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

huge wheel turning ponderously on the side of the mill. The opening was enormous and the full width of the wheel could easily be reached from it. A cautious hand on the sill, Jack leant out and looked down at the enormous paddled wheel being turned by the constant flow of water from the stream.

“There are sluice gates, and they can be dropped in place to stop the water flow,” Guy pointed to them upstream from the mill.

“Why would you want to do that?” Jack shouted.

“If the wheel becomes damaged it won’t run smoothly and then the whole mechanism can be affected, that door in the corner gives you rapid access to them. Sometimes, especially during the winter, large rocks can come down with the water and they can break the paddles off,” Guy said loudly in his ear.

Jack, intent on making a rapid exit, headed for the door in the corner and the steps leading to the sluice gates. They were steep wooden ones, leading down to a narrow door at the bottom. Guy didn’t follow him, Jack noted with a wry smile. Opening the door, he could see beyond it the wooden gates that were held out of the water by a pulley mechanism, they could be dropped quickly to stop the flow of the river and the wheel. Water on the other side would back up until it was forced into a currently dry channel and diverted back to the main river.

 

†

 

It wasn’t a decision he had reached lightly, and he hoped it was not one he was going to regret. Jamie’s assessment of Guy was proving to be a little too accurate. The rent books confirmed favouritism towards his family members, merchants in Lincoln were all connected to him, and Jack was in no doubt that he would be getting well paid to ensure they remained the chief suppliers to Burton for everything needed to run a small manor.

A week ago Jack had instructed Froggy Tate, who he believed to be one of the less intimidating men in their group, to become Guy’s shadow. He didn’t want to turn the man off and then find out he couldn’t access his own cellars, with no idea which keys fitted which locks. To Guy he had told a different story, Froggy Tate was to ensure his safety, the implication being that the sometimes raucous troop of men under his command could not always be trusted.

Froggy had taken his work seriously, before long he knew the name of everyone of the servants who worked at Burton and what their roles were. He had poked his nose into every nook and cranny of the damp stone manor and was sure that it held no secrets he needed to know about.

Jack had summoned Guy to him, still uncertain about what he was about to do. If he did turn him off then the sole responsibility for Burton and its day to day management was about to fall squarely upon his shoulders. Jack groaned, he knew he had little choice.

Five minutes later Guy was walking through the hall, a look of shock on his face.

Jack’s report, when Richard received it, was extremely detailed. He has been busy, mused Richard, who for once found himself impressed with the results of Jack’s endeavours.

 

†

 

The spade sunk into the top crumbly layer of soil easily but stopped abruptly as the iron edge on the wooden blade struck solid, unyielding stone below. For the umpteenth time that day, Catherine used a word she would have been hauled before the Abbess for using. Removing the spade she tried again, and again hit something solid, jarring her shoulders painfully in their sockets. Kneeling down, she cleared the top surface to expose the rock. This one was too big to lift out. Wedging the spade under an exposed edge, she tried to prize it from its spot. It didn’t move at all. Too much of it was still held secure by the damp brown earth around it.

Catherine stabbed the spade down into the soil in a frustrated circle. The metallic clang that answered her told her how far the slab’s bulk extended. Scraping with the spade, Catherine cleared most of the surface soil away, allowing her to lever the rock from its earthy grip. The stone removed, she picked it up and hefted it to a pile of rubble at the end of the vegetable garden to be. Her fingers were sore. Splinters from the spade handle had penetrated into her palms and blisters stood out from the skin on the pads of her hands. The sun had begun to dip in the sky. Please, she prayed silently, let it be time to leave the fields for Vespers and, more importantly, after the church service, a meal.

“Laborare est orare,” the Abbess had said. “To work is to pray,” and had ordered Catherine to work in the fields. It was not her normal daily pastime, but she supposed she had brought it on herself. A sour attitude and her thanklessness for the temporary home provided to her had led her to incur the displeasure of the Abbess. She could not remember the whole of the lengthy lecture delivered by the austere woman, who forced her to kneel on the stone flagging throughout, but “Laborare est orare,” she had been told would remind her of the need for purity in thought, word and deed, which, she decided, was wrong. All day she had stood outside and, on reflection, concluded she had very few pure thoughts at all. In fact, most of them were most definitely blasphemous. It was as well the Abbess was not able to read minds as well as the novice’s scrawled Latin.

