A Traitor's Tears (6 page)

Christina, however, said in a firm voice: ‘There are plenty of other things to talk about besides your little Harry. My little Anne, for instance! And if
anyone
says anything – anything hurtful – I shall start talking about the Massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve and Francis Walsingham's new anti-Catholic policy! That will drive every other subject of conversation out of sight. It always does. I still shudder when I remember our vicar telling us about the Massacre. I can't imagine what it can have been like. The terror those poor people must have felt!
Children
were murdered, because of what their parents believed! I can hardly bear to think of it. But I
will
think of it, and talk about it, if I have to. I won't let anybody upset you. My father won't stand for it, either.'

We were silent for a few moments. Somewhere, a blackbird called. It was such a beautiful morning and the garden where we were sharing a bench was beautiful, too. It had been enlarged since Christina and her husband, Thomas Ferris, had taken charge of it.

They had made many changes at White Towers since Thomas had inherited it. Once, it had been crammed with massive and elaborate furniture but much of this had been replaced by smaller things, in walnut instead of dark oak, and there were bright hangings in place of sombre ones. Thomas's mother, who still lived there, had welcomed the changes. When her husband was alive, she had had precious little say in anything.

The whole house, now, had an air of peaceful contentment. Perhaps, I thought, we
could
carry that with us to Cobbold Hall, and have a polite, peaceful visit. Preferably without discussing the French massacre, which might well distract Jane from me, but would hardly encourage an air of serenity.

It was still a frequent talking point, because of its effect on our own country. Francis Walsingham, now back at court, was fiercely determined not to allow Catholic influence to increase in England, and he had learned that Catholic priests from France were slipping into our realm in secret, to do what they called spreading the word and Walsingham called spreading sedition, and to gather funds, presumably in the hope of financing future plots. He had made it illegal for Catholics to seek converts, a move which had considerably strengthened his hand. The matter would outrank the subject of my little Harry, in any company.

‘Anyway, it's time I showed my parents how my little Anne is growing,' Christina said, pressing on. ‘She's well grown for seven months and Father was so delighted to have a granddaughter. We can all coo over her like a choir singing in tune. She's going to have a good complexion, if only she can avoid the smallpox.'

Christina herself had not avoided it, but the marks on her face were not as obvious now as they were immediately after the illness and she had learned some useful tricks. She dusted her skin with a powder made of ground up eggshells, and trained her beech-nut brown hair forward in front of her cap, to make a fringe over her pitted forehead. Her lovely dark eyes had been unharmed.

Thomas Ferris, who had been in love with her before her illness, stayed in love with her afterwards, as if her scars did not exist, and finally married her against her father's wishes. He had once remarked to me that, in a way, he was grateful for the scars, because they would have made it that much harder for Anthony Cobbold to find her someone else. ‘They gave him a good excuse to forgive us,' he told me.

‘Mistress Stannard,' Christina said persistently, considering her work with her head on one side, ‘I
wish
you'd say you'll come. Please. It could well be a first step towards putting everything right.'

I said obliquely: ‘Well, I haven't got Harry with me, which is fortunate because, no, I couldn't possibly take him to Cobbold Hall. Or Brockley either. Luckily, I brought Joseph as my groom today. Being our youngest groom, he doesn't get many outings and anyway, Brockley's doing an errand to Woking. According to Hawthorn, we're running out of salt and pepper – again! I tell him he uses them too much, and then he tells me that I wouldn't enjoy my meals so much if he didn't!'

Brockley had lately resumed going on errands to Woking and Guildford and, so far, nothing untoward had happened, which seemed hopeful. Perhaps a visit to Cobbold Hall would be safe.

‘Then you
will
come?' Christina said, pouncing. She stuck a needle into her work and put her reel of thread into her workbox.

She was obviously determined. ‘All right. But only for a very short visit.
Very
short.'

Thomas Ferris, whom I remembered as a youth under his father's thumb, but had now turned into a broad-shouldered young man with an air of consequence, suitable to a landowner with a wife and child, had come out of the house and was striding briskly towards us. ‘Thomas!' Christina called. ‘Mistress Stannard has said yes!'

