The Poyson Garden (15 page)

"But Her Grace said I can ask round what they think of the Boleyns, too, Ned. I heard London talk lots of times. But I'll follow your lead like I done hers at Wivenhoe."

Because Ned liked Jenks's openness and honesty-- and deferential nature--he nodded instead of shaking his head in disgust. Meg, at least, would have never made the doltish assumption that anyone could summon up someone else's speech at will, especially that of their betters.

"Just remember to listen more than you talk," Ned encouraged him. "I'm going to play this to the hilt. I'll do a version of Lord Henry Carey's voice, for he's been abroad and has now come home. But no--that doesn't mean I'll use his name," he added hastily, reading the next question the man would ask before he opened his mouth.

They tied their horses, and Ned gave a dirty lad a groat to watch them. The boy had begun to back away, but the glint of the coin stayed his feet.

Ned was impressed with how reasonably clean the common room of the Queen's Head smelled compared to other such places he'd been. The rushes on the floor didn't reek of dog or manured boots.

Though the Princess Elizabeth had come to Kent to probe the plot against her, she was inordinately eager to visit her mother's girlhood home nearby. Her plans were to take

a small party out riding and just happen to stop at Hever. Their hostess, Lady Cornish, had told them that Queen Mary had sold the place last year to a Sir Edward Waldegrave, who had been an officer in Her Majesty's household. Not exactly the strong Spanish connection the princess was expecting because of Cecil's letter, but one that bore watching. That was why she planned a surprise visit rather than one announced--just as they did here today.

The six patrons and tapman in the common room bore watching, too, Ned noted. All talk stopped when they entered. No one sang out greetings, inquiries, not even insults. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he ordered two tankards of beer. He could sense when he introduced himself and said he was just passing through from the Kentish coast to London that he'd somehow said the wrong thing. He could tell from their frowns, hardened gazes, and shifting stances that they were not impressed.

"Back to London, eh?" the tapman muttered. He was bald with a bull neck so short that his head seemed to sit directly on his rounded shoulders, as if it could topple off. Out of the corner of his eye, Ned saw three others sidle up to the row of hogshead casks, which meant three others were still somewhere behind him. He slowly pivoted to lean back against a big tun. Jenks shifted his free hand to his sword hilt. Whatever in creation's name was wrong here? He was usually skilled at reading strangers. What had he missed?

"But we're not on court business or anything like that," Ned added hastily, addressing everyone now. "Just hoping for a little catch-up on the latest happenings hereabouts." To his chagrin, one man closed the door and leaned against it, cross-armed.

"Meanin'," the tapman drawled, "this be an unofficial visit, just to gather more information, like you said. Been employed at Bloody Mary's court afore, I'll bet. Maybe, lads, this fine lord left the country like a rat off a sinkin' ship, but now he's scurryin' back with more news from the shires for Her Majesty, eh?"

"News from the shires?" Ned echoed. "No, not the way you imply--"

"Curse her filthy Catholic soul, an' you can tell her that next time you see her--in hell," the tapman cried and spit into the rushes

at his feet.

That seemed the sign for a general melee. The tapman swung a pewter flagon, catching Ned on the upper arm as he tried to draw his sword. The others rushed them in a big blur of shouts and bodies.

It was then Ned learned why a brilliant woman like the princess could abide someone as thick-headed as Stephen Jenks. Before Ned could so much as draw his sword, Jenks thrust Ned behind him so hard he bounced off the wall. Jenks scraped his sword out and, with a battle cry that would have done a Turk proud, swung it in a broad arc back and forth to keep the first barrage of rogues off them.

When the tapman ducked low and came at him, Jenks kicked the rogue in the groin, then shoved him at the others so they went down like ninepins. He darted sideways to roll flasks to pen them in a corner. Somehow, the two plank tables got upturned to hold them there.

Ned had his sword and dagger out and was ready to run for the door when Jenks bellowed, "We're queensmen, aye, but of our next queen! The Princess Elizabeth sent us to greet you, living near her people's home at Hever."

Though shaken and astounded, Ned saw that was the right thing to say. Their burly attackers froze where they stood or sat, wiping bloody noses. The tapman, bent over in pain, retched on the floor. One lout spit out two teeth before he lisped through a cut lip, "God's truth, man?"

