Read Online Queen Without a Crown by Fiona Buckley - Free Book Online
Authors: Fiona Buckley
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lost comrades, I suppose, madam. That fellow of Cecil’s, John Ryder – you know the one?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ryder, a retainer in Cecil’s employ, had accompanied us on more than one of our missions. He was about Brockley’s age and had changed little since I first met him, seven years ago now. I had seen him the previous summer, and except that he was now completely grey instead of partially, he still looked the same, fatherly and reliable. I liked him; we all did.
‘I’m as sure as I can be that I met him in France, in King Henry’s army. He was a captain there. We had a mutual acquaintance, a Cornish fellow called Trelawny, Carew Trelawny. It’s odd. I haven’t thought of him for years, but somehow he’s been in my mind lately. He was the most resourceful man I ever came across. When we lost touch with our supply wagons once on a march through France, we had to camp out in a wood, in the wet, and make ourselves rough shelters. He had a knack of looking at a tree and saying: That branch is the right shape for a ridge pole already; all we have to do is lop it. He’d seen what the rest of us hadn’t. And there was the time the mule harness broke on one of the wagons. It was rotten old harness; even knotting it up wouldn’t have been any use . . .’
Brockley’s voice tailed off a little, and his eyes by now were reminiscent. He was looking back into the past, into his youth. Then he focused on me again and smiled his rare smile. ‘But we were near a cottage where someone was growing peas. There were pea-sticks, fixed together with a strong twine, quite a lot of it. Carew saw it straightaway, and in a trice he was over the fence and grabbing the twine. It repaired the harness well enough to get us to the nearest leather-worker. Though,’ Brockley added, ‘next day, after a skirmish, an old biddy called him all the names under the sun – in French, of course – because he stole a shirt she’d hung to dry on a bush in her garden, so as to make bandages in a hurry.’
‘I can’t help feeling,’ I said, ‘that your friend Trelawny may have made himself unpopular with some of the French peasantry! After all, there was one poor man trying to grow peas, to help feed his family, no doubt, and another poor woman trying to keep her husband’s clothes clean, and he just walks up and seizes their things!’
‘True,’ said Brockley. ‘But he did have a way of seeing that things made for one purpose can work just as well for another. It came in useful time and again. They were grand days.’
‘You’re a fraud, Brockley,’ I said. ‘You are always telling me that I should live a quiet and dignified life, and all the time you’re secretly hankering to go on campaign in the rain and steal things from peasants’ gardens.’
‘Well, there’s this,’ said Dale, still stitching furiously. ‘You’ve said now that you won’t go if I’m against it, and I am! I’ll be down on my knees this evening, thanking God for it.’
‘Don’t thank him too soon,’ said Brockley with another sudden grin. ‘You never know!’
We were interrupted just then as Hugh came in. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it’s time to give Meg a rest from her studies. She’s translated quite enough Latin for one day. Arbuckle would like to see her, and why not now? Before I went to find him, I called on the gentleman whose wife he has just painted and saw the picture. I was impressed. It was as good as that miniature that Mark Easton showed us – rather like it, on a bigger scale. Arbuckle isn’t cheap, but I think he could be worth what he charges. Shall we rescue Meg and set off at once?’
Meg, who had been at her books all morning, was glad enough to leave off, and Dr Lambert, who wasn’t young, also looked thankful. In return for taking a note to Mark, giving a brief account of my interview with Sterry and Madge, I gave Lambert the rest of the day off and instructed Dale to brush Meg’s hair and help her into a
‘Yes, of course.’ Ryder, a retainer in Cecil’s employ, had accompanied us on more than one of our missions. He was about Brockley’s age and had changed little since I first met him, seven years ago now. I had seen him the previous summer, and except that he was now completely grey instead of partially, he still looked the same, fatherly and reliable. I liked him; we all did.
‘I’m as sure as I can be that I met him in France, in King Henry’s army. He was a captain there. We had a mutual acquaintance, a Cornish fellow called Trelawny, Carew Trelawny. It’s odd. I haven’t thought of him for years, but somehow he’s been in my mind lately. He was the most resourceful man I ever came across. When we lost touch with our supply wagons once on a march through France, we had to camp out in a wood, in the wet, and make ourselves rough shelters. He had a knack of looking at a tree and saying: That branch is the right shape for a ridge pole already; all we have to do is lop it. He’d seen what the rest of us hadn’t. And there was the time the mule harness broke on one of the wagons. It was rotten old harness; even knotting it up wouldn’t have been any use . . .’
Brockley’s voice tailed off a little, and his eyes by now were reminiscent. He was looking back into the past, into his youth. Then he focused on me again and smiled his rare smile. ‘But we were near a cottage where someone was growing peas. There were pea-sticks, fixed together with a strong twine, quite a lot of it. Carew saw it straightaway, and in a trice he was over the fence and grabbing the twine. It repaired the harness well enough to get us to the nearest leather-worker. Though,’ Brockley added, ‘next day, after a skirmish, an old biddy called him all the names under the sun – in French, of course – because he stole a shirt she’d hung to dry on a bush in her garden, so as to make bandages in a hurry.’
‘I can’t help feeling,’ I said, ‘that your friend Trelawny may have made himself unpopular with some of the French peasantry! After all, there was one poor man trying to grow peas, to help feed his family, no doubt, and another poor woman trying to keep her husband’s clothes clean, and he just walks up and seizes their things!’
‘True,’ said Brockley. ‘But he did have a way of seeing that things made for one purpose can work just as well for another. It came in useful time and again. They were grand days.’
‘You’re a fraud, Brockley,’ I said. ‘You are always telling me that I should live a quiet and dignified life, and all the time you’re secretly hankering to go on campaign in the rain and steal things from peasants’ gardens.’
‘Well, there’s this,’ said Dale, still stitching furiously. ‘You’ve said now that you won’t go if I’m against it, and I am! I’ll be down on my knees this evening, thanking God for it.’
‘Don’t thank him too soon,’ said Brockley with another sudden grin. ‘You never know!’
We were interrupted just then as Hugh came in. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it’s time to give Meg a rest from her studies. She’s translated quite enough Latin for one day. Arbuckle would like to see her, and why not now? Before I went to find him, I called on the gentleman whose wife he has just painted and saw the picture. I was impressed. It was as good as that miniature that Mark Easton showed us – rather like it, on a bigger scale. Arbuckle isn’t cheap, but I think he could be worth what he charges. Shall we rescue Meg and set off at once?’
Meg, who had been at her books all morning, was glad enough to leave off, and Dr Lambert, who wasn’t young, also looked thankful. In return for taking a note to Mark, giving a brief account of my interview with Sterry and Madge, I gave Lambert the rest of the day off and instructed Dale to brush Meg’s hair and help her into a
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