The Lady in the Tower (19 page)

‘Good evening, Betsey,’ I greeted the cook, as I entered the kitchen an hour later. ‘Is this Mother’s supper tray?’

‘Indeed, Mistress Eleanor,’ she replied. ‘But where the chaplain is, I cannot say. How were the joust, Mistress? I heard your cousin did win!’

‘He did indeed! I am very proud of him!’ I agreed. ‘Betsey, would you be a dear, and draw me a mug of ale?’ I asked the harassed cook. ‘I’m so very thirsty.’

I did not usually ask Betsey to wait on me, especially not when she was so busy, and she shot me a surprised look. But she took down a mug without a word, and went to the barrel to draw the ale. As soon as her back was turned, I emptied the contents of my twist of paper into the goblet of wine on Mother’s tray. A fine grey dusting of powder spilled onto the tray beside the goblet. With a trembling hand, I wiped it away and quickly stirred the wine with a knife that was lying on the table. When I looked up, Betsey was regarding me in astonishment, my mug of ale in one hand.

‘Whatever are you doing, Mistress Eleanor?’ she demanded. I felt a stab of annoyance. Why did she have to turn round so quickly?

‘I … it’s to help Mother,’ I whispered frantically. ‘I have to get the chaplain out of the way.’

Betsey clutched my arm. ‘It’s not poison, Mistress Eleanor?’ she gasped.

‘No.’ I shook my head, and took the mug of ale from her hand. ‘Thank you, Betsey.’

I stood sipping the yeasty beverage, while Betsey looked fearfully at me. Her mouth opened, but then shut again with a snap. She was looking past me. I heard the heavy footfall and breathing of the chaplain behind me. He was no longer soft-footed as he used to be. He puffed and wheezed as he walked.

‘Here again, Eleanor?’ he asked, eyebrows raised. ‘You neglect your guests.’

‘They’ll not miss me,’ I said as nonchalantly as I could. I noticed I was shaking, and held myself rigidly, the fear of discovery or failure tormenting me. My hands were damp with perspiration.

To my relief, the chaplain picked up the tray, complete with the goblet of drugged wine, and left. As he reached the door, I made a movement to follow him, but then paused and glanced at Betsey.

‘Take care, Mistress,’ she whispered. I nodded and set down my mug. I had a sudden impulse to hug her. If my plan went well, I would not see her again. I hesitated, and found that I lacked the courage for such an unfamiliar gesture. And so I simply turned and followed the chaplain, staying out of sight. I cursed my fashionable dress which rustled as I walked. It used to be easier to remain unnoticed in servants’ garb.

Doubts kept assailing me as I walked. Suppose the chaplain no longer drank Mother’s wine? Suppose he gave it to her and for some reason she broke her self-imposed rule and drank it herself? I could be drugging my own mother instead of rescuing her. She would not be able to escape, and would suffer the ill effects of the drug.

Should I stop the chaplain as he went to the tower? Knock the tray from his hands? If only there was some way I could warn Mother. Then, just ahead of me, I heard the chaplain’s door bang shut. If he had gone into his own chambers, all was presumably safe. I breathed deeply, telling myself he was sure to drink the wine. He always did.

I hid myself in an alcove and waited. New worries began to torment me. How long did the powder need before taking effect? Was it instant? If the chaplain did not re-emerge, I supposed I would have to knock on his door. I stood anxiously trying to come up with a reason to speak to him. A false message from my father? No, far too risky. A question about scripture? That would make him suspicious. I was not known for my piety.

I need not have worried. After what seemed an eternity, he emerged, tray in hands. As far as I could see from my hiding place, he had eaten the choicest titbits, but I could not see inside the goblet. I cursed quietly under my breath. How could I find out?

At that moment the dinner trumpet sounded. I shot out from my hiding place in pursuit of the chaplain and caught up with him on the stairs.

‘Do you not come in to dinner, Father Rankin?’ I asked him innocently. He sent me a repulsive look in return.

‘Yes, yes, shortly,’ he replied impatiently. Then he added: ‘I’m touched by your concern. Should you not be making
your
way to dinner?’ His voice was loaded with sarcasm, but I cared not. I had seen the wine goblet had been emptied and refilled with water. My greatest fear was dismissed. The chaplain had drunk the powder; there was no danger now that Mother would get it.

