A Traitor's Tears (13 page)

In the days when I regularly carried out perilous assignments for the queen, I had adopted the fashion of wearing an overdress with a skirt open in front to reveal a pretty kirtle, and inside all my open skirts, I had stitched pouches in which I could carry useful items. Such as picklocks and a small dagger, and usually some money as well. But in the serenity of domestic life, I had ceased to equip myself thus. I still wore the open skirts, since I liked the fashion, but my new ones had no pouches for I no longer needed such things as weapons and picklocks, and could put money into an ordinary girdle purse.

At least, until now. But on the previous night, I had sat up late to stitch a pouch into the spare skirt I was taking, and asked Dale to look out an old one for travelling – one that had a pouch in it anyway. And I had looked out my dagger and the key ring on which hung the slim steel hooks which were my means of getting through locked doors and into other people's document boxes.

‘I'm equipped as I used to be, Brockley,' I said. ‘Just in case.'

‘I guessed you might be.' said Brockley. ‘We really are going hunting, are we not?'

It was a long ride. On the first day, we reached London and crossed the Thames at London Bridge, wanting to get as far as we could as quickly as we could and bypassing the well-known and comfortable George Inn south of the Thames. We finally halted at an inn just beyond London, for we were all tired, including the horses. The Boar wasn't a good hostelry, for its customers were scruffy and its food was inferior, and Brockley, watching a mouse dart across the grimy straw-strewn cobbles of its main public room, said that even the mice must be desperate for sustenance; look at the poor thing, risking itself among the all those clumsy booted feet, in case somebody dropped a few crumbs. However, it was the only hostelry for miles. We spent the night there.

Next morning, we rose early but it was more than forty-five miles to Colchester and we took two days over it. One can't go all that fast with a pillion rider in the party. Another two days took us to somewhere called Saxmundham and a further day brought us to the coast, and a place called Lowestoft. As we rode in, we were greeted by the salt smell of the sea, mingled with a strong odour of fish. And there to our right was the North Sea, grey-blue under a patchwork sky, with a bristle of fishing boat masts in the harbour.

There were narrow lanes which at first confused us and we had to turn back from one passageway that only led to the top of some steep and dangerous looking steps down to the harbour. Eventually, we found our way to where there were such things as a church and an inn, and drew rein.

‘We must be near the Norfolk border by now,' I said. ‘Let's make enquiries.'

‘I could do with a tankard of ale,' said Brockley. ‘Let's try the inn first. Landlords always know where every place of note or important family can be found, within twenty miles.'

The stableyard of the inn wasn't busy. Brockley gave sharp orders to the ostler, and then we all went inside, taking our saddlebags; one can never be quite sure that there are no light fingers among strange grooms. We found that though the stables were quiet, the inn was busy, mostly with fishermen who had been at sea long enough to acquire a hearty thirst. The landlord was a small, bustling man, out of breath from trying to look after them all. He waved at a barmaid to attend to our wants, and we were soon supplied with ale, but it took longer to persuade him to pause beside us long enough to answer a simple question.

When we finally managed it, what he told us was depressing. We were close to the Norfolk border but we were over thirty miles from Kenninghall and had come in by quite the wrong road. We would have to travel westwards and we'd better keep to the main track that went through places called Bungay and Diss, because there were a tidy lot of marshes and pools and what have you, all about this district. ‘But the road, she do run alongside a river but she's a proper road and won't land you in a bog, or not unless we have a heavy rainfall like the one last year …'

‘After Diss,' said Brockley, firmly interrupting, ‘what then?'

‘Oh, there's a track, sharp right, after six, seven miles; can't say exactly. Leastways, I think so, but ask in Diss. All that's a way out of my district and if you'll excuse me, I've a dozen things to see to and there's Tom Brothers waving his tankard at me for a refill …'

‘Can we stay here tonight?' I said swiftly, getting in before the landlord could escape again.

‘What? Oh, certainly, certainly; my wife sees to all that, I'll send her to you.'

With that, he was off and we sat sipping our ale and wondering if he really would find time to despatch his wife to look after us.