It was a pleasant two-mile ride to Cobbold Hall, through narrow lanes fringed by hedgerows tangled with dogrose and honeysuckle, and banks submerged in tides of long grass and foaming cow parsley and starred with clover, dandelion, campion, St John's wort, the mauve-pink of valerian and the vivid blue of bellflowers. It was the season of abundance.

For most of the way, it was possible, just, for two to ride side by side so I rode with Christina, while Thomas, behind us, was alongside the quiet mule on which sat little Anne's nurse with the child in her arms. Joseph brought up the rear. Christina and I talked about my Harry and her Anne while we enjoyed the warmth of the sun on our faces.

It was impossible not to feel eased by such a golden afternoon. Jewel, moving gently beneath me, seemed contented, too. All would be well, I said to myself. There would be talk of harmless things. I would not stay long, and perhaps the unhappy breach between me and Jane would indeed begin to heal. Hadn't I been striving for that all along?

This agreeable tranquillity was somewhat disturbed when, arriving at Cobbold Hall and glancing through the archway to the stableyard, we could see a tall black horse being groomed out of doors. I was sure it wasn't a Cobbold horse. So was Christina.

‘Maybe there are guests,' she said doubtfully. ‘I don't recognize that black horse. Oh, dear. We may have chosen a bad day.'

‘Well, we're here now and we can't very well just turn round and ride away again,' said Thomas in practical tones. ‘Anyway, here comes our host. Good day to you, Father-in-Law.'

Anthony had appeared at the front door, waving away the butler who had opened it. He came down the steps towards us, looking pleased. ‘This is an agreeable surprise. Christina, my dear, why didn't you let us know you were coming today? You could have come earlier and dined with us.' He came to help me dismount. ‘Mistress Stannard, I am truly glad to see you here. It's been too long.' Then he cleared his throat and added in a low voice: ‘There is nothing to worry about. I assure you.'

He turned from me to embrace Christina and exclaim over the healthy looks of his granddaughter, while Thomas beamed on all of them. Grooms took our horses and they and Joseph went off with them to the stableyard while the rest of us found ourselves being steered up the steps and into the house.

‘But it seems as though you already have visitors,' Thomas said as we went into the parlour. ‘I hope we're not going to put you out.'

‘By no means.' Anthony went to the table, where there was a trayload of glasses and wine flasks. ‘There are clean glasses here,' said Anthony. ‘Let me help you to wine. We did have two guests at dinner but one of them has already left. Sir Edward Heron came to dine today and Roland Wyse was here as well because he had come into Surrey with some message or other for Heron, from Francis Walsingham's office – he's in Walsingham's department again now. He caught up with Sir Edward here and joined us for the meal. But then he said he couldn't stay but must set off back to London, and took his leave. He seemed to be in a hurry. He was in quite a panic because he hadn't been able to find Sir Edward at once – as if he felt he might be blamed for it, though it wasn't his fault in the least.'

‘From various things I've heard, I expect working for Francis Walsingham is demanding,' Thomas remarked.

‘I daresay. Wyse did seem harassed. Maybe he had to set out at short notice, because he was riding alone. He usually has a couple of men with him as an escort,' said Anthony.

‘I've met Roland Wyse,' Thomas remarked. ‘Indeed, I met him here, Father-in-Law, only last month, did I not? He had an escort then. But I suspected it was there to show off his importance. I can't say I took to him.'

‘Whyever not?' said Anthony in surprise.

‘Just because I think he shows off. I can believe he wouldn't like anyone to think he couldn't carry out an errand on time! I've gathered from that cottager, Jack Jarvis, that Wyse always gives him alms when he comes this way. Jarvis is grateful but if you ask me, it's just another way of making sure he shows up well.'

I looked at Thomas in surprise, for he wasn't usually waspish. It seemed clear that the dislike he had taken to Roland Wyse had been not only instant, but intense. I said nothing, however, because Anthony looked annoyed and I didn't want to annoy him further. Even though, privately, I rather agreed with Thomas.

