Queen's Ransom (8 page)

I took his advice. Dale and I took some food quickly and privately, and then we set out.

Lejeune lived at the other end of the main street. We had come through it to the square where the inn stood. It was a narrow, straggling affair of shops with dwellings over the top, and it was busy with rattling carts and housewives carrying baskets. We walked briskly, because the morning was cool and overcast. When I first sensed that someone was following us, I took it for my imagination.

I was alerted by a skill I didn’t know I possessed. Amid the busy sound of feet on the cobbles, mine and Dale’s and those of all the other people, my ears by some means picked out the one pair of footsteps behind us that kept exactly to our pace, slowing down when we stopped to let a cart turn into a yard, speeding up again when a gust of fresh wind made us quicken our steps to keep warm.

Halting abruptly in front of a bakery, half-turning to face it, I pointed out some particularly inviting pastries to Dale and from the corner of my eye I shot a glance back along the street. I caught the quick movement as someone, a man, wearing a hooded cloak with the hood up, also stopped and turned sideways to stare in at a shop.

“Come along,” I said to Dale. She glanced at me questioningly, and made a half gesture at some cinnamon buns.

“I know, they’re mouthwatering,” I said. “But I really stopped because I thought someone was following us and I think I’m right. He’s wearing a brown cloak and hood.”

“What? What’ll you do, ma’am? Will you speak to him?”

“No, I can’t do that. Whoever it is has only to say I’m talking nonsense. I don’t want an embarrassing scene in the street. But we’ll cross the road. When we get to the other side, we’ll go into that place selling leather goods, and I’ll peep out and see if he’s crossed after us.”

We did this, dodging around another cart and a small boy who was busy shoveling up horse droppings, no doubt for use as garden manure. The leather shop, like most of the others, had an open front and a table jutting into the road, laden with a display of wares. These were guarded by a fat woman, seated on a chair beside them. Behind, was a cavernous room where the proprietor worked at a counter under a skylight, busy with punching and stitching. Various items including saddlery were on racks within the shop.

Dale and I plunged straight past the display table, as though to examine some saddles. Then I edged back to where I could see the road, and there he was, his face still hidden by the side of his hood, studying some silk fabrics on display next door.

I pulled Dale out to the street again. “We’re just going a few yards,” I said into her ear. “Then I want you to stumble and pretend you’ve almost lost your shoe. That’ll give me a chance to swing round and I’ll see if I can catch sight of his face.”

“Oh, ma’am,” said Dale protestingly. “I’m no good at pretending. I just can’t abide it.”

“Nonsense, Dale, you’re wonderful at pretending. Just do as I say. Now!”

We were passing another shop with a display table, this one laden with pots and pans and other ironmongery. Dale tripped, quite artistically, and hopped on one foot, leaning on the edge of the table and grabbing at the heel of her shoe. The table rocked and I turned at once, helpfully steadying a pile of cooking pots. I was just in time to see the hooded figure melt smoothly out of sight among the leather goods.

Grabbing Dale’s elbow, I hustled her back to them. With luck, I thought, our pursuer had made a mistake in taking refuge there, since he had walked into a dead end.

But there was no sign of him. There was a back door behind the workbench, and it was ajar, tapping lightly as the wind disturbed it. I made for the bench.

“Excuse me, but did someone come through here just now?”

The proprietor glanced irritatedly up from his work. “No, madam. Why should I let any member of the public through into my private yard? This is a shop. It is not a thoroughfare.”

“Thank you,” I said, and, once more, led Dale back toward the street. The woman in charge of the table asked us as we went by whether any of her wares interested us, and feeling that we had probably annoyed these people quite enough, I stopped and bought a pair of new riding gloves. Dale, however, had been using her eyes.

“Ma’am,” she said as soon as we were back in the street, “that man with the hood
did
go in there! I saw him, too. And there was a gold coin lying by that shopkeeper’s hand, as if he’d put it there for the moment while he finished his work.”

“Really? I saw that the yard door was ajar, but I didn’t see the coin. Well done, Dale. Oh well, if we’ve lost him, then he’s lost us. Come along. We’d better find that physician.”

