Read Online A Pawn for a Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's (Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court) by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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convinced of that. When not traveling or otherwise prevented, I attended church once a week, as most people did, and in times of trouble, as Dale knew, I might say a private prayer or two. Mostly, though, I left religion out of my thoughts and conversation alike. The Bycroft obsession with it seemed to me like a distortion of the mind, and the savage attitude of the chaplain was frightening.
“I didn’t see you at dinner,” I said to Brockley. “I hope you’ve eaten. But if you’d been there, you would have heard the chaplain more or less damning the Protestant leader in Scotland to hellfire!”
“I daresay,” said Brockley, and as he replaced the dressing on the gelding’s fetlock, he gave his rarechuckle. “I’ve been hearing from the other grooms how the lady of the house goes down into Grimstone with comforts for the poor and to help the wives with their lyings-in and instructs them in the true religion practically without stopping. Some of them tell lies about when their babies are expected, so as to get it all over before she arrives to harangue them when they’ve other things to think about! But I think we’ll have to put up with it until tomorrow.”
There was nothing for it. “Very well,” I said, and went back to Mistress Bycroft, who sympathized with my anxiety to find my cousin and took me to her own room, so that we could both kneel down by her priedieu and offer prayers for a happy conclusion to my errand. The process, believe it or not, lasted three quarters of an hour.
• • •
We got away from Bycroft the next morning without anyone saying anything disastrous, and for a change, the weather was kind to us. The ride to the Thursbys at St. Margaret’s took us through some wild and barren hill country, but it went smoothly. Dale’s gelding was walking sound again, Dale was rested, and I felt hopeful. According to Helene, Edward knew the Thursbys well. He must have reached them the day before yesterday, but if he made a stay of any length anywhere, it would be with them. Once again, I was full of hope.
However, by the time we reached St. Margaret’s, just before noon, Dale was drooping again and her horse was once more showing signs of lameness. I was relieved that our ride was over. Like Bycroft, St. Margaret’swas defended, with an encircling moat and a curtain wall topped by battlements. It was a further reminder that the Scottish border was close. The Scots had a wild reputation. Cecil had once traveled to Edinburgh and he had told me something of the north. Their border had always been liable to trouble; it was a state of affairs that went back for centuries. Raiders still from time to time swooped across into England to seize sheep or cattle. The English pastures, on the whole, were lusher than the Scottish ones and the stock correspondingly fatter.
Once past the gatehouse and the frowning wall we discovered that St. Margaret’s, though it didn’t greatly resemble Withysham, was obviously a former abbey. I supposed that this explained its name. It was built around three sides of a cloistered courtyard, and adjacent to it was a chapel nearly as big as the house. I wondered gloomily whether the Thursbys were as pious as the Bycrofts.
But they were not. Euphemia and John Thursby turned out to be older than the Bycrofts but much sprightlier. They were a pair of small, jolly, rotund people, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, Robin and Robina Goodfellow in the flesh. (Aunt Tabitha did not believe in such things and once beat me for even mentioning them, but at Faldene, the servants had believed in Robin Goodfellow, the mischievous fairy who could either wreak havoc or confer blessings. They regularly placated him by leaving dishes of milk out for him at night, which the cats usually drank.)
The Thursbys were amazingly alike, even to the point that when they smiled, each revealed a gap to theleft of their upper front teeth. I was not surprised to learn when, after washing and changing I
“I didn’t see you at dinner,” I said to Brockley. “I hope you’ve eaten. But if you’d been there, you would have heard the chaplain more or less damning the Protestant leader in Scotland to hellfire!”
“I daresay,” said Brockley, and as he replaced the dressing on the gelding’s fetlock, he gave his rarechuckle. “I’ve been hearing from the other grooms how the lady of the house goes down into Grimstone with comforts for the poor and to help the wives with their lyings-in and instructs them in the true religion practically without stopping. Some of them tell lies about when their babies are expected, so as to get it all over before she arrives to harangue them when they’ve other things to think about! But I think we’ll have to put up with it until tomorrow.”
There was nothing for it. “Very well,” I said, and went back to Mistress Bycroft, who sympathized with my anxiety to find my cousin and took me to her own room, so that we could both kneel down by her priedieu and offer prayers for a happy conclusion to my errand. The process, believe it or not, lasted three quarters of an hour.
• • •
We got away from Bycroft the next morning without anyone saying anything disastrous, and for a change, the weather was kind to us. The ride to the Thursbys at St. Margaret’s took us through some wild and barren hill country, but it went smoothly. Dale’s gelding was walking sound again, Dale was rested, and I felt hopeful. According to Helene, Edward knew the Thursbys well. He must have reached them the day before yesterday, but if he made a stay of any length anywhere, it would be with them. Once again, I was full of hope.
However, by the time we reached St. Margaret’s, just before noon, Dale was drooping again and her horse was once more showing signs of lameness. I was relieved that our ride was over. Like Bycroft, St. Margaret’swas defended, with an encircling moat and a curtain wall topped by battlements. It was a further reminder that the Scottish border was close. The Scots had a wild reputation. Cecil had once traveled to Edinburgh and he had told me something of the north. Their border had always been liable to trouble; it was a state of affairs that went back for centuries. Raiders still from time to time swooped across into England to seize sheep or cattle. The English pastures, on the whole, were lusher than the Scottish ones and the stock correspondingly fatter.
Once past the gatehouse and the frowning wall we discovered that St. Margaret’s, though it didn’t greatly resemble Withysham, was obviously a former abbey. I supposed that this explained its name. It was built around three sides of a cloistered courtyard, and adjacent to it was a chapel nearly as big as the house. I wondered gloomily whether the Thursbys were as pious as the Bycrofts.
But they were not. Euphemia and John Thursby turned out to be older than the Bycrofts but much sprightlier. They were a pair of small, jolly, rotund people, red-cheeked and bright-eyed, Robin and Robina Goodfellow in the flesh. (Aunt Tabitha did not believe in such things and once beat me for even mentioning them, but at Faldene, the servants had believed in Robin Goodfellow, the mischievous fairy who could either wreak havoc or confer blessings. They regularly placated him by leaving dishes of milk out for him at night, which the cats usually drank.)
The Thursbys were amazingly alike, even to the point that when they smiled, each revealed a gap to theleft of their upper front teeth. I was not surprised to learn when, after washing and changing I
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