But I now had to keep the chaplain in sight. He could be overcome by the effects of the drug at any time. I followed him to the Lady Tower and hid at the bottom while he ascended. I hoped he might pass out up there, and waited with baited breath. But to my disappointment, I heard him coming back down the stairs some ten minutes later. Were his footsteps a little more sluggish, a little heavier than usual? I could not be sure.

By the time he reached the passageway leading to the great hall, his tread was definitely slower. His steps faltered and I saw him stop and lean his head on the wall briefly. I approached him. ‘Are you well, Father?’ I asked. Sweat was beaded on his forehead and his eyes were blurred and bloodshot. He had to struggle to focus on me at all. ‘Should I help you to your room?’ I asked him hopefully. ‘You look ill.’ I should have been rejoicing to see my enemy overcome, but instead I felt guilty and sick at the sight. What if the powder was poisonous after all? Father Rankin might die.

‘No,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t … I just need a little wine.’ Then with a most uncharacteristic outburst, he snarled: ‘What are you following me about for?’ He pushed me away from him and staggered into the hall. I followed helplessly, wishing I’d found some way of diverting him from such a public place. How would I get the key unnoticed if he collapsed in front of the entire hall?

The hall was filling up, but not all the guests had arrived, and the servants had not yet begun to serve the food. The chaplain crashed into the nearest table and clutched it. I looked around fearfully, but the noise of voices and laughter had drowned the sound. No one seemed to have noticed. Taking his arm, I heaved his dead weight onto a bench, wincing as the effort made my own injuries smart, and summoned a nearby servant. ‘The chaplain is unwell,’ I said. ‘Bring him a glass of wine at once.’ He hurried to do my bidding. My order had drawn one or two curious looks from the men at the other end of our table, but they were deep in a discussion of today’s jousting outcome and when they saw the chaplain take a goblet of wine and drain it, they lost interest in him and returned to their conversation. I caught a few words—‘Never thought he had it in him … ’ and ‘Stanton will have a task to live this one down … ’ but they washed over me as though they were from a different world. My attention was all on the sweating, swaying clergyman beside me. Pass out, I thought over and over again. Don’t make a scene so that everyone’s watching. The chaplain had his head in his hands, and I looked longingly at the bunch of keys at his waist. Somehow I had to get them before anyone else joined us.

Suddenly the chaplain grasped my sleeve. ‘It’s you,’ he uttered thickly. ‘You’ve done this to me. What are you after?’ His eyes widened and as he stared at me, I saw some spittle run slowly down his chin. He seemed unaware of it, but I shuddered with disgust.

‘You speak nonsense,’ I told him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You won’t get her,’ he rasped in a hoarse whisper. His fingers fumbled at his keys and he clutched them tight. ‘She’s mine, and you’re never taking her away from me … ’ Even as he spoke, a gasp was wrenched from him. I watched, horrified, as he slowly collapsed forward, his head striking the table with a dull thud. Saliva drooled from his mouth and sweat trickled down his face. I could not tell whether he was poisoned or asleep, but at least he was not blue or writhing in agony. It was bad enough without that. Had I killed him? Not that I cared about him, but it was a hanging matter.

Even as these thoughts passed through my mind, I was fumbling at his cord, trying to free the keys. They had slipped from his now nerveless fingers. People were starting to stare at him. I was forced to raise the alarm before I had secured the keys.

‘Help!’ I cried, feigning concern. ‘Oh, please someone help. The chaplain is ill.’ That gained all the attention I could have wished for. Those closest to me looked round, and one or two rushed forward. I heard someone mutter, ‘Drunk, belike,’ and someone else tried unsuccessfully to raise him. Another man was feeling for his heartbeat.

Unseen under the table, my fingers continued to tug with increasing desperation at the cord which bound the keys. I was going to fail. Any minute now, they would lift him away from the table and all would have been in vain. I could not bear it.

Suddenly the knot gave, and the keys slid from it into my hand. It was such a surprise; I fumbled and nearly dropped them. I took a new grip on them and concealed them in the folds of my gown. I have them, I thought numbly. I actually have the keys.

‘Can you move away, Mistress Eleanor?’ one of the men asked, taking hold of the chaplain under his arms. I slid away along the bench to make room for them to help him. Once they moved him onto the floor and became engrossed in searching for signs of life, I got up and fled. As I left the hall, I cast a hurried glance at the top table. Sir Walter was listening attentively to the king and appeared not to have noticed the disturbance as yet. I could not see Maria and that gave me a moment’s concern. There was nothing I could do about it, however, so I made straight for the Lady Tower, clutching the chaplain’s keys. My feet felt as though they scarcely touched the floor as I ran through the castle. I had the keys again. I was going to see Mother.