However, he did, and after a short time, she came to find us. She was a large woman though quick on her feet and with an amiable smile. Oh, yes, we could stay. All these folk, they were local, just brought the catch home and sold it straight away. There was fresh fish on the menu for supper and if we'd finished our ale, she'd show us what rooms there were, though customers' grooms slept over the stables. She was an experienced landlady and had instantly classified Joseph, though she was prepared to grant Brockley the status of manservant.

‘If we start out early, we may get there tomorrow,' I said, as we put our tankards aside and rose to follow her.

‘I wouldn't make a wager on it,' said Brockley. ‘I don't like the sound of all those marshes and pools.'

We didn't get there the next day because Brockley was quite right. The road was a muddy track, which looked as if it had undergone changes over the years, probably because the numerous patches of water had done the same thing. There were frequent forks, and three times, we took the wrong branch and found it petering out at the edge of a bog or the rim of a pool.

Just to make everything even better, during the first afternoon, the warm sun vanished behind clouds and down came the rain. Cloaks were hastily donned, and hoods pulled over heads. All paths became deep in mud, seemingly within minutes. Dale complained that her cloak seemed to be absorbing the rain like a sponge instead of protecting her, and she was afraid she'd take cold.

She had some justification, for all our cloaks were heavy with wet and our horses were muddied to their girths by the time we reached the village called Diss. However, we did find a hostelry there, which provided hot food and mulled wine and rooms where we could change our clothes. Joseph and Brockley spent a long time in the stable, cleaning the mud off our horses' legs and out of their hooves. In the morning, we set off on the last stage of our journey.

By midday we were there. ‘At last!' I said, as we jogged through what proved to be a substantial village or small market town, with reed-thatched cottages and a sizeable church, built of grey stone, with a squat medieval tower. The rain had ceased during the night and the road through the village was wide and fairly dry. We halted in the middle.

‘Where now?' Brockley said. ‘Is this Kenninghall? Where's the Duke of Norfolk's house?'

‘I don't know,' I said. ‘But we're not going there, of course. We're looking for Wyse's home – well, it will be his mother's home – that's supposed to be close to it. Let's try the vicar of that church.'

We couldn't at first work out which house was likely to be the vicarage, so we dismounted, tied our horses to the churchyard fence, and went into the church itself. We were in luck because we found the vicar inside it. Indeed, we almost fell over him, for he was down on hands and knees just inside the door, apparently searching for something on the floor. He looked up, blinking, as we walked in.

‘Good day. I'm sorry to be caught in this undignified manner. I've dropped my eyeglasses. Please don't shift your feet about in case you step on them. They've never fitted my nose so very well,' he explained, coming carefully to his own feet. ‘They're too big and they fell off while I was looking to see if the place had been properly dusted. I was stooping, you see, and they just slid off and now I can hardly see anything.'

He was a thin and elderly man whose dark clerical gown looked as though it needed dusting as much as the church. His thin-bridged nose clearly wasn't ideal for keeping eyeglasses in place, and his pale blue eyes didn't look very fit for their purpose either. He gazed round him in a helpless manner.

‘Excuse me,' said Brockley. ‘I can see them.' He leant down and retrieved the glasses from the floor within a few inches of the vicar's feet. ‘Here they are, sir.'

‘Thank you!' Their relieved owner seized them, planted them on his nose in a forceful manner, as much as to say
Stay there, confound you!
and then said: ‘What can I do for you? I am Dr Herbert Yonge, though I'm not the vicar of St Mary's in the parish of Kenninghall which is where you are now. The vicar's ill and I have been dragged out of my peaceful retired life in Diss to look after St Mary's till he recovers. If you need help of any kind, I'll do my best though I don't know this parish well. Before I retired, I had a living near Norwich.'

I felt discouraged but Brockley said: ‘If this is Kenninghall, then somewhere in the village lives a Mistress Wyse who has a son called Roland. Her son may be visiting her and we need to see him. Do you by any chance know of her?'

