Queen's Ransom (12 page)

True, I sometimes felt sorry for Dale. Dale should have been married early and settled into a home of her own where she could rear a family and devote herself to stillroom and linen cupboard. Brockley had given her marriage, but the life they led with me was completely unnatural to her. No wonder she sometimes found me incomprehensible.

Brockley, though, should have known better. He respected me, both as an employer and also as one of Cecil’s agents, for I had proved myself in that capacity and he well knew it. But Brockley had grown up with certain attitudes about ladies. He considered, at heart, that we should be protected at all times. He deplored my insistence that both Dale and I should have our own mounts, instead of riding respectably on a man’s pillion. He never forgot that he was the manservant and I paid his wages, but he also believed that as he was a man and I wasn’t, I ought to attend to his advice.

He had advised me against coming back to St. Marc and been ignored; now he was hardly prepared to listen to my explanations about Le Cheval d’Or at all.

“I don’t want to speak out of turn in any way, madam . . .”

“I’m sure you don’t, Brockley.” He always said something like that before speaking very thoroughly out of turn. It was a reliable prelude to criticism.

“. . . but have you forgotten, madam, that the landlord of that inn threatened to kill you?”

“He didn’t know who I was. He was protecting Matthew de la Roche. But he won’t harm me if Matthew himself is there to vouch for me. I’m going there to meet my husband.”

They stared at me. Dale’s jaw sagged. A frown creased Brockley’s high forehead.

“To . . . meet . . . ?” Dale began.

“Yes. I’ve had a letter.”

I didn’t produce it. It was in French, anyway, and neither of them could have understood it. But if I wanted to quote it from memory, I could, for I could remember every word of the few letters Matthew had sent me.

To my wife, Ursula:

Greetings. I have heard that you are in France, in fact at St. Marc, and asking after me. If you had not asked after me, nothing would have made me write to you. But you did ask, and I know that although you abandoned me last year, you also did your best to save my life and that I might have been taken but for you. You still have some feeling for me, it seems.

And now you are here in France and inquiring after my health. I ask myself what this means. Why have you come to my country at this time of trouble? Do you wish to see me? If so, I will be at Le Cheval d’Or, using the name of Mark Lenoir, from sixth April to the morning of the tenth.
Charpentier knows who I really am. It was from him that I learned of your visit to St. Marc and that you are going onto a place called Douceaix. I am sending this letter by way of Le Cheval d’Or. If you have already left, Charpentier will send a messenger after you. Do you wish to see me, my Saltspoon? If so, come.

Matthew de la Roche

“It could be a trick,” said Brockley. “That’s happened before.”

“I know.” I had once been fooled in the past, by a forged letter purporting to come from Matthew. “But this is no forgery,” I said. “The writing is his. It looked odd, that other time, and this does not. Also, it uses a . . . a secret name that he has for me.”

“He could have told someone else about that,” said Brockley. “Master Blanchard, perhaps. Master Blanchard’s been behaving very oddly.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Oh, my father-in-law may know of Matthew’s existence. Ryder and his men know, and Cecil may have told Master Blanchard as well. But whatever it is Master Blanchard is up to—and yes, I fear he may well be up to something—I can’t see that it’s connected to this.

“I don’t wish to pry, but I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you two have secret, private names for each other, names whispered only in the dark. Would you tell anyone else about them?”

Dale went pink and Brockley cleared his throat. “No, madam. No. I see.”

Saltspoon.
Matthew had named me that because of my sharp tongue. He liked it, he said, because he liked a little salt on his dinner. That first forged letter had not used the name. Its presence this time was a seal of authenticity.

“So,” I said, “I repeat. I wish to go to the inn this evening with you as escort, Brockley. We may hope to find Matthew there.”

“And how,” said Brockley, capitulating but with obviously bad grace, “will you explain to Mistress Helene why you aren’t at supper?”

“Helene,” I said, “is all taken up with her old friends and her confessor. If she asks—or if any of the men ask—Dale can say that I am tired and remaining in my room. The men will not intrude and I doubt, frankly, whether Helene will notice whether I’m here or not!”

