EIGHTEEN

Pewter Plates and Olive Oil

What was arriving was food and, to our surprise, blankets. Annet and Ulverdale carried them, but with them were Lady Anne, Robby and the other man who had been briefly captured by Brockley and Trelawny.

‘We do not intend to harm you,’ Lady Anne informed us. I could still feel, all too well, the places where her whip had landed but Anne of Northumberland probably didn’t regard that as harming me. Indeed, the expression in her chilly eyes was very much that of a cat which knows it will never eat the pretty bird in the cage, but would dearly love to all the same. I was very much afraid of her.

‘Because you could be useful to us,’ she said, ‘we have to feed you and make sure that you don’t die of cold down here. Tomorrow,’ she informed us, ‘we shall move somewhere else and take you with us. Mistress Winthorpe will be glad when we’re gone, though she may be lonely. When I took over the house I made her send her own servants away, though I didn’t let her explain why.’

Some had probably guessed, I thought. Here, perhaps, lay the origin of the rumours which had alerted Lord Sussex and fastened suspicion on Ramsfold. I felt better. Inefficiency in an adversary is always cheering.

‘When we go,’ said Lady Anne, ‘she’ll be on her own. She may be able to persuade some of the villagers to come and sweep her floors and cook her meals, I dare say. She’s a poor thing,’ said Northumberland’s unpleasant wife disdainfully.

‘Where is she now?’ I asked. With an effort, I stretched for a blanket to pull round me, over my cloak. The warmth was wonderful.

‘Locked in her chamber,’ Lady Anne said. ‘Don’t look to her to rescue you. You will find enough food on the tray, I trust. There are also two goblets. You have my permission,’ she added with a thin smile, ‘to help yourselves to any of Mistress Winthorpe’s wine which appeals to you. However, we have also supplied a flask of well water.’

That was the end of the visit. Lady Anne, having said her say, turned away and they all left us. We heard the key turn in the lock.

‘Let’s see what they’ve given us,’ said Brockley.

There was bread, a bowl of bean soup, a stew with a reasonable amount of meat in it and a spoon each. There were goblets and the promised flask of water, too.

‘They do value you, madam,’ said Brockley. ‘They may even be a little frightened of you and your influence in Windsor.’

‘Lady Anne isn’t nearly frightened enough,’ I said, pressing my hand to my side where her whip had left its memory.

‘Did she hurt you much?’

‘It could have been worse, but only because my clothes are thick. I hate that woman. I want something painful and undignified to happen to her, as soon as possible.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Brockley. ‘We’d better eat this,’ he added. ‘Before they change their minds!’

We ate, drank some of the water and then prowled round the cellar to get ourselves some wine, though I had to move gingerly. Brockley, in a cleverly judged mixture of deferential manservant and loftily knowledgeable courtier, made absurdly pompous remarks about the rival merits of various wines. He even managed, once or twice, to get me to laugh. Brockley always denied that he had in him the makings of a strolling player, but he would have made a very good one.

‘After all,’ he said when we finally settled down again, blanket-wrapped and as far from the draught as we could manage, to sip our final choice of canary, ‘we’re not in mortal danger, and Trelawny is free. If only he gets safe away and gets help. Every time I hear a sound from above, I wonder if he’s been caught and they’re bringing him back.’

‘I hope he’s somehow exchanged that donkey cart for a horse,’ I said. ‘He won’t get far with the cart.’

Brockley said: ‘Wherever he is, he’ll need shelter soon. The night will be cold.’

The day wore tediously away. As darkness fell, we tried to sleep, without success. The blankets were little protection from the rough paving of our prison floor, and my bruises ached anew. Moonlight shone through the grating, casting a criss-cross pattern of black and white on to the paving stones.

We were both still wide awake when a shadow obscured the moonlight, something clinked against the grating and Trelawny’s voice said softly: ‘Mistress Stannard! Roger! Are you there? I’ve got your dungeon key.’

‘How in heaven’s name . . .?’ Brockley, shedding his blanket, was under the grating at once, his face upturned. ‘Trelawny? But how did you get back? What was that about the key? Where . . .?’

‘Here,’ said Trelawny, and with some difficulty pushed a big iron key through the bars of the grating.

Brockley caught it. ‘But how . . .?’

‘You went off with the donkey cart!’ I said, ignoring my stiffness, throwing off my blanket and coming to Brockley’s side.

