My wounds were not severe. Five days later, I was sitting comfortably on my bed, recovering from my exertions, when the door was opened. I had thought that it might be Susan, who had threatened to come and ease my sufferings, but soon, when I heard the loud voices, and then the clumping of steps on my staircase, I knew I was not to receive her careful ministrations. A pity, because I felt that a quick mattress-walloping would do me the power of good.
‘Still abed?’ Master John Blount sneered as he entered.
‘I have been grievously injured,’ I said piteously, holding up my sore and bandaged arm as evidence. I had paid good money for the attendance of a competent physician, and although he had made me faint when he drew blood, at least he had confirmed that I had many wounds and deserved to rest and recuperate.
‘You look well,’ George Loughgren said, entering behind my master.
‘Better than my nephew,’ Blount said drily.
‘What will happen to me?’ I asked. This was, after all, the thought uppermost in my mind.
‘You? Nothing. The queen has heard from Boxall that you have saved her from sedition and rebellion at the hands of Sir Edmund; Lady Elizabeth has heard that you saved her from the attempts of Bagnall to depose her as heir to the throne; you have been pardoned for the murder of Vanderstilt and the maid – so your life can continue as before,’ Blount said.
‘But Bagnall – he can speak his tale to the queen and make things difficult.’
‘Ah,’ Blount said. He looked thoughtful.
‘What?’
Loughgren peered at me. ‘He is no threat to you. Sadly, he failed to escape your house.’
‘He died at the hands of Peter, Vanderstilt’s servant,’ Blount said firmly.
‘No, he was alive when I left the place,’ I said. ‘Peter had already left.’
‘I think if you test your memory, you will discover that you are mistaken,’ Loughgren said, equally firmly. He was quite right. Suddenly I was quite convinced that Bagnall had died there.
‘Besides,’ Loughgren said, and now his face was quite blank, devoid of all emotion, if you understand me. ‘He is not to be missed. It is clear that it was he who captured poor Alice and murdered her. He thought she might be able to tell him about my shipments of arms. As it was, he learned nothing.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I said bitterly. Because, yes, I was bitter. Her death was a shameful, miserable crime. She was pure happiness, and did not deserve such an end.
‘We have Tom’s word on it,’ Blount said.
That thought made me shiver. I suddenly did not want to know more.
However, there was more for me to hear. Such as, Loughgren’s role as an intelligencer for Lady Elizabeth. He had been working for Sir Thomas Parry, collecting weapons for the lady to supply to her men, and to ensure that, should there be a dispute about the succession, she would have the means to defend her rights. Loughgren was one of those men whom Sir Thomas had made use of, and as always, he had not told others about his man. John Blount and Loughgren had discovered each other’s part in Parry’s scheming.
They departed soon after that. It was, I suppose, the reason for their visit. They had come to advise me that I was safe, that the story across London was that the servant – a known, evil lunatic, who had slain his master, slaughtered an innocent maid, and then, when accosted by Master Bagnall, had cut his throat as well – had died trying to flee to Holland.
It was all too easy to believe. I mean, who would doubt that a killer who has once enjoyed the pleasure of murder would not wish to experience that thrill again? And this man had taken three lives – or so the story stated. Except I was convinced that the foul old man was even now enjoying a comfortable retirement in Amsterdam at de Beaulieu’s expense.
I was angry at first. After all, it meant that the death of little Alice was relegated to that of a poor wench who was merely incidental. She had been such a vibrant, sweet-natured little thing, that ending the story of her life in this mean-spirited manner seemed a disgrace. It was a foul way to end things for her.
But a moment’s reflection made me reconsider. For one thing, it clearly ended Bagnall in a happy manner. If he had been allowed to live, the likelihood was, my life would have remained in danger. Perhaps he might have discovered who my real mistress was. He might have accused me, baselessly of course, of being an enemy to the queen. His death was, obviously, most convenient. Not only for me, but for Lady Elizabeth as well.
And there, of course, matters ended. Except stories do not end so completely and smoothly, of course. For soon the realm was to suffer fresh conniptions. First, the queen’s long-anticipated birthing never occurred. The poor woman, having yet again suffered all the grief and pain of pregnancy, was forced once more to endure the anguish of discovering that there was no child to bring peace to her unhappy soul. And shortly thereafter, she succumbed to a disease that brought an end to her reign.
And that meant that my life was to turn topsy-turvy once more.
But that story must wait for my next chronicle.