We left at dusk to walk across the cobbled square to the inn. There was a surprisingly raucous noise from the quarters of the abbey retainers, and I waited until it had faded behind us before I said to my tight-lipped companion: “Brockley, this isn’t intrigue. This is a rendezvous with my husband, that’s all.”

“All? It’s near enough to intrigue to worry me,” Brockley said. “Madam, may I speak frankly?”

“You usually do, anyway! Very well, what is it?”

“You’re playing with fire. You have parted from Master de la Roche twice, but it seems that you can’t make a final break. You come to France and at once you ask after him; he whistles, and you run to him. This on-and-off business can be good for neither of you. Sooner or later you must make a final choice and abide by it. He must be suffering, too. I am a man myself. Do you think we have no feelings?”

“Good God, Brockley.” I stopped short in the middle of the twilit square and faced him. “Of course I don’t think that. But—”

“But what, madam? Why are you going to meet him if you don’t mean anything by it?”

“I don’t know what I mean by it,” I said helplessly. Qualms that I had been resolutely ignoring snapped at my heels. “I only know that I must go.” A motive crystallized in my mind. “If only to say good-bye properly! It was hardly a proper farewell last time, if you remember. It was a frantic decision, with a fight going on and armed men all over the place and Matthew in desperate danger. I think that’s it, Brockley. I want to say good-bye properly.”

“Very well, madam. But please take care. If this isn’t a snare laid by someone else, it could be a trap set by Master de la Roche himself. You are in his country and you are legally his wife. What if he just means to take you home with him? Am I supposed to fight him off?” Momentarily, he rested his hand on the hilt of the sword at his side.

“No. As a matter of fact,” I said, finding some relief in admitting it, “I’ve been asking myself the same thing. I’m afraid as much as excited. But I have to take the risk. I’ve left the letter that I am to deliver in Paris, and my letter of introduction, behind at the abbey, with Dale. If anything happens to stop me from coming to Paris, then will you see that the letter to Queen Catherine reaches her? Carry it to Paris and hand it to the English ambassador Sir Nicholas Throckmorton.”

“Forgive me, madam. But I think you may have taken leave of your senses.”

I didn’t point out that I could dismiss him for that. I wouldn’t do anything of the kind, and he knew it. For one thing, I needed someone like Brockley in my service, and for another thing, annoying as he could be, he was a comfort, too. My qualms were getting worse. I even looked over my shoulder, as though once again, someone might be following me. There were a few people about in the darkening square, but I saw no one suspicious.

“What is it, madam?” Brockley asked, also glancing back.

“My imagination,” I said.

Le Cheval d’Or had quite a welcoming air. Lamps had been lit and hung on the walls, and the door was open. Customers were going in and out. We were held up at the door as a young man emerged to join a middle-aged one, possibly his father, who was apparently waiting for him in the entrance.

The two of them blocked the door entirely for a moment while the elder man impatiently demanded to know the outcome of some errand or other. They were not locals; from their sun-browned faces and the cut of their clothes, they hailed from somewhere in the south.

I looked at them thoughtfully. I knew that the south of France, beyond the Loire and the Huguenot territory, was strongly Catholic. In these times, men were indeed on the move, as Charpentier had remarked. These two might well be on their way to join the government forces in Paris. St. Marc, a pocket of Catholicism in a district full of Huguenot influence, would be a natural place for them to stay en route.

They moved aside when they realized that we wanted to pass, and at last we got ourselves inside. There was a door to the left of the entrance lobby, leading into a public room with a log fire, and numerous trestle tables with benches. Glancing through, I saw that the place was full, mostly, I thought, with local men from St. Marc, although the ersatz Netherlands merchant, Van Weede, was there, sitting with his elbows on a table and a tankard beside him, in earnest talk with two other men; a tall, lean fellow, and a shorter, burly one.

Brockley touched my arm, and Charpentier’s voice said quietly: “Madame de la Roche.” I turned, and the innkeeper was beside me. “I must make my apologies, madame, for my mistake when you asked after your husband,” Charpentier said. “But you were too discreet to tell me and how could I have guessed? He is here and awaits you. Will you follow me? Your man . . .”