‘No, I didn’t. I jumped into it, drove it off, fast as I could, round to the outer court and the gatehouse – which was open, I suppose to let the cart in in the first place. Anyway, I sent the donkey tearing through it and down the hill – those hounds in their pen were making hell’s own racket and the poor ass was only too glad to gallop away – while I jumped off and dodged into the gatekeeper’s quarters. It wasn’t too safe, but it worked out well. You chopped him down, remember, Brockley? I wasn’t sure he was dead, but I thought they might bring him back there anyway, to tend him or lay him out, in which case I’d hide under the bed and hope for the best. As it turned out, no one came in. It seems you and I killed both him and Hankin. Later on, peeping from a window, I saw them carry the bodies out of the front gate. I dare say they were local men with kin in the village and our charming Lady Anne didn’t want to be bothered with the burials. So there I was, nice and snug in the empty lodging. Very satisfactory.’

‘We thought you’d get right away,’ I said, astonished. ‘Why did you stay here?’

‘I wasn’t going to abandon you. Certainly, I’ve been here. One should always,’ said Trelawny sententiously, ‘make use of what is to hand. I once saw a comrade cornered in the parlour of a house we were looting at the time and killed outright by an enemy soldier. He’d lost his own sword in a skirmish outside, and he just never noticed that the parlour was practically a weapon store. There was a cloth on the table that he could have flung over the enemy’s head; there was a five foot iron candlestick with four candleholders on top and an ornamental spike in the midst of them, sharp as a spear, fit to run a man through. But he just backed up against the wall, shouting: Quick, Carew, I’ve lost my blade! and I couldn’t reach him in time. I slew the soldier from behind, but my poor mate was dead by then.’

‘Carew, will you stop burbling and tell us what now?’ Brockley growled.

‘I stayed in the lodging for quite a while,’ Trelawny said imperturbably. ‘I think some of our delightful hosts went chasing after the donkey cart. They must have been annoyed when they found it empty. I dined off the gatekeeper’s food. They did him well. I had cold chicken, new bread and some really good quality ale. I’ve had my sword taken away, but I found a spare dagger among his things. And I found his keys.’

‘How do you know this is the right key?’ Brockley asked. ‘And how did you know where we were?’

‘I heard someone say so when they were going out, chasing my donkey cart. Where are the prisoners now? one of them said, and another laughed and said: my lady’s shut them in the wine cellar. As for the key,’ said Trelawny, ‘I don’t think the gatekeeper could read. But he could draw. Each key hangs on a hook with a dear little picture drawn on the wall beside it. This was labelled with a picture of a cask. I reckon it’s the one. I grabbed a few other useful-looking ones as well, including the key to the hall and the gatehouse.’

‘Didn’t anyone come into the lodging to get them when it was time to lock up for the night?’ I said.

‘One must take chances sometimes,’ said Trelawny cheerfully. ‘However, the angels seem to be on our side, for a change. Nobody came for them. Ulverdale locked the gate. He’s got his own set of keys, I fancy. The big door at the top of the steps opposite the gatehouse has bolts on the inside and no lock at all. It was unbolted during the day, but I reckoned they’d fasten it at night, so before dusk I found a chance to slink in and hide in the hay store. Once I reckoned everyone was in bed, I prowled round and through the grating, I could hear you fidgeting and grunting so I knew you really were there.

‘Your cellar door opens into the hall, so to let you out, I needed to get into the house and I couldn’t. The key to the hall door was no use because that’s got inside bolts as well – this is a maddening house, bolts all over the place – and when I forced a window and tried getting in through that, I nearly got stuck. The lower mullions are all too narrow to crawl through. Thank God for the grating.’ He shook it. ‘At least I’ve got your door key to you.’

‘But how do we get away from here?’ Brockley demanded.

‘Easy. The stable and the harness room aren’t locked. I’ve already saddled our horses, and I’ve been able to open the side gates – they have inside bolts, but I was inside, after all. In the dark, I slipped through, went round to open the gatehouse and then slipped back. The hounds made a to-do, but they’ve been upset all day because of all the disturbance. No one paid any heed. We can ride straight out.’

‘Madam,’ said Brockley, turning to me, ‘we’re wasting time. Let’s be away.’

I made for the door and tried the key. Trelawny had made no mistake. It turned at once. I locked it again once we were through. Movement was mercifully easing my stiffness now. In front, just visible in the gloom, were the steps up to the hall. We emerged into it at the kitchen end, and Brockley, pointing, said: ‘That way. We can open the door to the courtyard from inside.’