Jenks motioned Ned out of the corner with two jerks of his sword point. "You go ahead and talk now, Lord Ned."

"Yes. I--it's--it's God's truth indeed," he began, cursing that he sounded like a stutterer. His upper arm began to throb where the tapman had laid into him, and his shoulder stung from Jenks throwing him back into the wall.

"Heard she's hunkered in at Ightham Mote, our princess," Cut Lip said. "Come home to us Kentish folk loves her best, ain't she--waitin' for that Cath'lic she-wolf to die?"

"Aye," the tapman agreed, getting unsteadily to his feet and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Another man rolled a barrel out to give them some room in the corner. The tapman gave Cut Lip a hand up as he talked.

"Bloody Mary's royal arm reached out right o' a London--to loyal little places never done naught to her," he explained as he shuffled closer. "Burnt to death our schoolmaster, Alexander Walton, in front of the old church just for holding to his belief the communion host stood for Christ but wasn't his real flesh, that's what She-Wolf's London men come here and did." He spit blood again but no more teeth.

"A burning here?" Jenks said, finally sheathing his sword. "Heard tell the queen hauled heretics--martyrs--off to London or Oxford for that."

Ned wanted to say something, to take over, but for once words wouldn't come. Besides, it seemed these bumpkins thought Jenks was the spokesman here. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Naw, like in other little towns, burnt him here when he wouldn't recant. And when some folk protested, her men whipped every one of us so much as spit," the tapman said and quickly shed his jerkin and shirt. He turned his back to them to display the ugly patchwork of red welts across his skin. "Every man jack here can show the same," he said, wincing as he gingerly pulled his shirt back on.

"So then," Ned said, and his voice broke with emotion, "strong loyalty for the Princess Elizabeth and her Boleyn family still flourishes here?"

"We'd all go to the whippin' or the burnin' stake for her," a younger, thinner, freckled lad said. He stepped out from the makeshift battlement of barrels to peer past Ned, so he could address Jenks. "Bless you for servin' her, man. Keep her safe for us."

"Kat mentioned you cried out in your sleep again, Your Grace," Meg said to Elizabeth as she prepared to ride out to Hever Castle with a retinue the next morning, though everyone but her privy plot council thought she was merely taking a ride in that direction.

When she appeared to have a whim that they stop at Hever for a respite, it would give her an opportunity to meet, assess, and carefully question Sir Edward Waldegrave, whom she had learned in Cecil's second letter was an ally to the queen and friend of the Spanish ambassador Feria. Hopefully, Waldegrave would give

her a tour of the place. No use taking the risk of slipping in there secretly at night if one could be taken inside openly. Besides, like Ightham Mote and many manor houses in Kent, Hever was moated with a working drawbridge that would be difficult to breach unless one were welcomed in.

"No doubt my unrest was from a nightmare, my Meg, but one I don't recall." Over

Kat's shoulder Elizabeth smiled at the girl as she helped her don her fox-lined cloak over her russet riding gown.

But her bravado was not quite the truth. She had dreamed that bees were buzzing her, bombarding her. Bees from Bushey Cot, bees from the hives beyond the knot garden here at Ightham Mote, bees from Queen Mary's Whitehall Palace. The dreams were warnings to beware of danger, of course. Her dreams always meant something, like portents of--

"You're gone pale as a ghost, Your

Grace." Kat's concerned voice cut through her thoughts. She reached out to gently rub color into her cheeks. "Not the toothache again?"

"No, I'm fine, my Kat, just a bit excited about today," she said, reaching up to pinch her own cheeks.

But she knew she must stop lying to those closest to her, those she trusted. Lies must be told to the others, but not her little poison-plot council. For if she looked as if she'd seen a ghost, it was because the past still haunted her. That dreadful dream-- she'd had it more than once of late--had made her flee for comfort and courage to the Lord. Again and again today she had silently recited to herself parts of her favorite Psalm: The Lord is on my side; I will not fear: what can man do unto me? ... Therefore shall I see my desire upon them that hate me ... They compassed me about like bees ... Thou hast thrust sore at me that I might fall: but the Lord helped me ... I shall not die but live.

"But from somewhere," Meg pursued as Elizabeth took her riding gloves from Kat and sallied out and down the upstairs corridor, "I recall a real fine cure for nightmares. I tell you, afore you go to bed tonight we could try rosemary and peony seeds in wine, Your Grace."