He looked questioningly at Brockley. “Brockley comes with me,” I said firmly. Charpentier said no more, but led us away to a small, paneled parlor. Here, too, there was a fire, but instead of trestles and benches, there was a table set with candles, wine, and a platter of pasties. There were chairs at the table, and a comfortable settle by the window. A man was sitting there. As we entered, he rose to his feet. He was tall and dark-haired, and wide of shoulder, with dark, narrow eyes and black, dramatic eyebrows. His chin was too long, his limbs too loose for beauty, but to me he was beautiful. I had not seen him for months, except in dreams and in imagination.

Matthew spoke first, and in businesslike fashion. “Brockley. I am glad to see you still in the service of my wife. I ask you to keep the door for us. Stand guard outside it, if you will. Charpentier, bring refreshment for Brockley, whatever he wishes. He can have it while he is on guard. Now, both of you, leave me and Madame de la Roche together.”

“Madam?” said Brockley, as one who wishes to make it clear whose orders he is taking.

“Do as Matthew asks, Brockley.”

“If you are sure, madam.”

“I have not come here to abduct her, Brockley,” Matthew said dryly. “She would only escape me again as soon as she got the chance. You can safely leave her with me.”

It was one of his great charms, that underlying current of humor, which would surface at unexpected moments. Now, it broke the tension. I smiled and even Brockley briefly grinned. He went out. Charpentier had already gone. The door clicked shut behind Brockley and I was alone with Matthew.

The flicker of laughter died out. We stood there, soberly facing each other across the width of a small parlor, and the length of a year. Our last encounter had been a reunion, too, after a time of separation, and it had been stormy.

This time, somehow, was different.

We were still young. I was not yet twenty-eight and Matthew, I knew, was only about five years older than myself. But he looked more. The long chin seemed more pronounced, with lines on either side of it; and surely there was a gray hair or two at his temples. As for me, I felt as though I had aged by ten years at least in the months since last I’d seen him. Now, we neither cursed each other nor embraced. Instead, we stood in silence, each scanning the other’s face, until at last he said, in French: “So you came.”

“I . . . yes.”

“Why?”

I could hardly say “To bid you good-bye” before I had even said hello. I hesitated and then stammered: “Y . . . you wrote to me. You said you would be here—if I wanted to see you again.”

“It seems that you did.”

“Yes.” This dispassionate mixture of surprise and accusation confused me. For accusation was there, in the tone if not precisely in the words. I gestured toward the settle. “Shall we sit?”

“By all means.” But when I took the settle, I found that he had moved to a seat at the table. Again, we faced each other across a space longer than the length of our arms. Once more, we studied each other.

“What in hell’s name,” said Matthew at last, “made you come to France just now? It was madness. This area is quiet, but it’s an island, and the sea may pour in and drown it at any moment. The people of St. Marc and the places roundabout are Catholic but this is Huguenot territory. Full-scale war may break out any day. The prince of Condé’s men could be thundering through the darkness toward us even as I speak.”

“We didn’t know when we landed that things were so bad,” I said. “I am traveling with my first husband’s father, Luke Blanchard. He has a ward at Douceaix—”

“Where or what is this place Douceaix, exactly?”

“It’s a house, not far from Le Mans. I told you once that my first husband had French forebears. Some French Blanchards live there. There is a young girl . . .” I explained about Helene. “I also have to carry the queen’s respects to Paris and I have a letter that declares me to be a royal messenger. There are three of Sir William Cecil’s men in the party as well as Blanchard’s own escort.”

“And you all decided to press on and try to collect this Helene, and go on to Paris, regardless. And you came to France, just to please the queen and this Master Blanchard?”

I said slowly: “I was glad to get away from the court. I was tired of intrigue. I—work for Cecil. I find things out for him. He pays me. You know something of that.”

“Yes. I grasped that last year, although what manner of man pays a young woman for such work is beyond me to understand.”

“I need the money for my daughter, for Meg. But my last attempt to find something out did not go well. I lost my confidence, perhaps.” Dale and Brockley knew about the man to whom I had given poison, but I did not want to speak of that to anyone else, not even Matthew.