We moved forward. By moonlight and the glow from the dying fire, we could see the central table, which still held a number of items carelessly left over from supper, and the dull gleam of the dusty pewter on the sideboard. We were halfway to the courtyard door when we heard a sound from the minstrels’ balcony at the far end, and then a voice thundered: ‘Stand!’ and on the instant, the gallery was full of people and light.

Halting in alarm, we looked up, to behold Lady Anne and Joan, both wrapped in fur-trimmed bed-gowns and holding up flaring torches. Between them, with a cloak over his own nightwear, stood Ulverdale, and in his hands was a crossbow, wound and ready to shoot.

‘Shoot the man. Not the Stannard woman!’ Lady Anne snapped, and the crossbow bolt shifted as Ulverdale trained it on Brockley.

Next to the sideboard, a window banged open and Trelawny’s face appeared. ‘Lackwits! Use what’s there!’ he shouted, pointing in frenzied fashion at the sideboard and the table.

In the same moment, Ulverdale loosed his bolt. Brockley seized hold of me and flung us both sideways, and the bolt missed. We collided with the sideboard, rattling the dishes. Brockley snatched a pewter platter from a shelf, and like a boy bouncing a stone on water, he launched it spinning, edge on, at the butler. It struck Ulverdale’s upper arm as he was reloading, with so much force that the butler yelled and dropped his weapon.

The crossbow went over the edge of the balcony and crashed to the floor of the hall, somersaulting towards us past the table. Brockley caught it up and threw it through the open window. I glimpsed Trelawny retrieving it and running off across the courtyard. Lady Anne let out a most unladylike oath, and she and her companions ran to the slatted stairs and jostled down them, intent on seizing us.

And then something happened, as strange as magic, as magnificent as the victory of Agincourt and beyond my understanding, then or now. I can only say that I will never, till the day I die, forget it.

Brockley and I were suddenly overtaken by a wild and unreasonable exhilaration, almost a hilarity, and at the same time, it felt as though our brains had fused into one. In the hectic minutes that followed we exchanged only the briefest of words, but we threw ideas from mind to mind as easily as though we were shouting them aloud. Trelawny had told us what to do, and now we did it as if we were one entity.

As our enemies ran down the stairs, Brockley seized one end of the sideboard and with a violent heave overturned it, scattering pewter plates and bowls and tankards across the floor. Then he veered round and in one powerful movement yanked the cloth from the table, tumbling more assorted objects including knives, spoons, half a dozen goblets and the silver salt on to the floor as well.

Whereat, and in response, I truly believe, to a picture in my mind which had sprung direct from Brockley’s brain, I snatched up a fallen knife, kicked a rolling goblet out of my path, leapt to where the pulley rope of the middle chandelier was attached to its iron ring and slashed at the rope. The chandelier plummeted down, smashing into the edge of the table and crashing down to the floor.

Our pursuers, who were now off the stairs and running up the hall to reach us, stumbled on the strewn dishes and found their way blocked by the sideboard. The two women dropped their torches, which fortunately went out instead of setting fire to the rushes. Near darkness, relieved only by the uncertain gleams of moonlight and embers, at once engulfed the hall. Lady Anne slipped on some stray object, landed on her back and for a moment was helpless, flailing and cursing amid the debris and the tangled skirts of her bedgown.

Joan and Ulverdale kept their feet, got round the sideboard and ran at us, but Brockley still had the tablecloth in his hand and threw it over both their heads at once. Unable then to see where they were going, they fell headlong over the chandelier. Exclaiming with pain and struggling to free themselves, they collided with Lady Anne as she was getting up. She staggered and sat heavily down again. I saw that Brockley was scooping up things which had rolled from the overturned sideboard, and I did the same. In the scramble I dropped the knife I had used for the chandelier rope, but I grabbed half a dozen pewter dishes and drinking vessels, before fleeing back with Brockley towards the kitchen end of the hall.

Here the shadows were deeper, and for a desperate moment we blundered about, trying to find the kitchen door. Behind us, the enemy disentangled themselves from cloth, chandelier and skirts and came hotly in pursuit, but the strange, united instinct which had hold of us had apparently made us read the future too. It had made us arm ourselves, even before we knew why. Turning, we held them off, making them duck and shy by bombarding them with our booty, once more spinning the plates to make them better missiles.

I threw all my pieces of pewter within seconds, but Brockley said: ‘This one’s sharp, madam,’ as politely as though he were serving me a new wine sauce at dinner, and thrust a platter with an edge like a blade into my hands.

