The Traitor's Daughter (25 page)

She roused him and told him they were staying. When he went inside with their satchels Kate tried to bend her distracted mind to the crisis.

What were these men plotting? The leader, Captain Fortescue, had ties to Morgan. Morgan was Mary's agent in Paris with ties to Westmorland. And Westmorland, Kate believed from Morgan's decoded letter, was planning an invasion. And Mary? How did she fit into an invasion plan? She was less than two miles away from this very spot. Delivering letters to her did not require the five men here . . . but organizing her rescue would. Were they coordinating the two operations: invasion and rescue?

Yet, there seemed to be
three
operations. Harkness—Lord Henry—smuggled letters from Mary's correspondents in to her and her replies out to Castelnau. That was the only mission that was clear. The second was whatever Fortescue was planning, perhaps Mary's rescue—in any case some scheme that Robert said he had originally led himself. But now he said he had a
new
mission. What was it?

Three words he had said swarmed her like hornets:
Mother is wise.
He had lied to the councillors in claiming Mother had no connection to Westmorland and later Kate had accepted his explanation. She had thought then:
Westmorland was once kind to Mother, that's all.
But was there more to it, something Robert was hiding? Had Mother maintained her connection with Westmorland all these years?
Is Mother, too, implicated in this plot?

Father,
she thought with a pang.
Robert gulled him just as he gulled me.
The horror and humiliation cut so deep, she could have wept. Robert had even persuaded Father to let him visit Northumberland under the guise of delivering an invitation and thus sounding out the peer's loyalty. A boldly clever ploy by Robert. What had he and Northumberland discussed? Her brother's web of deceit was staggering!

Robert. Mother. Northumberland. Westmorland. Mary. The names, each one more ominous, sounded in her head like death knells.

She had to get word to Matthew. Immediately. The fate of England could depend on stopping this cabal.

Tell Matthew . . . and then what? These men would be arrested. Taken to London. Interrogated to divulge their plot and reveal who gave them orders. Would Robert talk? Kate had seen his fierce determination. If he refused to talk he would be tortured. His thumbs crushed. Joints ripped on the rack. His body cramped to paralysis in the Tower's terrifying chamber known as Little Ease. His suffering would be horrible. Kate imagined his screams. Worse, whether he revealed information or not he could still be tried and hanged.

She shuddered. Standing in the warm sunshine, she had never felt so cold. How could she send her own brother to his death? Despite her shock and disgust at what he was doing, despite her fury at him, she felt in the deepest part of herself that he did not deserve to die. She knew him. He was not evil. As a child he had been turned onto an evil path by the people who had raised him, indoctrinating him with their poison. Mother. It was she who had perverted the boy's gentle nature. She had made her son a traitor.

And deeper still, so deep it had eaten into Kate's heart, was her guilt from the night she had left him, a child of nine, crying outside the burning house in Brussels. Had abandoned him. Left him behind. Rational it might not be, she knew that, but strong within her was the terrible sense that Robert had become what he had because of her.
I didn't do everything I could to get him out. I grew up here, happy with Father, while he was left to Mother.

She looked up at the sky.
What am I to do?
Clouds scudded overhead like abandoned ships. Watching them, she felt it was
she
who was moving, flung into the vastness, adrift. Her aunt's voice sounded in her head.
Sometimes we have to make hard choices. Sometimes a higher loyalty is necessary. For the good of all. For England.

She had meant that Kate should distance herself from Owen for his faith, unaware that her warning on that score was unnecessary. How benign that choice seemed compared to the horrifying one Kate faced now. Her country . . . or her brother's life?

She felt a lash of panic. There was no time for vacillating. She had to choose.

17

Matthew

K
ate reached London after four days of muddy roads through snow-speckled shires and bad food at roadside inns, and arrived with saddle sores and a stiff back. Her physical aches were nothing compared to her mental distress. She was no closer to a decision about Robert than she had been the morning she had left him at Sheffield.

