They're not far away and now that we know what kind of people they are . . .”

“Desperate, by the sound of it, madam,” Brockley said.

“And extraordinary,” I said. “I can't understand why they tried to snatch a wife for Andrew when we were on our way to Tyesdale and could be approached in a perfectly normal manner—as indeed we were, in the end. We . . . Brockley?”

Brockley's air of being disconcerted, not to say distracted,
had reappeared. “Madam, there's something else. Nothing to do with Fernthorpe. This is very difficult.”

“What is? Brockley, what's the matter?”

“Well, it's nothing much,” said Brockley awkwardly. “Only, when you go inside, you'll find them dancing.”

“Dancing? Who's dancing?”

“You know what young folk are, madam. Your Meg was upset by finding herself at Fernthorpe, and what does Mistress Pen say to her, but
Oh, let's practice some dancing; it will give your thoughts a new direction, and what kind of music can we arrange?
The instruments we found in the music room here are useless, of course, but then it turned out that Master Whitely has a lute in working order, and that Dick Dodd had one in his luggage, and now they're both up in the minstrels' gallery, sitting on stools because of that low ceiling, and playing for them . . .”

“Playing for whom?”

“Mostly Mistress Pen and Master Littleton, madam. Mistress Sybil is there as well, of course, watching. Tom Smith is partnering Meg. Somewhere or other, Tom has learned to trip a pretty measure. But . . . I think you'd better go in.”

I made for the steps. At the top, I was met by Agnes Appletree, looking anxious.

“Mistress Stannard!”

I could already hear the lutes and the slip-slide, pit-pat of dancing feet but Agnes was barring my way. I frowned. “Agnes? “What is it?”

“I saw't with my own eyes,” said Agnes, brisk and worried. “I never thought no harm when the dancin' started but now, well, I said to mysen: Mistress Stannard's the guardian of t'lass Pen and did ought to know . . .”

“Know
what
?” I demanded.

“Her and that man Littleton,” said Agnes dramatically. “I
saw.
They were dancing and they got under t'shadow of t'gallery and t'others weren't looking and Littleton . . .”

“Yes, and Littleton what?”

“He kissed Mistress Pen, mam. I saw it. And t'lass were laughing. Then they danced across the hall and he did it again
and that were no snatched kiss, neither—went on and on, he did, till Mistress Jester called out and chided him. Then he stopped but . . .”

I pushed past her and marched into the hall. There they were, as Agnes had said. Sybil was standing at the side of the hall, hands folded in front of her. Meg was dancing, hand in hand with Tom, and yes, there were Tobias and Pen. Pen was gazing up into his eyes. Littleton was still in the shirt and breeches in which he had gone hawking while Pen had changed into a charming gown of deep green embroidered with yellow flowers, but they danced with equal elegance, face-to-face, toes pointed, hands on hips, whirling away from each other and then back, to clasp hands and parade gracefully down the hall. I recognized the sequence. It was part of Leicester's Dance, which Robin Dudley had made so popular at court three years ago.

As I watched, Pen saw me and turned her smile toward me, and even though the hall was shadowy after the sunlit courtyard, I could see how her eyes were shining.

The Thwaites and their proposal were complication enough but here was another. Pen had done it again. It had even driven the horror of our discovery at Fernthorpe out of her head. The wretched girl was once more in love.

My arrival broke the dancing up. I didn't like myself for it. Young people dancing are a charming sight and I spoiled it, like an attack of wheat rust on someone's harvest. But I was responsible for Pen and this would not do. I would have to speak to her. Feeling yet again that I had too much on my mind, too many problems of too many different kinds, so that I was like someone trying to travel to all four points of the compass at the same time, I told Pen to go to her room and wait for me, while I went first to my bedchamber. There Dale helped me to change out of my dusty riding dress and I sent for some wine and sat down to think.