The Traitor's Daughter (11 page)

Doncaster, seeing the merriment at his expense, laughed uneasily, frantic for Northumberland's approval. Owen found it pitiful. And felt a lash of caution. Apparently his prison mate, far from being favored by the earl as he'd claimed, engendered his scorn. Owen recognized the type: the powerful man who enjoys belittling a weakling.
Can I use that?
he wondered.
Make him think I'm someone he can domineer?

“Come, let's in to dinner,” Northumberland called, expansively beckoning his entourage. “I'm so famished I could eat this buck raw.”

The hunting party trooped toward the house. A cart clattered up to load the kill. The servant who drove it was a wiry fellow, about thirty, with an unruly thatch of bright red hair. Owen took note. He fit the description of the man Matthew had told him to be on the lookout for. Matthew had employed him as a watcher until he discovered the fellow was doing the same for Northumberland, playing both sides. The servants managing the packhorses began unloading the deer carcasses and dead fowl onto the cart.

“Who's this?” Northumberland pointed his dagger at Owen, his question at Doncaster.

“Ah yes, this is Master Lyon, my lord. He comes to offer his services, to take the place of Ewing.”

Northumberland frowned at the newcomer. “You want to be my secretary?”

Owen winced inside. Curse Doncaster for blurting this! The timing was all wrong.
His forwardness could get me thrown out.
“Pardon my friend's eagerness, your lordship,” he answered. “I will be glad to approach you later to—”

“Can you read and write?”

Owen blinked, the question so absurd. “Most assuredly, my lord.”

“Then why put it off?” He sheathed his dagger, his eyes on it as he said, “Arthur vouches for you, I gather?” It seemed a habit of his to ignore the person he was speaking to.

“I do,” Doncaster put in respectfully. “Master Lyon was a fellow sufferer of the Marshalsea's vileness. I believe he saved my life.”

Northumberland grunted. “For what it's worth.” He slapped dried mud off his sleeve, saying, “Lyon, eh? What were you in for?”

“Attending a mass, your lordship. I have, of course, repented.” He injected sarcasm into the mock-pious second statement, to let the earl know he felt precisely the opposite.

Northumberland's sharp features betrayed neither approval nor censure. He looked to his friends, who were already across the courtyard and moving inside. “Well, come along then.” He added, with barely a glance at Doncaster, “Eat, Arthur. You know you want to. Then this fellow can write a letter or two for me. I'll soon know if he passes muster.” He strode toward the house.

Owen was so startled he didn't move. Was he hired? He looked at Doncaster, who shrugged, equally surprised. Owen almost laughed.
That was easy.
He slapped Doncaster on the shoulder, grinning as he thought:
Blessed be the meek.
“Thank you, my friend.”

They followed the earl inside. The great hall rang with the voices of thirty hungry, thirsty men settling down on benches at two long tables that abutted the ends of the lord's table, where Northumberland thudded down into a chair. The three tables formed a squared horseshoe and inside it maidservants hustled with bowls of water for the hunters to wash their hands and towels to dry them. Other servants carried in platters of food. At the smells of roasted boar, leek-festooned capons, and succulent quails Owen's stomach grumbled. He hadn't realized he was so hungry. Now, where to sit? The men ranged along the tables were the earl's retainers, certainly a few lordlings among them, their status above his. Did etiquette allow him to sit with his friend? Doncaster, as a family relation, would be admitted somewhere close to the earl. No, better not press my luck, Owen decided. He would sit with household officers, the steward and chamberlain. He was about to ask Doncaster to point them out when Northumberland bellowed from the head table, “Arthur! Here!” He swept his arm in a gesture to join him. “And bring the scribe.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Doncaster called back, smiling and bowing. He beckoned Owen, who followed. The two reached Northumberland's side. Space on the bench was made for them by two adolescents whose favored place beside Northumberland, and whose sharp features so like his, told Owen they were his sons. To the right of the earl's chair was another chair, but empty. There were only two chairs; benches for everyone else.