Riding in through Bishopsgate she sent Soames on to her grandmother's house while she continued south to Matthew's lodging. Londoners bustled around her engrossed in their day-to-day lives: buying, selling, carting, carrying, gossiping, arguing. Kate felt sadly cut off from them. Never would they have to make the terrible choice she faced. To denounce her brother meant abandoning him to torture, perhaps death. To keep silent might endanger England.

But there was no avoiding Matthew Buckland. He was back in London and she had to deliver Mary's letters to him. Harkness—Lord Henry—had visited Sheffield Manor, where Mary's maid had secretly passed the letters to him, and he had brought them back to the cutler's workshop in a black leather pouch. Robert himself had packed the pouch in Kate's saddlebag as she had mounted her horse. Looking up at her in the saddle he had squeezed her knee and wished her a safe journey.

“God keep you, Kate,” he had said, affection shining in his eyes.

She turned onto Cornhill and passed the London Exchange, bustling with merchants and lawyers coming and going, then carried on along Cheapside, thronged as usual with people and wagons, donkey carts and dogs. Outside the Mermaid Tavern two scruffy men and a haggard-faced woman were locked in the pillories, people ignoring them as they passed by. Precious wares gleamed in the windows of the goldsmiths' shops. She remembered a winter morning when she was seven, holding Robert's hand, both of them excited at visiting Chastelain's shop on Goldsmith Row with Father. He had brought them along on his excursion to order a Christmas gift for their mother, one of his attempts to make peace at home. With a child's scant understanding of her parents' relationship, Kate had sensed only the truce between them and was giddily happy about it. Five-year-old Robert had picked up her mood and they'd stood giggling while Father gave the goldsmith his specifications for a brooch set with rubies.

“Roodies,” Robert whispered to Kate, stifling a giggle, and they had both burst out laughing.

Kate winced, remembering. The following summer Mother had committed treason and fled with her and Robert.

She put these memories behind her as she reached Matthew's lodging on St. Peter's Hill. Clear thinking, not tangled emotions—that's what she needed now.

“He came in late last night,” said Madame Mercier, puffing as she mounted the stairs with Kate behind her. “What a fuss in the darkness,
quel bruit,
him and his clerks tramping in with their coffers of papers.” She indicated the third floor with a disinterested wave as she carried on down a hallway. “Go on up, madam. He is there.”

Matthew answered the knock at his door, an ink-stained handkerchief in his hand. “Ah, Kate! Glad I am to see you. Welcome home.”

She thought he looked tired after his own journeying, his face drawn as he eyed her from his familiar head-bent posture.

“You must be glad to be home yourself,” she said. “Irish troubles are never easy.”

“You speak truly.” His look was grim as he stuffed the handkerchief into his sleeve. “Her Majesty is beset by danger on all sides. Spain and the pope are not content to threaten her from the east so they stir up the wild Irish to menace her from the west. Come in, come in.” He motioned to the chairs in front of the cold hearth. Kate saw that the table there was strewn with papers, and two open coffers of documents lay beneath the table. “What news from Sheffield?” he asked. “Have you just returned?”

“Yes. Just now.”

He looked at her so closely, she was sure he must see the anxiety tormenting her. “Good heavens, you came straight to me? No rest at all?”

“I wanted to report to you right away.”

“Well, I commend you for that, though I am sorry for your pains. I trust you made the delivery?”

“I did. And have brought back Mary's replies.” She withdrew the pouch from the inside pocket of her cloak. “Here.”

His eyes gleamed as he took it from her. “My God, Kate, you have done well.” Untying the pouch's drawstring, he called to his servant in the bedchamber, “Caruthers!” Then, to Kate, “I'll send him to fetch Gregory and the copyists. We'll get to it right away.”

“Yes, good.” It wouldn't take long for them to get here. They all lived nearby.

“While we wait you can give me a full report,” he added.

Kate glanced away to hide her agitation.

