The Fugitive Queen (35 page)

Andrew laughed and picked her up bodily. She struggled and cried but in vain. He carried her easily up the stairs and when Rosie and some of the Grimsdale family made to follow them up, presumably to see them bedded in traditional fashion, Will Thwaite barred the way.

“Best they make friends on their own. Leave Andrew t'it. He knows his business,” said Andrew's father with a dreadful grin and another spray of saliva.

Even in my own extremity, I stared after Pen with pity. She was still crying; I could hear her. Poor child. Poor, poor child. Happy is the bride who is so in love with her groom and desires him so intensely that she melts to him without fear or pain at their first joining. Happy is the maid whose first lover knows how to awaken that desire.

Pen had no desire for Andrew and I did not think he was the man to create it. Oh, Pen. Poor Pen.

And now, very soon, poor Ursula. Surreptitiously, I put my hand over the outline of my dagger. I would fight for my life, to the very last moment. I edged a little, toward the door to the passage. The horses in the byre were still saddled. If I could slip out and loose a horse and get astride it, I might just manage to bolt
out of the byre and across the courtyard before anyone could stop me. If only the gatehouse had been left open. I inched another step or two.

I was close to the wall now but the door was still several paces away, on my left. Turning my head a fraction, I could see through into the passage. The outer door was open and the light of daybreak was now pouring in. Another step and I could see a segment of the courtyard, and part of the gatehouse. And the gate.

It was closed. My heart sank in renewed despair. I would never do it. Whitely was already looking my way.

I'd got to try! Undoing a gate can be tricky from the back of a horse, especially a horse one doesn't know well. The problem was to slow down the pursuit. Could I create a distraction . . . overturn some furniture, perhaps . . . enough to confuse people and get in their way while I rushed across the passage, slashed a halter rope with my dagger, scrambled up, clattered to the gate, undid the bolts, and made a dash for freedom?

Not very likely. But I was still going to attempt it. If I flung down the platter I was holding, caught hold of the table and threw it over, and all the wedding breakfast dishes were strewn over the floor . . .

In the byre, one of the horses whinnied. And then, with a surge of thankfulness so great that it weakened my knees and almost caused me to do what I hadn't done when I first realized Whitely's intention which was to keel over in a faint, I heard another horse whinny from beyond the gate, and a stentorian voice shouted: “Open in the name of the queen!” and someone began a thunderous hammering.

The wedding party froze. Full mouths stopped chewing; chicken legs and slices of pie and tankards of ale were halted halfway to people's lips. A horn blew commandingly and the command to open was repeated, even more loudly than before.

“Huh!” said Will Thwaite. “Thee said they'd be out lookin' for Mistress Pen, Master Littleton. Seems thee were right. Well, well, they're too late. And there's nothing against t'law in a young
pair gettin' wed. As well you and Master Whitely hurried things on. God's teeth, they'll have that gate down in a minute! Better let them through afore they knock it flat.”

The shouting outside was being repeated yet again and a further furious pounding on the gate was making it shake. Brushing past Tobias and Whitely, who appeared to be stricken immobile, Thwaite strode out to the courtyard, bellowing: “Wait! Wait! I'll undo t'door!”

The hammering stopped. Thwaite unbarred the entrance and as I stood there, leaning on the wall now for support, Sir Francis Knollys in person rode through. Crowding after him, fully armed and looking as impressive as an army, were a dozen of his own men, plus John Ryder, Tom Smith, and Clem Moss.

Whitely, regaining his powers of movement, suddenly made toward me, perhaps with some notion of using me as a shield while he made his escape, but I hurled my platter at him, dodged through the door, and sprinted for the courtyard, shouting: “I'm here! I'm here!” and a moment later was being thankfully embraced by Ryder as he threw himself off his horse and grabbed hold of me.

“You lost my scent? What happened? They were furious when they found I wasn't Mary. They've married Pen to Andrew Thwaite by force. Tobias's cousin Magnus Whitely, who I dismissed from being Tyesdale's steward, was going to murder me!” I said, putting it as succinctly as possible. For the moment, for the sake of brevity, I left out Lapwings and Mistress Holme.