An Unseen Hand

We found Dr. Lejeune stooping over a fireplace, stirring a smelly pot. A pestle and mortar stood at his side, and the walls of his room were lined with shelves full of bottles containing powders and potions. Hanging from the ceiling were various dried herbs and roots. On the floor were several immense glass vessels containing some extraordinarily nasty objects, preserved in what looked like oil. One seemed to be a small crocodile—I had seen pictures of these reptiles and knew what they looked like—and another, most horribly, resembled a half-formed baby.

Lejeune himself was thin and somehow dusty and I doubt if he ever smiled. His face was blank when I described Luke Blanchard’s symptoms, and I didn’t feel much confidence in him, but he was all there was. He consented to come with us to Le Cheval d’Or, and did so, but had little to say when he got there. Blanchard was complaining miserably of pain all over his stomach and said the very thought of food was unbearable, beyond a little milk. “Even that’s better mixed with water,” he said wanly.

Lejeune prodded at him, peered down his throat, shrugged, and recommended a potion that he said he would send along later by his boy. I wondered what would be in it but preferred not to ask. Lejeune then demanded what I considered an exorbitant fee, and left. I looked worriedly down at my former father-in-law.

“We’ll get you better,” I said reassuringly, and on impulse added: “I’ll make you up a potion of my own, if I can get hold of the ingredients. I’ve as much faith in that as in anything that doctor’s likely to produce.”

Harvey had tidied his master’s bed and brought him fresh supplies of milk and water. Dale and I hurried out again.

I had a few basic medicines with me, including a salve for cuts and bruises and a chamomile draft in case of sick headaches, but I had nothing that might help my father-in-law. However, although I would never have called myself skilled in herbal medicine, as some women are, my mother had taught me a little and Dale had a certain amount of knowledge.

After some anxious discussion, we decided on a formula and set out once more, this time in search of a shop selling flavorings and condiments. Here, I bought root ginger, valerian, and dried marshmallow. “I don’t think they’ll make things worse,” I said to Dale, “even if they can’t cure him!”

After my last foray into the kitchen, I was nervous about going there again, but I couldn’t prepare an infusion unless I did so. I took a deep breath and marched in. The black-haired woman was rolling dough while a girl I hadn’t seen before beat up some kind of batter in a basin and the greasy youth was filleting fish. I cleared my throat, explained what I wanted to do, and asked for a small cooking pot and some water and permission to use a corner of the hearth. The woman regarded me with dislike but reached a long-handled pan down from a hook and passed it to me.

“You can use that and get yourself some well water. It’s out at the back. But don’t get in the way. Knives and spoons are hanging up over there if you want them.”

Dale and I cut my ingredients small before putting them in the water, and then set about brewing up a draft. Charpentier came into the kitchen while we were there and I had to explain to him what we were about. I also had to explain to Hugh Arnold when he put his head in to say that Sweetapple and Harvey were sitting with Master Blanchard and wished to have their dinner there, and could they please have it early?

“You Anglaises make work,” the black-haired woman told me when Arnold had gone. “That man Sweetapple eats as if he’s been starved since he was a baby. Oh well, it will all go on the bill at the end.”

I was sure it would. My father-in-law must somehow be got fit enough to leave this inn, or quite apart from the delay to the queen’s correspondence, Charpentier was the type to hand us a bill that would bankrupt us.

As soon as it was ready, I asked, very politely, for the loan of a jar with a stopper and put my infusion into it. Then we went upstairs to give Master Blanchard a dose. Harvey and Sweetapple were there and Harvey at once asked suspiciously what was in the potion. When I recited the ingredients, however, Sweetapple spoke up and declared that his mother had used the same things for digestive ailments. “It’ll do you no harm, sir, anyway,” he said encouragingly to Blanchard.

Master Blanchard consented to try it, diluted with water. He made a face and said it tasted horrible, but he drank it down. I could only hope that it would benefit him.