‘Mistress Agnes Wyse? Oh, yes, she helps to dust the church sometimes.' Dr Yonge spoke in slightly disparaging tones. ‘Her son has been here lately. He has a post at court, I believe, and she's very proud of him. He's left for London now, I think. I know because of speaking to his mother when she was dusting. I can't claim to know her well and I've never actually met her son. Or anyone here. East Anglians tend to be a race apart, you know,' he added gloomily. ‘Descended from Danish Vikings, most of them, I believe. I was born in Bedfordshire myself.'

‘We've missed Roland Wyse, then,' I said. ‘However, we can still call on Mistress Wyse.' I glanced at the others. ‘He may have talked to her – at least we can enquire.' I turned back to Dr Yonge. ‘Can you tell us where she lives? And is there an inn in the village?'

‘You want lodgings? The White Hart will take you in, I daresay. As for Mistress Wyse, yes, I can point out her house to you. Let me show you.'

He led the way to the door, and pointed to his right.

‘There it is – that big house with the beech tree in the front garden. The inn's a little further on. You can't miss it.'

We thanked him and on impulse, because he seemed somehow forlorn, with his bad eyesight and dusty gown, I gave him a few coins for the church. ‘To pay for some extra dusting, or to relieve the poor,' I said, and for the first time, he smiled, which made his face unexpectedly youthful. He wasn't truly forlorn, I thought, only unhappy at being summoned from a quiet retirement to resume what had probably been a tiring career spent ministering to a wayward flock whose ancestors had been ruthless invaders, arriving in longships with dragon prows.

We went to the inn first, to arrange rooms for the night and take a quick midday meal. It was quite a big place, with public rooms on the ground floor, and bedchambers upstairs, leading off a gallery with a balustrade and a sheltering roof. Outside stairs led up to either end.

The rooms were spacious and clean, which pleased us. We didn't trouble to ask for a full dinner, but took a quick meal of fresh bread, cheese and ham washed down with small ale. Then, leaving our horses in the stable with their noses in their mangers (after so much journeying, they were no doubt thankful to stay put for a change) we set off on foot to the house with the beech tree in the garden. It was a sizeable house, with steps up to an iron-studded oak front door which had an iron knocker in the shape of a lion's head. There was a first floor above and then three dormer windows, presumably attic windows, poking out of the thatch.

Brockley plied the lion's head briskly and the door was opened by a tall girl with a broom in one hand, although she didn't look like a maidservant. Her brown dress had no farthingale but it was of good material and she wore jewellery too, a necklace and earrings of amber and silver.

‘Is Mistress Agnes Wyse at home?' I enquired. ‘My name is Ursula Stannard. My companions are my servants, Roger Brockley and his wife, Mistress Brockley. I had hoped to see Mistress Wyse's son but I understand that he's no longer here. A strange situation has arisen at court that he may help to resolve. However, Mistress Wyse may also be able to help. Can we see her?'

‘I expect so,' said the girl. ‘I am Blanche Lockyer, her cousin. Do come in.'

We stepped inside. From a room on the left, a woman's voice called: ‘Who is it, Blanche?'

‘Visitors from court. A Mistress Stannard and her servants,' said Blanche, putting her head round a partly open door. The woman inside said: ‘Well, bring them in, then,' and Blanche pushed the door wide open. We trooped after her into a pretty parlour, curtained in amber velvet, with matching wool rugs on the floor, embroidered cushions, and honey-coloured panelling. There were two portraits, one on either side of the hearth. I glanced at them with interest, but by then the lady who had been seated by the window with an embroidery frame had risen to welcome us and I transferred my attention to her.

Indeed, I studied her with care. If she were Roland's mother, she must be well into her forties at the least, but although she could not exactly be called beautiful, her complexion was smooth, and her blue eyes were pleasingly set and her nose had a pretty tilt at its tip. She was not expensively dressed but the blue linen gown had been carefully chosen to match her smiling eyes and her ruff, though unfashionably small, was pristine and edged with silver thread. She was slightly built and a big ruff would have overwhelmed her. I wore restrained ruffs myself, considering the big ones to be ungainly.

She had silver earrings and a heavy silver chain as jewellery, and a cap embroidered in silver to go with the edging of the ruff. The light red hair that rose in smooth waves in front of it showed no sign of grey. She had kept her looks well enough to belie her years, and yet had an air of maturity. It gave her an aura both of charm and mystery.