The earl was quaffing back another tankard of ale. Finishing, he wiped his moustache with a damask napkin and looked at Doncaster, then Owen. “Tell me about the Marshalsea. Did you befriend anyone else?” The glint in his hooded eyes made Owen feel sure there was an agenda the earl was keeping to himself. Was he in contact with radical Jesuit priests who'd been arrested? Might he even know something about the gunman who'd so recently tried to kill the Queen?

“Oh, the place is the foulest cesspit, my lord,” Doncaster said with a shudder. “The stench! The savage fellows! I do not think I could have borne another week.” He launched into a litany of the prison's miseries, even as he took a roasted quail from the platter being passed and eagerly cut into it. Northumberland frowned at Doncaster's complaints.
He wants different information,
Owen thought.
Or am I imagining that? Keep a clear head,
he told himself.

Doncaster droned on. The earl sawed at a slab of boar. The two teen boys whispered to each other. The other men chattered and ate. Owen was about to take a bite of capon when his eyes were drawn to a movement at the far end of the hall, a staircase where a woman was coming down the steps. A lady. She looked in her mid-thirties. Slender, upright, she moved with self-assured poise, her dress of fine rose-colored wool, her blond hair tucked behind her headdress: a band of seed pearls with a fall of rose-tinted linen. She crossed the hall, servants bowing to her as she came.
The earl's wife?
Owen wondered. When she reached the earl's side a serving man pulled out the empty chair and she settled into it.
Yes,
thought Owen,
the countess.

“A good day, Catherine,” her husband said, chewing. “A fine buck, two does, and a mess of birds.”

“I'll send a haunch of venison to my sister,” she said, dipping her hands into the silver bowl of water a serving maid offered her. “Nan, tell cook to have it dressed.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And bring me a small partridge leg.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The countess dried her hands on a napkin and languidly scanned the other platters of food as though wondering if any might tempt her. She seemed uninterested in the throng of men.

“Here's Arthur, come from London,” Northumberland told her.

She gave Doncaster a nod, indifferent though not unfriendly. “Welcome, Arthur.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“He's brought this young buck to take over for Ewing.”

The countess's green eyes shifted to Owen. He gave her a respectful bow of the head. “Your ladyship.”

“Don't I know you?” She frowned as though struggling to remember. “There's something about your face. . . .” Then, suddenly stiffening: “I
do
know you.” She said it like an accusation.

Owen felt a prick of alarm. “My lady?”

“It was in London just before Lent. I saw you at the playhouse. The one they call the Theatre.”

He relaxed. “You may have indeed, your ladyship,” he said smoothly.

“He's a playwright,” Doncaster put in, munching. “That's why I thought he'd be a good secretary. Clever with writing, you know.”

She ignored him. “Henry, do you know who this man is?”

“A player, it seems,” Northumberland said, disinterested. “And a jailbird,” he added in a more pointed tone, as though he'd decided the fact might be useful.

“He is Baron Thornleigh's son-in-law,” she declared. “The Viscountess Montague pointed him out at the playhouse.”

Northumberland turned to Owen, frowning now. Suspicion glinted in his eyes. “You're married to Thornleigh's daughter?”

“I am, my lord. But the baron has closed his doors to me.”

Doncaster made an effort to back his friend. “Little wonder, since his daughter married a common player. But that is hardly a crime.”

Damning me with faint praise,
Owen thought uneasily. “Not for that, my lord,” he said to Northumberland. “It was because he mistrusts my faith. The faith for which I was imprisoned.”

The earl and his wife stared at him. To speak of religion in front of so many people was dangerous, but Owen knew it was his best defense. Several of the men sitting nearest had clearly heard the countess's accusation. All these retainers the earl would trust—they were his friends, some were kinsmen, and most were probably secret Catholics themselves. Servants, however, were susceptible to bribes. The earl and his wife carried on in low tones.

“Do not listen to him, Henry,” she insisted quietly. “Thornleigh is one of the Queen's closest councillors and this man is one of his family. Do not trust him.”

“Well, I see that
you
do not.”

