A Queen's Spy by - (black authors fiction .TXT) 📖

body rise and fall with the exercise of his lungs. Jack no longer wished to wake him. The picture was one of total exhaustion; his bodily torment could only increase in consciousness. Subdued, Jack turned and left, quieter than he had entered, the candle flame hardly recording the closing of the door.

The dark angry eyes of Dan were waiting for him. But as Jack took care to soundlessly drop the latch back, Dan knew his charge remained undisturbed.

“You’re employed as a stable hand, Jack. Go and find Mat and act like one.” Dan spoke quietly, a kinder tone in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said shaking his head.

“No need, lad,” Dan replied. “You didn’t drive him to make this journey. What you may have started by accident, Jack, Master’s trying to finish with intent. I’ve given him laudanum, and he’ll not wake before dawn.”

Jack did not look up as he spoke. “It was no accident, Dan; it was foolish carelessness. I’ve no excuse. I just wanted to…” his words drifted away.

“I’m sure you’ll have the chance to apologise. But remember, when you do, duck. He’s got the temper of the devil in him still, even if he’s got a little less blood to fire it with,” Dan said.

“What did he say when he found out it was my fault?” Jack asked.

“Like I said, keep yourself at arm’s length. Let’s just say he wasn’t best pleased,” Dan warned.

When they reached the top of the darkened stairs, Dan laid a hand briefly on Jack’s shoulder, saying nothing, and then watched as he descended the spiral, moving gradually out of sight.

Jack did as Dan had bidden and found Mat. Together, although solitary in their thoughts, they got inconspicuously but thoroughly drunk amongst the straw and feed in an unoccupied stall in the stables.

 

†

 

Harry’s anger had lost its volatile edge and was now simmering, waiting to be resurrected to its full passion. The deception had been one thing, but the death of his men had fuelled the vigour he put into locating the man he now wanted to personally tear limb from limb. Robert could have the pieces once Harry’s vengeance was complete. To this end he had not told Robert but, with difficulty, kept the information to himself. Among his men he tripled the value of the purse, ensuring that discreet and constant enquiries continued in an effort to locate the brother of Robert Fitzwarren.

Betsy remembered the blood; it had been on his shoulder. “Told me he’d been skinning rabbits, but I didn’t believe him. He was in a right hurry. I said to Nev, didn’t I, Nev, that I didn’t believe him, skinning rabbits and with a gentleman’s sword on his belt. Most like been skinning the owner of it if you ask me. That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Nev?”

Nev, the beleaguered landlord of the Swan, smiled weakly at his wife.

“Did you say where they were going?” One of Harry’s men asked hopefully.

“They asked which road to take for Hazeldene, I’m guessing that’s where they were heading. Well now, what’ll you be having, lads? This is an establishment after all,” Betsy said, smiling as one of the men dug his hand in his pocket for a coin.

The two men grinned at each other as Betsy filled a jug. This would be news that would indeed please their master.

 

†

 

Byrne had taken to Richard in a way the younger man found nothing short of annoying. At Hazeldene there was a distinct lack of male company. The sons of his first marriage were now gone, along with many of the male servants. He had a new wife, young and little more than a child, and she had added only women to the household and Byrne was now feeling more than a little outnumbered. Richard and the men he had brought to the Manor brought a male vigour back to the house, something that had been too long absent for Edward Byrne’s liking. The ruse he played on his new wife, Judith, helped. Passing Richard off as his cousin meant Byrne could indulge himself with the man’s company as an equal and not have to play Master, as he knew he should.

When Edward looked at Richard, he could not help but feel sorrow at his own lost youth. His once athletic frame had sagged and the sharp and agile mind he had taken such pride in had begun to desert him. The effect Richard had on Byrne was to force his sluggish brain to think once again. He spent hours now, seeking out ideas and running them to their various conclusions in his mind. And this was where his current problem now lay. More and more did his thoughts dwell on Northumberland, and no longer as the inevitable victor in a race for control of the crown. Richard had forced his lazy mind to consider the outcome. Mary he had always perceived as old, Catholic, unpopular, and merely a reminder of a bygone era, lacking support or the authority to direct anyone.

Northumberland, on the other hand, was already in favour: beloved of the dying monarch, Edward, and influential with the powerful. That he should champion Edward’s choice for his successor had seemed natural. Until now, the only issue for Byrne and his confidants was how to help. And, more importantly, how to ensure that as the Duke rose, they too would rise as well. They saw the Duke for what he was: a self-seeking nobleman with a lust for more power than was his right. But they allowed him his greed, as long as they too could all scramble aboard the royal train and take a controlling role in the nation’s affairs.

