A Queen's Spy - - (free novel 24 .txt) 📗

no movement below, heard no exchange of voices; even the snorting horse and jangle of bit and bridle were absent. Puzzled, she made her way downstairs. Emerging from the hall, Catherine found no sweating horse and dusty rider; only John, a bucket of water in either hand, making his way to the kitchens.

“John, there was a rider approaching. I saw him from the window,” Catherine asked.

“I’m sorry, M’lady, there’s been no rider stop here, not that I knows about anyways, and I’ve been working out here all the while.” John, stopping to speak to her, slopped water over the rims of the filled buckets.

“I must have been mistaken. It did look like he was coming here but I suppose he must have ridden past.”

John didn't reply and Catherine watched his retreating back for a moment, then an unmistakable snort and stamp met her ears: the disobedient but highly forgivable Clover. A soft-shoed foot moved automatically before she winced at the memory of her last visit; indecision delayed her advance.

Silently she spoke to her flagging courage. It’s my home and I shall go where I wish.

Martha, the kitchen maid, watched the girl make her way towards the stables until John blocked her view. “And where's lady long legs off to now then, eh?” Martha received one of the pails from John's hand.

“Ah now, leave the lass alone, Martha. You've never got a good word to say for her.” John tipped the remaining bucket allowing its contents to join Martha's in the tub in the kitchen corner.

“Well, she's hardly a fit daughter for his lordship now, is she? Of marrying age and she slides around the place and hardly ever has a word to say for herself. The master will be hard pushed to find any to take her off his hands.”

“God love us, woman. With a tongue like yours wagging there’s no room for anyone else, is there?” John ducked and avoided the fist aimed at his ear.

“Get away with you.”

John grinned as he reached the door.

 

†

 

Some four miles distant, Alan was employed, but on his own business, not his master’s. He smiled as he watched the rumps of the two retreating horses move away down the dusty road. Cold silver near his skin warmed his heart, and his blood surged with the force of his victory. His only regret was that when Harry’s men fell on Jack, he would be ignorant of Alan’s part in his downfall. However, the purse he held more than made up for that loss of satisfaction.

“Alan, are you coming or stopping?” Froggy Tate called. Alan glowered at the short-barrelled man. The horses he led behind him were already saddled and loaded with their possessions. “Who was that then?” Froggy continued, and spat in the direction of the retreating horseman.

“Nothing. Give me that horse.” Alan pulled the reins roughly from Froggy’s hand and led the horse away before mounting.

Froggy spat again. Thoughtful eyes flicked between his companion and the distant movement along the road which marked the departing riders.

 

†

 

Courage renewed, Catherine made her way to the stables. Looking down the passageway in front of the stalls, she saw a figure emerge from halfway down the paddock’s length. It appeared as only a darkened shape in the dim light and Catherine assumed it was one of the stable lads, but what light there was caught on polished metal, revealing a sword at his side. As she watched, he dropped to his knees and pulled the planking from the front of a stable door. Moments later he seemed to finish his unknown task and moved away quickly, disappearing inside a vacant stall.

Five long minutes passed, and still he did not show himself. Catherine took a step into the gloom but hurriedly changed her mind. He must still be in there somewhere and she had no wish to meet an armed man in the dark. The only sounds that met her ears came from the horses at the far end. The first two stalls in front of her were empty and the remaining ones housed the horses from Hazeldene. Behind her, she heard John making another trip with pails of water, and this gave her a measure of reassurance. Summoning her courage, she made up her mind to walk forward and identify the person who was trespassing within the stables. If she screamed, John would hear.

It was likely only a man sent over by Lord Byrne. Her feet, in soft leather shoes, made no noise on the clean straw, and the rustle of her skirts on the wood wall was camouflaged by the noises from the beasts within. From several paces away she could see into the stall her visitor had moved into; it was empty. What had he been so interested in? It was a simple door of heavy construction made to withstand more than the occasional insult from a hoof. Vertical planks, a hand’s span wide, were fixed with nails to a wooden frame. Her fingers felt up the door. She had seen him remove a plank and lay it momentarily on the floor before replacing it, but nothing gave-way to her touch.

Some minutes later, a smoking candle from her desk on the uneven floor, she was searching in earnest, determined to find its secret. The wood that had been removed was clearly visible now. The doors were half height, allowing the horses to peer over them, secured by a slide bolt at the top and an iron kick latch at the bottom. Most of the planks ran from the top to bottom of the short door, but one in the corner was cut a foot or so from the sill and the timber was bruised where it had been levered out, and on more than one occasion judging by the damaged grain.