Most of us dined downstairs, for last night’s guests had either left or gone out and the inn was quiet once more. Dale and I went up again after the meal, but presently Harvey tapped on my door to say that a messenger had come asking for me. It turned out to be Lejeune’s boy, bringing the promised medicine. It was a murky brew in a small glass bottle and it smelled appalling, far worse than my own concoction. We had paid a high consultation fee, however, and I supposed I should at least offer it to Blanchard. I found him still in bed, his face set in lines of depression. Sweetapple and Harvey and the remains of their dinner were still there. So was a lingering aroma of fish.

“You should get those used platters out of here,” I said. “The smell of food may make him feel worse. Master Blanchard, this has come for you from the physician. You can try it if you will.”

“I’m no better,” he said dismally. “But I daresay you’re trying to help me. I’ll swallow this if you wish.”

It was a short attempt, however. One mouthful of Lejeune’s potion made him gag and clutch at his stomach muscles again. “Yours wasn’t very palatable but
this
!” he said disgustedly. “I can’t get it down. Take it away!”

The visit to Lejeune had been wasted. He would have to recover with the help of my homely remedies or not at all. Clicking my tongue, I fetched Dale and said that we would sit with him while the men stretched their legs and removed their dinner dishes. Sweetapple and Harvey departed, taking the used platters with them, and we stayed with Blanchard for the next couple of hours. After a time, he fell asleep. Then Arnold knocked on the door and came in to take over. “I’ll bring him another dose of my potion in the evening,” I said. “Perhaps by tomorrow there’ll be some result.”

Dale and I went back to our room. Evening was coming. The inn was quiet, but I could hear Brockley’s voice in the stableyard below. I strolled over to the window to look. Brockley was down there with another of Blanchard’s men, the redheaded Searle, examining the feet of one of our hired horses. My own left shoe touched something and I glanced down. Most of our things had been unpacked, but not quite everything, and a few items still remained in the hampers and saddlebags, which were all piled together in the corner next to the window. I had just kicked a saddlebag.

As I looked at it, a small cold worm moved in my guts.

I had a clear picture in my mind of how those bags and hampers had been arranged when I last glanced at them, just after dinner. Everything then had been neatly piled but now, the topmost hamper was tilting perilously, while the saddlebags, which had been compactly placed side by side, were lying apart, one of them right under the window and also under my feet.

“Dale,” I said. “I think . . . I think . . . that someone has been interfering with our baggage.”

We went through it together, at once, and then through the things that had been put in the cupboards and chests. Nothing was missing. Our gowns hung where Dale had put them; the case containing my few pieces of jewelry was untouched, the contents all in place.

“But someone’s been at it, right enough,” Dale said, horrified, staring into a cupboard. “I never folded your linen like that, ma’am, never so carelessly. All your sleeves were together, too, and here’s a pair out of place on the shelf below!”

“And this book of poems,” I said, examining the saddlebags, “was in the other pocket, the offside one, not in here!”

We stared at each other. Instinctively, I put a hand to my overskirt and once again felt the stiff crackle of the parchment cylinders in the hidden pocket. I turned back the edge of the skirt and drew the contents out. They were of course untouched, because they never left my person. I had put the royal letters into a little linen bag and even slept with them under my pillow. “I wonder if someone was looking for these?”

“Everyone in our party knows you’re going to Paris, ma’am.”

“Yes, but they’re not actually supposed to know about the letter to the queen mother.”

“But what if somebody does know, all the same, ma’am? And is being paid to make sure that letter doesn’t get there . . . ?”

“I don’t want this,” I said angrily. “To think I was hoping to get away from mystery and intrigue! Well, Dale, we’ve just got to make sure that that letter does get to Paris safely, that’s all.”

Brockley had been busy with the horses and we had not yet told him of the man who had followed us. Now I sent Dale to fetch her husband, and I described to him both our strange hooded pursuer, and the way unseen fingers had searched our baggage. Tight-mouthed with anger, he said that if necessary, we would ride on to Paris without Blanchard and his men.

“The sooner we get there and get back, the better. We can manage with just Cecil’s escort. Whoever’s been doing these things could well be one of Blanchard’s men. I only hope that Cecil’s escort are all trustworthy! We can meet Master Blanchard at his ward’s home afterward. That’s if he gets better,” Brockley added acidly, “and doesn’t embarrass Charpentier by dying on the premises! Meanwhile, madam, lock your door and your window tonight.”