‘Thank you, Brockley,’ I said with equal graciousness and whirled the dish at Ulverdale. It spun through the moonlight to hit the butler in the mouth, producing a muffled but – from my point of view – entirely satisfactory bellow.

At the same moment, Brockley sidestepped to avoid treading on something on the floor and I realized that the silver salt, which had the usual containers for extra spices including pepper, had come to pieces when it was flung from the table. Brockley had nearly trodden on the pepper pot. It lay in the moonlight, identified by the pattern of little holes in its silver lid. I suddenly remembered Sterry, joking that surplus supplies of pepper might be thrown in an enemy’s face. Catching up the pot, I wrenched its lid off and directed its contents at the foe.

We both sprang away, holding our noses. The enemy reeled about, sneezing, eyes streaming. Flinging the last of our dishes and vessels at them we turned again, this time saw the door to the kitchen in front of us and ran through it.

Like the hall, the kitchen was lit from moonbeams and the glow of a banked fire. And still it held, that mysterious union of our minds. The things we saw, we saw in a new way. They were such objects as you find in any kitchen: knives, graters, skewers, spatulas and tongs, mostly hanging on wall hooks; pans big and little; colanders, cauldrons and trivets; pestles and mortars; basins and jugs, some with lard or olive oil or pottage in them. We judged everything now by its potential as a weapon.

The door we had come through had no lock or bolt, but setting it ajar, Brockley sprang on to a stool. Without a word spoken I handed him a bowl of pottage, a colander and two pairs of tongs, which he balanced on top before jumping down, grabbing two sheathed knives from their hooks, handing me one and thrusting the other into his belt. I shoved the one he had given me into my hidden pouch. Some of the pepper must have landed on us, for Brockley sneezed. We found ourselves laughing.

Together, we ran to a little door out to the courtyard. This was bolted, but on our side. Brockley tore the bolts back while I, seeing a jug of olive oil on a nearby table, seized it and hurled the oil in a stream across the flagstoned floor.

Then we were out, just as, behind us, our pursuers, still sneezing, rushed in. Sweet in our ears was the crash of our booby trap and the sound of feet skidding on the oily floor, and the shrieks and curses (mingled with continued sneezes) which these joyous events produced. As we raced past the window of the kitchen, I risked a tiptoe pause to glance in and beheld Joan and Ulverdale both flat on their faces, while Lady Anne of Northumberland was sitting on the floor with her feet stuck out in front of her, a look of mingled rage and pain upon her face, cold pottage splashed all over her and an upturned colander on her head.

I was avenged for her whip. It was a glorious spectacle: one of the most splendid moments of my life.

Trelawny was waiting for us. In the interim, he had opened the stable gate wide and brought the horses out of the stable. ‘Couldn’t find Mistress Stannard’s side-saddle. You’ll have to ride astride, mistress. There’s been a bit of thaw during the day; likely enough we’ll get through now.’

‘Where’s that young groom?’ Brockley asked, seizing the bridles of his own horse and mine. ‘And what did you do with that crossbow?’

‘I threw it down the well. As for the stable lad, I found him asleep in a stall. I knocked him out and then tied him up. I was sorry to do that to a sleeping man, but times are desperate.’

‘Blanche!’ I said. ‘We can’t leave her here. Can’t we—?’

‘No, we can’t.’ Brockley seized Roundel’s nearside stirrup and thrust it under my nose. ‘Push your foot into this and get into that saddle. We can’t stop for Mistress Winthorpe or anyone else. We have to get away from here! Up with you!’

He had forgotten he was my manservant, forgotten to address me as madam, but because our minds were still linked I knew that he was intent upon saving me; indeed, on saving all three of us. I did as I was told.

As our pursuers recovered themselves and burst out of the kitchen door, we rode out of the side gate. Hooves skidded as we made the sharp turn to go round the corner of the house and Roundel nearly came down but miraculously regained her balance. At a gallop we emerged into the outer courtyard between the main door and the gatehouse. The hounds burst into a noisy howling, but we ignored them. The gatehouse doors appeared to be closed, but leaning from his saddle, Trelawny seized the big iron handle of the right-hand half and dragged the leaf back. As he had said, he had undone them in readiness. His horse snorted and reared as the heavy door went past its nose, and as soon as the gap was wide enough it plunged through. Brockley and I followed. An instant later we were racing downhill, hoping that our mounts would keep their footing on the slush and snow underfoot.

‘We’re away!’ I said.