‘Personally,' Anthony said testily, ‘I find Mr Wyse rather good company. He is very much a man of today, of course. He insists on being called Mr instead of Master, in the modern fashion. But there's no harm in that. He always tips the groom who looks after his horse. I think that's a virtue and shouldn't be a cause for criticism.'

‘Well, well. You may be right,' said Thomas pacifically, having caught Christina's eye.

We had just finished our wine, when Sir Edward Heron came into the parlour. He had a letter in his hand, which he was reading as he pushed the door open. He folded it when he saw us, and bowed politely. He was a tall, lean man who actually bore a resemblance to his surname, because of his long legs and neck, his sharp aquiline nose which really did have a faintly yellowish tinge, and the keenness of his grey eyes. Sir Edward Heron was a man of integrity but he was also a fanatical Protestant who believed in and loathed witchcraft to a dangerous degree. He had accused me of it once. However, his presence might help to ensure that Jane, when we met, would be polite. She wouldn't want to display bad manners before the Sheriff of the County. I wondered where she was, having seen no sign of her as yet.

‘Roland Wyse was chasing me round Surrey with this,' he said, flicking the letter at us. ‘And making a great to-do about it though the matter isn't that urgent. There are a couple of prisoners in Lewes gaol, French priests suspected of attempting to convert honest Protestants, who Francis Walsingham wants brought to London. They were arrested in Surrey. We only keep short-term prisoners in Guildford Castle these days; the rest go to Lewes.'

‘Francis Walsingham is still hot in pursuit of priestly invaders, then,' Thomas said.

‘Very much so.' Heron folded the letter away in his doublet and sat down on the nearest seat. ‘And rightly. These intruders are dangerous. Probably more dangerous than the schemes laid by romantic Florentine bankers and ambitious noblemen dreaming of becoming royal consorts. These young priests are trained in the arts of seducing others and talking money out of them, and creating networks. Though,' he added, ‘they might be less of a menace if Mary Stuart's lifetime could be cut short!'

‘I doubt if the queen will ever agree to that,' Anthony said.

I found this subject no pleasanter than the French massacre. I said to Anthony: ‘We should pay our respects to Mistress Jane. Where is she?'

‘She went out after dinner,' he said. ‘To see that cottager, Jarvis. I saw her come back a little while ago but she went straight into the garden – I think to check on the weeding the gardeners have been doing. She's still there. She keeps the gardeners very much in order, you know. They regard her as a slave-driver; I've overheard one of them saying so. He didn't know I'd heard, of course. I didn't mention it. He may have had a point.'

It occurred to me that if Anthony Cobbold really had taken his wife to task for encouraging her servants to be rude to mine, it was a rare event. He probably didn't like giving orders to Jane. The fact that the old, and at one time very bitter, feud between the Cobbold and Ferris families had now died away completely, no doubt owed something to Anthony's essentially peaceable nature.

‘Christina and I ought to go out into the garden to find her,' I said.
And get it over
. ‘Christina?'

‘Of course.' Christina, who had been rocking Anne on her knee, rose, handing her daughter to the nurse. ‘Mary, you come with us and bring Anne with you. It's a lovely afternoon for a saunter out of doors.'

If Jane had been slave-driving the gardeners, the result justified her for the garden was a delight. It was L-shaped, extending round two sides of the house, and though it was a knot garden, it wasn't rigidly patterned. The beds were laid out in a casual way, as though someone had shaken them like dice and then cast them on the ground to fall where they would. The effect was charming, and just now, the place was at its best, for here, too, it was the season of abundance.

On the sides away from the house, the garden was bounded by walls of weathered brick that supported climbing roses and an espaliered pear tree. Soft, grassy paths wound here and there, low hedges of box and lavender sweetened the air. There was one whole bed of heartsease in a variety of colours: yellow, purple and velvety red. A big triangular patch was full of sunflowers and hollyhocks. There was a display of marigolds in a riotous tangle that spilt on to the pathway, wallflowers in a glorious mix of yellows and dark reds, and framing them, by way of contrast, the slim blue spires of larkspur. There wasn't a weed to be seen as far as I could tell and the grass paths had been scythed to a perfect smoothness.