Pushing a knife between the planks, she found that little pressure was needed to force it out of place, and from behind it fell a parchment that settled quietly on the floor in front of her knees. She pushed the paper quickly into her pocket and, wood back in place, made a hasty retreat to her room.

The candle re-lit on the desk, her door locked, Catherine stared at the paper lying in front of her. In the centre was a wax seal, the blurred impression a testament to a hasty application. Sliding a flat knife gently between wax and paper, she encouraged the seal to pop away intact from the lower sheet. Her hands hovered over the parchment. Well, you have stolen it and opened it; you might as well read it.

The few lines it contained were hurriedly written, the haste proven by the splutters the protesting pen had left on the page, but the script was still legible and neat.

The single sheet contained few lines in all. It was neither addressed nor signed.

 

We would be pleased to accept your gift and look forward to your visit soon. The weather has been unpleasant here, but we hope it will improve when you join us. Hopefully, there will be some good hunting to be done, which will entertain you during your stay.

 

Catherine read it twice. Had it been addressed and signed she would have believed she was reading some private correspondence between friends or maybe businessmen meeting to discuss trade and pass away some of the summer months in each other’s company. But these vital marks were omitted, and the method of its delivery placed further suspicion on the meaning of the words. Reaching for more wax, she refolded the sheet, adding a few drops under the seal before pressing it closed again.

One more person was thus admitted to that small ring privy to the information sent north from London.

 

†

 

“I’ll not ask how you got that.” Dan took the offered ring from Jack’s outstretched hands.

“Would you believe me if I told you I won it at cards?” Jack offered, smiling.

“Somehow, no, but I’ll give it back to him.” There was an odd expression on Dan’s face.

Jack continued. “All right, would you believe me if I told you I was forced to win it at cards, and that is the truth of it.”

“I would believe that.” Dan grinned.

“It was Richard’s poor idea of a joke.” Jack made to leave.

Dan caught him by the arm, stopping him. “Are you sure…?”

“Yes Dan, I’m sure. Richard likes to remind his half-brother of his bastardy; it keeps me in my place. He spun me a yarn about how bad our father is. I think he only said it to stop me turning up at the family manor and finding out about his shameful past.” Dan could tell from Jack’s tone he wasn’t being serious.

“Ah, you’re wrong there,” Dan warned.

“What? Wrong about our father or Richard’s shameful past?” Jack laughed.

“Stop being bloody clever,” Dan said hotly.

“He told me that it was his father who had tried to whip him to death. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?” Jack said, folding his arms.

“No,” Dan spoke too quickly. “I know nothing about that.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Jack said sarcastically. “I’ll find out one way or the other, mark my words. So why don’t you just sit yourself down and tell me now?”

Dan sighed. “There is something, what I cannot tell you, but it colours the way your brother treats you.”

Jack was a little shaken. Here was something indeed. “Tell me.”

“That family of his, and yours for that matter, have a lot to answer for. I’ve known your brother for a lot of years, and he’s not as cruel or as arrogant as you sometimes think.”

“Tell that to Robby,” Jack said quickly.

“Well, he should have kept his thieving fingers to himself – better some quick justice than having the bloody assize involved.”

“True. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re trying to change the subject. Now just what is it you won’t tell me?”

Dan had already begun to retreat, and despite the pleas, he would supply Jack with nothing else. Jack had no intention of giving up though. If Dan wouldn’t tell him then perhaps Richard might.

 

†

 

The note she had replaced had vanished, she was sure, at night, and if there was to be another Catherine wanted to see its delivery. John had assured her that tonight would be clear, but cold. As it turned out it was more than that; it was windy, and the gusts of air carried a mist that drenched fields, trees, and animals.

A blanket wrapped tightly around her, Catherine sat and watched. The only activity was that of the rabbits emerging from burrows to graze nervously. She was about to abandon her perch on the window ledge, becoming uncomfortably aware of the damp working its way through her wrap, when her eyes were arrested by a movement in the tree line.

 

†

 

Water darkened the leather glove that held the pine branch aside as the heavy cob stepped lightly from the fold of the trees. Assured that all was quiet, he pressed his heels lightly into the horse and it trotted out. The branch, when released, sent a shower of heavy rain to soak the carpet of sponged needles. The mare was fresh and she covered the distance to Assingham quickly, the sound of her passage dulled by the soft earth beneath her hooves. Cautious though, the rider dropped from the saddle and led her the final distance, bringing her on