‘I hope so,’ Brockley answered grimly, and at that moment, I saw that the moonlight around us had been augmented by a faint orange glow, so that we cast weak shadows ahead. I twisted round and saw that our foes had made contingency plans. Knowing that Trelawny was loose, they had feared that he would attempt a rescue. They had put a beacon on the watchtower. It was flaring into the night sky, signalling to someone, somewhere, to intercept us.

We could do nothing but ride for it. My bruises were throbbing again, but it had to be borne. We sat down hard in our saddles and drove the horses on downhill at the best pace we could manage. The path levelled out when it reached the belt of fir trees, and there we went faster, galloping through the wood and on through the village.

But it was more with alarm than astonishment that we saw, as we passed the last house in the village, that the beacon had done its work. Someone had been on watch for it. Blocking the track, where it narrowed between high banks, were ten or so mounted men, two of them holding torches aloft the better to see us coming.

The torchlight showed us their rough clothes, their small shaggy steeds and their haphazard weaponry of kitchen knives, a couple of daggers and one ancient sword. These were Blanche’s villagers. Plainly, not all the able-bodied men had followed their landlord to war, but some of those who stayed behind would nevertheless be supporters of the rebellion. Others might have their doubts, but feared for themselves and Blanche if they disobeyed their fellow villagers or Lady Anne, their landlord’s wife.

‘What now?’ I gasped as we automatically slowed our pace.

‘Ride straight through them,’ said Trelawny tersely, and then, startling us with a shout of ‘Laissez les allez!’ as though he were a marshal launching knights into the lists at a tournament, he once more threw his horse, regardless of the slippery going, into a gallop.

Brockley shouted: ‘You’re moon mad!’ but at the same time he, too, drove his horse forward, and so did I. Madness it certainly was, but it was our only chance. The horses answered us gallantly. In a moment, we were charging the enemy headlong. Crouching over my pommel, I smelt Roundel’s sweat and her mane blew across my face. An icy wind sang in my ears; mud and snow splashed over me, spurting from her hooves. Trelawny was on one side of me and Brockley on the other. Three abreast, the horses reaching for the ground as though they were trying to consume it, we tore on towards the row of waiting men, and I should have been terrified, except that the wild exhilaration of speed had wiped fear away.

As we neared our enemies, Trelawny shouted: ‘Keep galloping! Faster!’

Brockley cried: ‘Knives out!’ and from his belt jerked the blade he had snatched from the Ramsfold kitchen.

Fumbling in my skirts, I brought out the knife he had given to me, and I saw the gatekeeper’s dagger appear in Trelawny’s fist.

We bore down on them. I can imagine what we looked like; an oncoming charge which was clearly not going to slow down, let alone stop. The ponies our adversaries were riding had not been trained for war and shied, squealing, half climbing up the banks, taking their riders with them. We simply thundered through them.

From the corner of my eye, I saw someone wave a dagger at us, but Trelawny lunged with his own blade, and with a scream, the man fell from his saddle. Brockley and I brandished our knives, but we never had to use them. We were through and racing onwards, the hooves of the horses drumming and splashing. Our steeds were much faster than those we had left behind. Glancing back, we saw that we were not to be pursued. Trelawny burst into a soldier’s song.

It was all quite crazy. I was still full of the exhilaration of speed and triumph. As we galloped on, I shouted: ‘That was marvellous! Let’s go back and do it again!’

Trelawny stopped singing and began to laugh, doubling over his pommel. We all began to laugh. The horses shook their manes as if in wonder at the insanity of their riders. We were free. We were exhausted, our feet were going numb in their stirrups and our ungloved hands on the reins ached with cold, but we had escaped. We had the night and the moonlit snow to ourselves. We had information which must be delivered as soon as possible to the right quarters, but deliver it we would. We had no doubt of that.

Sobriety did not return until, when we had slowed down again to let the horses breathe a little, Brockley noticed that Brown Berry was moving unevenly. Carefully sheathing his knife and putting it back into his belt, he stopped us while he got down to examine the cob’s near fore. ‘It’s only balled snow again,’ he said. ‘Wedged between the frog and the shoe. I can get it out . . . There we are. That will make you more comfortable, my boy. I think we can take things more steadily now, anyway.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ said Trelawny.

Brockley, still stooping over Brown Berry’s hoof, turned his face upwards in surprise. I looked at Trelawny too, puzzled.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Listen.’

We did so. It was faint, but even as we cocked our ears, it grew louder. It was the baying of the hounds of Ramsfold, on our scent.