This time I knew which key unlocked the first door. I climbed the spiral stairs as fast as my trembling legs would carry me and twisted the second key in the lock. As I flung the door triumphantly open, Mother started and looked around, the daylight showing me her wasted face as I had not seen it in the darkness last time I came. Then she realized it was me.

‘Oh! Eleanor!’ she cried, joy lighting up her countenance. ‘You have truly come! Oh, how I have longed for this moment … ’

I paused a moment. My eyes took in more of her appearance: ‘Mother, how thin and pale you are!’ She looked almost like a ghost and there were new lines of care and age about her eyes and her mouth.

‘I have been very sick,’ she admitted, and her voice sounded as thin and weak as she looked. ‘I think I nearly died.’

We embraced awkwardly, unaccustomed to one another’s proximity. A stale sour smell of unwashed body and linen hung about her. I held her tight despite this.

We broke apart and gazed at each other.

‘How you have grown up, my dearest daughter,’ Mother whispered, tenderly smoothing my hair with a hand that shook. We both seemed frozen in the moment, unwilling to say anything to interrupt it. I was the first to pull myself together.

‘There is no time to waste, dearest Mother,’ I said at last and took her hand in mine. ‘Come.’

This time, there was no hesitation. Though she looked fearful once more, Mother followed me willingly out of her tower prison and down the spiral staircase. When she paused, it was only to lean against the wall and catch her breath.

‘I fear I am sadly lacking strength,’ she murmured. I stared at her appalled. We needed to get right across the castle and then we would have a long, hard ride ahead of us.

‘Mother, you must try,’ I urged her and squeezed her hand. ‘We’ll rest as often as we can, but there’s not much time. This is a bad time of day, and my theft of the keys might be discovered at any moment.’

‘I can do it,’ she assured me. ‘I must.’

I led Mother swiftly along the main corridor. I judged it safer than the servants’ passages at this time, when most guests should be at supper. Sure enough, we met no one. We avoided the great hall by going down one floor and through several storerooms, finally reaching the inner court by a side door. I paused and listened at the door, trying to ignore Mother’s ragged breathing behind me. I could hear footsteps, and dragged Mother into a nearby room while we heard someone pass. I did not see who it was. Mother was shaking piteously at this shock, her breath now coming in stifled sobs, but I led her firmly out into the court.

‘The chaplain will never let me go,’ she whispered. She sounded terrified. ‘He will pursue me.’ She bent over, clutching a stitch in her side.

‘Not tonight he won’t,’ I replied. ‘I’ve drugged him. I left him unconscious in the great hall.’ I heard Mother gasp, but I tugged at her hand and got her moving again. As we moved on, I thought she seemed a little stronger.

‘What about Walter?’ she asked suddenly. ‘We can’t leave little Walter.’ I paused and regarded her in astonishment. It had not occurred to me in my wildest dreams that we would take my brother with us. Then, with a pang, I remembered him as he was when last Mother had seen him: a bonny, trusting lad of four summers, full of affection.

‘Mother, he would not come,’ I said as gently as I could. ‘He is not as you remember him. He is his father’s boy now. A champion jouster and sword fighter, he thinks of nothing else.’

‘Surely not,’ Mother protested faintly, but I took her hand and led her on, unwilling to spend any more time discussing Walter just now.

Crossing to the outer court, we ran straight into Maria. There was no avoiding her on the narrow bridge. I felt my stomach lurch with the shock.

‘Eleanor!’ she said, before I could gather my wits. ‘I’ve been to the stables looking for you. Sir Walter is most perturbed by your absence.’ She spoke in her usual honeyed tones, but when she looked at Mother, her jaw dropped in surprise. The light was fading in the sky now, but it was not yet so dark as to make our faces indistinct.

‘Maria!’ I uttered, turning hot and then cold in turns. ‘This is … um … my Aunt Beatrice. She just arrived … and … er … wanted to be sure her horses had been well rubbed down before she came in to supper. Please don’t tell Sir Walter she’s here. She would like to surprise him.’ My lie sounded quite plausible, I thought. I looked pleadingly at Maria, willing her to believe me, or at least to play along as she did after the joust.