“Is the man deaf?” Matthew muttered when no response came from his servant. Impatient to see the pouch's contents, he thrust his hand inside it and pulled out the packet of letters. They were wrapped in white linen and tied with twine. Kate wasn't sure how many letters there were—Matthew's instructions had been to keep the packet intact, wrappings and all—but from the size and weight of it she thought there were perhaps four or five. Matthew took scissors from the mantel and snipped the twine. He tossed it and the linen wrapping on the table. Letters in hand, he scowled at his bedchamber door and called impatiently again, “Caruthers!” No response. Shaking his head, Matthew shoved the letters back into the pouch and handed it to Kate. “Please, take it in,” he said with a nod toward the workroom. He headed for the bedchamber.

Kate went into the workroom and set the pouch on one of the desks. She unfastened her cloak and hung it on a hook. Within moments Matthew would expect her report. How much should she tell him? Never had she felt such agonizing indecision.

She heard Caruthers rush out and slam the door. Matthew came to the workroom doorway. “Kate, come back and sit down. Have some wine and tell me all. Did you have any difficulty in Sheffield?”

She followed him to the chairs by the hearth. “No.” She sat. “It all went smoothly.”

He poured a goblet of wine and handed it to her. “You made the rendezvous with the contact, this man Harkness?”

“Yes.” She took a swallow. Sweet malmsey. She swallowed more, trying to order her thoughts. “And some other men with him.”

“Ah. Who?”

“One they call Captain Fortescue.”

His eyes widened. “Morgan's man!”

“Yes.”

He sat in the chair beside her and pulled it close so they were knee to knee. “You spoke to him?”

“Briefly.”

“What's he doing in Sheffield?”

“I don't know. I asked as many questions as I dared, but I could not find out. I did see, though, that they were studying a map.”

“Of what?”

“I could not make it out.” She decided to venture her opinion. “I wonder if they might be planning an attack on Sheffield Manor to free Mary.”

He mulled this, his eyes still on her, but made no reply. She knew that previous attempts by Mary's supporters to free her had been uncovered and prevented.

“Who else was there?” he asked.

Avoiding that answer, she said, “Harkness is the one who takes the letters in to Mary at the Manor and brings out her replies.”

“How? How does he circumvent Shrewsbury's people?”

“He doesn't. Shrewsbury welcomes him as a guest. Harkness is not his real name. He is Henry Alward, son of the Marquis of Craddock.”

Matthew listened keenly as she explained how the son was betraying his loyal father's position behind his back. “Well, well,” he said, digesting it. “This is good to know. How did you find out?”

She swirled the wine in her goblet, pretending detachment. “They told me. They trust me.” She looked up. “I explained who I am, you see. I thought it worth the risk, and it was. They think it's wonderful to have Lord Thornleigh's daughter on their side.”

Even as she told the lie she knew it was still possible to follow it with the truth: that it was Robert who had told her about Alward, Robert who had confided in her. But she could not pry that truth from her heart. It had taken refuge there like a criminal claiming the sanctuary of a church. If only she knew which was worse, truth or lies! Which duty bound her the most—family or country?

“Did you get any other names?” Matthew asked.

“One they called Timms. A cutler. It was his workshop we met in. Another is a young man they call Townsend. Of course, those may be aliases.”

He shook his head, pondering. “They're not names I've heard before.”

“No. Nor I.”

“That's four. How many more were there?”

Here was the crisis.
One more. My brother.
She looked at Matthew, struggling for an answer. Aunt Isabel's words again swept through her mind:
Sometimes we have to make hard choices that go beyond ourselves. For the good of all.

“Forgive me, Kate,” he said, his voice suddenly gentle. “I can see it's been an ordeal for you. And you're weary from the road. And like an oaf I've barraged you with questions.” His smile was apologetic. “That's no way to treat my valuable agent. Drink up now, and rest a bit. Then, as soon as the copyists get to work, you and I can continue.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed the last of her wine, avoiding his eyes.