“Going to murder you, was he?” said Sir Francis grimly, descending from his own horse. The other men did the same and led by Sir Francis, we marched indoors and into the midst of the wedding party. “Well, well. So these are the rascally conspirators. Good morning, Master Littleton. You're looking well. I doubt if you'll seem quite so healthy much longer; nasty damp places, dungeons. Which of you is Magnus Whitely? I don't believe I've had the pleasure.”

For a moment, there had been a threat of resistance, mainly from the Grimsdales and their mining relatives, who had bristled
up at once at the sight of a crowd of armed men marching into the room. The sight of swords being drawn discouraged them, however. They backed away against the wall. Will Thwaite, who had come back inside with us, seemed completely bemused. “What's going
on
? What's all this about conspirators an' murder?”

“I beg your pardon. I should have introduced myself. I am Sir Francis Knollys, from Bolton Castle.”

Sir Francis paused, glancing toward the stairs. Pen's voice, raised in sobbing protest, could still be heard from the upper floor. “What's happening up there?”

“My son's on his honeymoon,” said Thwaite. He seemed more bewildered than ever. I had not hitherto been certain that the Thwaites were really quite unaware that Andrew's marriage had been linked to a scheme to free Mary Stuart but now I saw that it was true. As far as the Thwaites were concerned, I had offended their friend Magnus and he had agreed to bring them Pen Mason as a way of making a little money while being revenged on me. They were innocent of treason, if not of much else.

I started to say something of this to Sir Francis but I was interrupted by a hoarse scream from overhead and a crash as though someone or something had fallen over heavily. Will Thwaite swung around to face the stairs. The maidservant Rosie clutched at the nearest arm, which belonged to one of the younger miners. Another scream came. It died away into a horrible bubbling, choking sound.

It hadn't been Pen. I was as sure as I could be that that dreadful noise had not been made by Pen.

A shadow moved at the top at the stairs and Andrew blundered into view. He started downward, lurching, keeping upright by fending himself off from the wall and the banister with hands which left red marks behind them. He was naked except for the blood that ran in a stream from his gasping mouth and pumped from a huge wound close to his heart, veiling the front of his body in scarlet.

Before he was halfway down, his eyes went huge and blind and he sagged, losing his balance. Will Thwaite, crying out, ran forward with outstretched arms to catch him as he fell headlong.

Thwaite sank at the foot of the stairs, holding his son in his arms. He put a hand behind Andrew's head and shook him, calling his name, and Sir Francis went quickly to kneel beside them, resting his hand on the boy's neck where the great pulse of life beats as long as life endures. Presently, he shook his head and stood up. Will Thwaite, still cradling his son, stared up at him and then back at Andrew's face. “It isn't true! It can't be true! Andrew,
Andrew,
answer me, it's your father!
Andrew . . .
”

A sound from above made us look up once more. Pen was coming down the stairs. She seemed to be unhurt and she was still dressed, but she too was splashed with blood. She was carrying a sword. Its blade was stained with red and between her crimsoned fingers I saw the glint of amethyst.

“It's the sword that he was wearing,” she said, in answer to our questioning eyes. Her voice was a monotone, as though she had been shocked beyond the power of expressiveness. Halfway down the stairs, she stopped, because Will Thwaite and Andrew were in the way. She spoke to us from where she was.

“He took it off when he undressed and I picked it up and told him that I'd never wanted to marry him and we
weren't
married. I said to him: ‘I shouted
I won't
at the very altar; why didn't you listen?' But he took no notice. He laughed at me. He said we were man and wife all the same and I'd got to sleep with him whether I liked it or not. He was going to force himself on me . . .”

Her voice had gone up now, becoming shrill. “Gently, mistress, gently!” said Clem in a kind voice.

Pen looked at him. As though he had asked her to explain, she said: “He told me to put the sword down and he came toward me, still laughing—he didn't expect me to do anything to him; I could see that. I backed against the wall and then I couldn't go any farther and he came near enough for the swordpoint to be touching him and told me not to be silly. Not to be
silly.
He was going to . . . going to . . . and he told me not to be
silly
! It's heavy.” She looked down at the sword. “But I was holding it in both hands
and I was so frightened and so angry—I lunged. It went into him. The blade was so sharp! I only meant to hold him off, to make him jump back, but it ran him through! He . . . he screamed and then he turned and stumbled out of the door . . . there was so much b . . . blood . . .” She was beginning to cry. Her eyes shifted to Sir Francis. “I heard your voice . . . is . . . is he dead?”