"Wine with toothache tonic and for that too? Perhaps that is your secret ingredient, my Meg: wine, wine, wine. But the pain in my jaw is much better today. I shall see you when we return."

She gave Meg a gay wave. She knew the girl wanted to accompany her, but she was riding out only with Blanche and Bea as ladies-in-attendance, for the rest were men. Even here--especially here--she must do things for safety's sake.

She tugged her gloves on before she went downstairs so her hands were free to lift her skirts and grasp the banister. Ah, she could not wait to see upstairs and down in the place Mary Boleyn had described to her, the childhood home her mother had known, where King Henry had come calling, hunting for game and a new love in the forests of Hever.

She was hunting, too, today, but for answers to who in Kent could be connected to the master poisoner and why. She would not let that damned woman and whoever was pulling her strings ruin this jaunt. To be there might be almost like touching her mother again, and she had not done that since she was three. But it was to the bold Anne Boleyn she owed her right to wear England's crown, for she had gone to the block rather than declare her babe a bastard. And so, she thought, pausing on the bottom stair, this is a pilgrimage I make today.

The princess's host and hostess, the Cornishes, awaited her at the door to the courtyard. "At least it is dry today and not so brisk as of late," Penelope Cornish said, taking Elizabeth's proffered hands. Sleek silver hair pulled back in a dated gabled coif framed Lady Cornish's plump face.

Her slashed velvet overgown and brocade kirtle also reminded Elizabeth of her father's days, but what did it matter when the Cornishes never went to court anymore? After all, it was keeping clear of royal politics for decades that had made Queen Mary believe they were yet loyal to any Tudor on the throne.

Thin and tottering, Lord Neville Cornish bowed and escorted Elizabeth outside to the central courtyard, where her party waited. He had offered to ride along, but Elizabeth knew he was not up to it, nor could he give her any sort of entr@ee to Lord Waldegrave, as their separate past loyalties kept them from being friends.

Outside, she noted that Thomas Pope was not yet among her retinue, though Bea was present --and pacing. The day was brisk and bright, but Elizabeth felt as if a cloud had cast itself over her expectations. When her eye caught Ned's across the cobbled courtyard, he pointed toward the front of the house and gestured something to her she could not decipher. At least he did not seem sulky, as he had yesterday after the near disaster at Edenbridge he testily admitted Jenks had bailed him out of.

"Is aught amiss with my plans for a ride today?" she asked Lord Cornish.

"I suppose both good news and bad, though Lord Pope is likely to chew rocks and spit them out too," the old man told her with a thin smile. "A rather goodly size crowd, Your Grace, especially for this place hidden away in the Weald, has gathered at the front gate, hoping for a glimpse of their princess. Word has spread like wildfire, you see--"

"A hostile or friendly crowd, my lord?" she asked warily, cocking one eyebrow.

"Why, this is Kent, Your Grace." His smile widened to display crooked, darkened teeth. "It might as well all be Boleyn land, instead of none of it anymore."

Exhaling a sigh of relief, she could not help but smile back at him. While Jenks held her horse, she climbed the mounting steps and sat, hooking one knee over the sidesaddle, putting the toe of her boot through the stirrup, and settling her skirts. While her retinue scrambled to get astride their mounts, she took the reins and riding whip Jenks handed her and tried not to look as excited as she felt.

"But we're not to ride out until my lord re--" Bea Pope began.

Pretending she did not hear her, Elizabeth clucked Griffin on. She had to see and hear English folk who set no tricky political or religious plots in motion but who truly cared. Men like those Ned and Jenks had met at that public house. People who were proud of her Boleyn blood and didn't want to poison it.

Sun glinted off the diamond-shape mullioned windows of the inner courtyard as Jenks, a few Cornish retainers, her two ladies, and three of Pope's men fell in to funnel through the narrow tower entrance. Elizabeth craned her neck to glance up at the barrel-vaulted roof adorned with carved Tudor roses. The spikes of the iron portcullis were raised into the stone ceiling. Outside, bridges spanned three of the four sides of the square moat, fed by springs and a waterfall Elizabeth could hear from her rooms if she opened her windows. Horses' hoofs clattered on cobbles behind her.