“Send him away. You can find a secretary anywhere.”

“No. I'll keep him.”

Relief coursed through Owen. “Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I assure you, I will pledge my heart and soul to your best interests.”

“Keep you in my lockup, I meant,” Northumberland growled. He stood and shouted, “Hastings!” He looked around. “Where's the marshal?”

“Here, my lord,” came the answer behind him.

Owen twisted around on the bench. A bear of a man was coming for him. Before he could get to his feet the man grabbed him.

“Clap him in irons, Hastings,” Northumberland said. “I'll come and question him.”

Owen's heart kicked. He might rot for months in the lockup, no way out, no way to alert Matthew. “My lord,” he said, “I swear you have no reason to doubt me. I have come to you because I am a poor man shunned for my faith and in need of a position, that is all.”

“Or a spy,” the countess hissed.

“Not so, my lady!” he protested. But Hastings, the marshal, hauled him off the bench. “My lord, question me here and now. You will find me true.”

“You're right, I
will
find the truth,” Northumberland said, sitting down again to his meal. “It'll come screaming out of you when you're swinging by your ankles.”

“My lord, this man is a guest!” Doncaster cried in horror. “He has come as my friend!”

“Arthur, you always were a fool. Take him away, Hastings.”

Owen dug in his heels in desperation. “Wait!” He had one last chance. “Her Ladyship speaks of spies. For a spy, my lord, look to your own household.”

Northumberland was sawing again at his slice of boar as everyone watched. “I do. Any here, man or woman, knows a disloyal word would cost them their tongue.”

The marshal was dragging Owen toward a side door. “Then there's one in your courtyard who should be mute!” Owen cried. “I know him for a spy.”

Northumberland glared at him, but his curiosity was evident. He held up his hand to halt Hastings. The marshal stopped, but still held Owen tightly.

“Name,” Northumberland demanded.

“I do not know his name, my lord.” Matthew's watchers used aliases. He preferred not to know their names. “He is a porter here. My age. Hair red like a fox. I saw him outside with the cart loading your kill.”

“Why, that's Rankin,” someone said.

Northumberland looked taken aback. The porter was his own spy. He regularly sent him to London to haunt the taverns around Whitehall where clerks of the royal council took refreshment—clerks with information about their masters. But the porter was also secretly in Matthew's employ. Matthew had recently discovered the man's double-dealing.

“Bah,” the countess scoffed. “Next he'll be accusing the milkmaids.”

Northumberland ignored her. “How do you know my porter?”

“From London, my lord. I have seen him going into Baron Thornleigh's house. Twice. Both times he came out pocketing something. Looked like a purse of coins.”

“You saw this yourself?”

“Yes.”

“How?” He narrowed his eyes. “You said Thornleigh's doors were closed to you.”

Owen felt the whole gathering watching him as if he were on trial for his life. He knew he was. “Before those doors closed, my lord. Before I was imprisoned for my faith.”

Northumberland considered this. He turned to a nearby retainer, a thick fellow with a mutilated ear that was ragged and red as raw meat. “Bring Rankin in.”

The man nodded to his seatmate and the two of them tramped out. Northumberland motioned the marshal to bring Owen back. This time the marshal took him around the end of the lower table and pushed him forward to stand before the earl as if before a judge. Northumberland sat down again, the table between them, and shoved plates out of his way. Owen watched him, feeling the countess's stern eyes on him.

Doncaster padded around to join Owen in a show of solidarity. “This is good,” he whispered in Owen's ear. “He can't abide a spy.”

The porter, Rankin, was led into the hall. The two retainers took him to where Owen stood: accuser and accused. Rankin looked wary, cagey, like a fox indeed. His clothes were streaked with the blood of the deer carcasses he'd been loading.

Northumberland blasted him with questions. Rankin's answers were swift and direct. Had he met with Thornleigh? Of course not. Met with some agent of Thornleigh's? No. Had he ever been to Thornleigh's house? Never. It went on for a few minutes, Northumberland never letting up, Rankin stoutly defending himself.