“Aye.” Very gently, Will Thwaite laid his son down. Rising to his feet, he faced her. “You murdering bitch,” he said. That he didn't shout but said it quite softly somehow made it doubly menacing. “You've killed my son. My only son. My only hope for tomorrow.
You've killed him.
”

“B . . . but I didn't m . . . mean to kill him. I didn't!” The tears were streaming down her face and with her spare hand she was leaning on the banister for support. “I j . . . just wanted to hold him off. He was g . . . going to rape me!”

“
Rape
you? You were his wife! And,” said Will Thwaite grimly, “t'murder of a man by his wife—that's got a name, that has. That's petty treason and the woman burns for it.” He swung around to face Sir Francis. “Isn't that t'law? Tell her!”

“It's also the law that a forced marriage isn't valid!” I said loudly. “Pen never said
I will.
She said
I won't
at the top of her voice and no one listened.”

“She and Andrew were declared man and wife by an ordained priest and that's enough for me!” snapped Thwaite. He turned again to stare at Pen. “T'law's clear and even Sir Francis here can't deny me when I tell him to take thee into custody. Thee'll go to t'stake for this, my lass, and I'll be there when t'faggots are lit and . . .”

“Except,” said Pen shrilly, “that Father Bruno
isn't
an ordained priest and Andrew was never my husband in any sense whatsoever.”

“What?”
shouted Thwaite.

Father Bruno, who had been standing back in the shadows, pushed his way forward. “Mistress Mason—which is still her name—is quite correct. I am not a priest and never have been.” He spoke without a trace of Italian accent, though there was a tinge of the English countryside in his voice.

The daylight was full by now. For the first time I could see Father Bruno properly. He smiled at me and my jaw dropped.
“Brockley!”
I said.

“Brockley?” said Sir Francis questioningly.

“Yes!” I had even seen Brown Berry in the byre and noticed his hairy fetlocks, but because of the bad light I hadn't recognized him. “This is Roger Brockley, my manservant. He went off a couple of days ago saying that he had an idea about protecting Pen, but . . . but . . .”

“Walnut juice to stain my face and a black dye for my hair,” said Brockley. “I stopped before I got to Fernthorpe to use them, and while I was at it, I clipped my hair and shaved the top of my head to make a tonsure. I took the cassock and a prayer book and this silver crucifix I'm wearing from the chapel at Tyesdale. I'd raided Agnes Appletree's stores for the walnut juice and the black dye. She keeps such things for coloring cloth. It was the best I could do. I reckoned that if I could get myself into the Thwaite home as a priest, they might use me if it came to the point of forcing a marriage on Mistress Pen. Then the marriage wouldn't be legal and couldn't bind her.”

“I might have known!” I gasped. “I had no idea where you'd gone, what you were doing, what had happened to you. I should have known you wouldn't fail us. Oh,
Brockley
!”

“What's all this? Is he saying he's not a priest? That he's . . .?”

“He's my steward, and he's certainly not a priest,” I said to Master Thwaite. “Pen hasn't by any stretch of the imagination killed her husband. She resisted rape, that's all. A woman's entitled to go any lengths she likes to fend off a man who wants to take her against her will.”

“Is
that
t'law?” Thwaite demanded, turning to Sir Francis.

“I knew who Master Brockley was before that so-called ceremony began,” said Pen. She brushed her knuckles across her wet eyes, and though her voice shook, she spoke with determination. “I recognized him the moment I went close to him. That's why I knelt to pray beside him.”

“And what I said, when everyone thought I was praying,” said Brockley, “was that if she would let me conduct the service, it
wouldn't be lawful and the Thwaites would have no hold on her afterwards. I said I would bring help as soon as I could, and meanwhile, she had best smile and be complaisant and—do what she must—and soon she would be rescued.”