He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes shining with admiration. “I'll admit, I was worried about you. I wondered if I'd been wrong to send you there, into danger. But, by God, you've done well. You're magnificent.”

She felt far from it! “Tell me, did you hear from Owen at Petworth while I was away?”

He leaned back. Looked down. “I've had two reports, yes.”

“Anything significant?”

He shook his head. Kate knew he would not give her details, but she longed for even a scrap of news about Owen. “Is the source he developed still cooperating?”

He got to his feet. “He confirms that is the case. More wine?”

She shook her head. They fell silent, waiting for the others to arrive. Matthew busied himself, looking through papers. Kate sat thinking of Robert. Of that night in Brussels, the fire, the cries of men around her, her father carrying her outside to safety. She remembered seeing, through the smoke, her mother pushing Robert up to a soldier on horseback, the soldier grabbing the weeping boy, then turning his mount and disappearing into the smoky night.
I escaped. Left Robert behind.

Footsteps sounded beyond the door. Matthew opened it and the first copyist tramped in. Matthew sent him to the workroom. Within fifteen minutes the others had arrived: four more copyists and Arthur Gregory, carrying his box of tools with which he would remove the letters' seals and, after the contents had been copied, close them again with engraved counterfeit seals. Last to arrive was Thomas Phelippes, Kate's fellow decoder. One by one they greeted her and she returned the greeting and they all carried on into the workroom. Matthew stayed behind in the main room, giving Caruthers instructions about procuring food and drink. It was going to be another long session.

Kate picked up the leather pouch of letters as the copyists got settled at their desks and quietly chatted with each other, arranging their pens and penknives, their ink pots and paper.

“Been riding, Mistress Lyon?” Phelippes asked Kate pleasantly.

She followed his gaze to her shoes and noticed the soles were rimmed with mud. The hem of her skirt, too, was spattered with dried mud flaking off. “Through a bog, it must look like, Master Phelippes,” she acknowledged wryly.

They watched Gregory set out his wares: the small knives with fine blades, the tweezers, the engraving implements, the knobs of sealing wax in various colors, the spoon and stubby candle.

Knowing that Matthew would want to begin without delay, Kate withdrew the letters from the pouch. Five in all. She shuffled them, scanning the inscriptions: Thomas Morgan . . . Cardinal Beaton . . . Sir Francis Englefield . . . another for Morgan . . . one for Marion Forbes. The last name sounded new to Kate. The others were all known agents of Mary's abroad, but Marion Forbes was not. And yet, as she moved forward to hand Gregory the letters, something about the name quivered a string of memory. Where had she heard it before? The recollection was vague, elusive, like a clutch of notes in a forgotten song.

“Master Gregory, are you ready?” she asked.

“One moment.” He was meticulously laying out the last of his small knives.

The copyists went on chatting, arranging their papers. Phelippes took a seat, relaxing until his services at decoding would be required. He leaned back, watching Gregory.

Kate watched, too, waiting, and that's when the memory jolted into sudden clarity. Robert's voice. In the clerk's office when she had confronted him with his lie. He was sent, he had confessed—sent by Mother and her two friends. “Hangers-on of the Countess of Westmorland,” he had said. “One's an old priest. The other is his cousin, a merchant's widow.”

“Their names, Robert.”

“Thomas Crick. And Marion Forbes.”

Kate stared at the inscription—Marion Forbes—transfixed by the handwriting. Her heart thumped. She recognized that flourish in the
F.
Recognized the unclosed tops of the
O
s. Recognized the very pressure that made the looping letters so bold.

Her right hand moved quickly, lowering the letter, hiding it in the folds of her skirt. She had done it without thinking, a reflex too swift for thought. No one had noticed. The copyists were chuckling over a jest. Phelippes picked a speck of something off his sleeve. Gregory had laid out all his tools. He looked up at Kate. “Ready, Mistress Lyon.”