The spade went in again. And again it struck a rock, her hand sliding down the rough-hewn handle gathered more splinters as trophies of “Laborare est orare.” Catherine threw the spade across the part-dug patch and sat down on the earth, her back against the pile of stones she had excavated. Closing her eyes, she allowed her muscles to finally relax. Stopping work was sure to bring her before the Abbess; some nearby tattletale would be quick to note her inactivity and report Catherine’s shortcomings. After her failure at labour, they would lock her in a cell, and in this weather, the protection of stone walls from the wind seemed most attractive.

 

†

 

“You have been with us…?” the Abbess paused, expecting the kneeling girl before her to provide her with the answer.

“Three months,” Catherine sullenly replied.

“Yes. And you repay our kindness and care of you like this? By contriving to be disruptive? Why, Catherine, why?” the Abbess enquired.

“I have told you, I am not…”

The Abbess cut her off. “Yes, not part of this order, I know. Not that line again, please, Catherine. It is becoming a little tedious, and you cannot deny the fact that this order has held out the hand of friendship to you, given you a home and, if you would allow it, a purpose in life. My dear girl, what do you want?” The Abbess waited but no reply came. “Should I turn you out of the abbey, free you as you perceive it? Where would you go? You are penniless, you would starve soon enough. You have to accept that the only home for you is here, with us. Accept that, and accept your life.”

Catherine continued to stare sulkily in front of her. “How do I know I have nowhere to go?”

“Well, it sounds as if the world of men may have destroyed your life. I have sent letters at your request, and we must await the replies. For the moment, Catherine, accept what the Lord has given to you: a good and productive life. Now, I am sure you have lots to think about and I propose you do so over the next few days. Go to your cell and remain there, then come back and see me on the morrow. I am anxious to hear your thoughts.” The Abbess dismissed her and Catherine hid a smile: no more digging.

 

†

 

Catherine lay on the hard bed and stared up at the whitewashed ceiling above her. It felt good to lie still. Outside she could still hear the noise of work around the abbey: the creak of the cart carrying firewood to the warming room, drawn, she knew, by the stooped form of Sister Agatha. It reminded her of the hard work required of the nuns. Distant kitchen noises met her ears, as did the pungent aroma of cooking as it began an assault on her, reminding her of an urgent need to feed her rebelling stomach.

Catherine turned on her side, away from the window, away from the abbey, away from the inhabitants, and stared fixedly at the wall. Should she give in? Should she make this her home? No, it was not her home, but then her home, Assingham, had been destroyed and everyone she knew slain. Probably her father was dead too, for she had heard no word from him yet, but there was still time; she just had to wait.

“I just want to go home, please God, please let me go home,” Catherine spoke aloud to the empty room, salty tears sliding down her cheeks, vocalising the silent prayer she had made every night since she had arrived.

 

†

 

Jack turned the letter over in his hand and then tossed it back on the table, where it had already lain for eight weeks. It was from Richard to Peter de Bernay. The contents he could only guess at, and he had been instructed to deliver it when he returned Peter’s daughter to Assingham. What Richard was unaware of was that Catherine’s father had been involved in one of the few skirmishes with Northumberland’s men and was numbered amongst the few who had lost their lives.

Jack had found plenty to occupy himself to avoid taking Catherine back to Assingham; it was a task that didn’t appeal at all. He knew he would eventually have to go, but not today. Jack delayed the journey until the letter was twelve weeks old, and only then did he find himself at the gates of St Agnes’s.

He was aware of the cold morning air, heavily laden with damp, which had already soaked into his riding cloak causing it to hang even heavier on his shoulders. Jack was still pondering Dan’s enigmatic words, hinting that there was some mystery here surrounding Richard. What it was he couldn’t guess at. His mother, he knew, had gone to the Abbey, but he had never known the woman and had never cared to find out anything about her. He would enquire after her this time. She had been a part of his father’s household and perhaps she could tell him something about his family that he didn’t know.

The abbey was in a quiet valley recess outside the village of Marsden and Jack saw its towering church spire for a long distance before he reached the main door.

“Well here goes, Jack,” he said to himself, and dismounted at the gate.

His presence was announced to the Abbess and he didn’t have to wait long until he was admitted to her private quarters. Bowing after he entered, he kissed her ring and then rising said, “It is good to see you again.”

She grinned a little toothlessly. Leading him to a chair beside the fire, she bade him sit while she busied herself pouring wine.

The lady saw no need to run through time-honoured pleasantries. “I can find little reason for you to come calling other