But Byrne had been listening to Richard and had begun to credit Henry’s eldest daughter with more intelligence than he had previously given her. He had been surprised to find out that Mary, her loyalist supporters around her, had gone into retreat. He wondered if she knew how mortally ill Edward was. Richard was sure she did and thought she was more aware and better informed than the Duke believed. It was known that Mary and Edward got on passably well. Byrne had heard this and had, in his ignorance, attributed it to an old lady’s desire to keep her pension. Richard had raised his eyebrows when Byrne had said this and then laughed uproariously. Mary might, Richard said when he had stopped laughing, be playing just as critical a political game as Northumberland, albeit in skirts. The more Byrne considered it the more he had to admit that the woman might be more of a threat than he had ever thought her to be.

Byrne had met with Lord Whickham who had the role of coordinating some of the conspirators. “Communication,” he had emphasised to Edward Byrne, “is essential. We must all be aware of the time when it nears. Your Manor lies in a line,” Whickham had prodded the map, “with Percy here, London here, myself here, and…” His finger had hovered for a second over the map as his geography temporarily eluded him. “Ah yes, and Darcy here.”

Byrne’s face had fallen as Whickham informed him that they proposed to use Hazeldene as a central point where they could have meetings and from where news could be circulated amongst them. Hazeldene would be used to pass on the direct news of any move Northumberland himself made. Byrne had quickly realised that this would link him too closely with the plot; should any of this become known, he would easily be identified as a ringleader. He guessed correctly that none of the others wanted to take this risk and that he had been nominated at some previous meeting, in his absence. He had protested; his Manor was not that convenient, arguing that surely Percy was best placed for this task? But he was overruled.

“We’ll need a network, Byrne, and I think you’re just the man to set it up,” Whickham had said.

Byrne had smiled bitterly at that. Whickham gave him names of men, members of the conspirator’s households who could, he hoped, be trusted, and would transport the information. Byrne had ridden back from the meeting with a heavy heart and a sense of dread. However, the journey gave him the time he needed to think, and when his horse breasted the opened gates at Hazeldene, he had found a solution. Now all he needed to do was find the man to carry it out.

Edward found Richard perched on the low wall at the back of the stables, the last rays of the afternoon sun still warming him. “Your man said I could find you here.” He sat next to Richard. “I’m just back from Whickham and I have work for you.”

Richard’s face showed mild interest as Edward handed the paper Whickham had given him along with the instructions, the very ones which were to have been his to carry out. He added his own twist, telling Richard he wanted him to organise the meetings and transfer information from Assingham, a neighbouring house, hoping to draw attention away from his own involvement.

“You’ll have seen the place, about a mile and a half distant,” Edward said.

“He’s not on your list.” Richard was still scanning the paper.

“Who’s not?” asked Edward confused.

“The owner of Assingham,” Richard replied, “Peter de Bernay, I believe.”

“Of course he’s not,” Edward said condescendingly. “He’s Mary’s man. But he’s been away for months and not likely to return. His lady is there and a few servants.”

“I fail to see why we risk sneaking to an unfriendly Manor to pass information. We risk being seen and followed,” Richard commented, refolding the paper.

“Damn it man, no one will suspect that information is being passed from the Duke through one of Mary’s supporters! Anyway, I leave it in your hands.” Edward rose: the other man’s tempered gaze unnerved him. “You have your instructions.” He took his leave of Richard, eager to wash his hands of the matter. If all went well, everything that Whickham requested he do would be completed with nary a sign pointing to his involvement.

Richard watched him leave. Poor simple Edward, did he really think he could throw the scent of insurrection away from his own house by such a poor plan as this? Standing and stretching, he set off to find Dan. He had taken a fancy for a ride in the late afternoon sun.

Assingham came into view, not that it provided a pleasant sight for the eyes, the poor mean structure that it was. Its origins were probably Saxon, and it had not been treated to the Norman building scheme visited on Hazeldene’s past. A wooden-roofed stone hall towered over the ramshackle huts and walls of the Manor that ran from its flanks. All parts of the main stone building had been used as lean-to walls, saving materials and lending to the extensions some rigidity. Richard’s horse had drawn itself to a voluntary stand and he leant forward, arms crossed, elbows on the saddle, picking out the tiny movements in the distance which comprised the life at Assingham.

 

†

 

Richard had taken the signet ring from his hand and pressed it into the soft wax. Holding it between thumb and forefinger he laid cool eyes on the crest that stared back at him. It wasn’t the Fitzwarren crest, that ring sat still on his right hand. This one he had commissioned himself and the impression it left was unique, recognisable only to those within his network. The image it left was one depicting a double headed