P. Chisholm - An Air of Treason

Carey paused. “Yes, I do. But not my Aunt Katherine.”

For a moment Cumberland couldn’t work out the inference and when he did he sucked in his breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Only not with surprise because, after all, there had to be something like that going on.

Carey’s father, Henry’s by-blow and the Queen’s half-brother, had brought Elizabeth Tudor to Cumnor Place, disguised in her half-sister’s plain hunting kirtle, probably wearing a black wig. The Queen had been at Cumnor Place on the morning of the 8th September 1560, the day her rival Amy Robsart had been killed.

Carey found he was gripping the banisters with his left hand, the fingers of his other pressed hard into his temples to try and ease the headache. Something inside him was fighting to be heard. After a moment he breathed deeply and relaxed because this still wasn’t the answer.

How could the Queen possibly benefit if her lover’s wife was killed by a crossbow bolt, especially if she was actually present? The Queen was the sharpest, most intelligent woman he had ever met, apart from Elizabeth Widdrington. Would she set an assassin with a crossbow to kill Amy Robsart and actually be there to watch? The idea was ridiculous.

He shook his head again and groped his way slowly down the stairs, followed by a silent Cumberland. As they went into the courtyard and he tied the scarf on again, pulled the brim of his hat down against the sunlight, he said quietly,

“I don’t need to tell you to keep quiet about this, my lord.”

“Christ, no!” said Cumberland with feeling, offering Carey his arm again. “I’ve forgotten already. You deal with it. I’d rather take on three Dutch sea-beggar fighting ships in a rowing boat.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Please don’t mention it again.” Cumberland said firmly and beckoned for Kielder to bring up the horses. Carey called Ross over and the swordmaster went over to the stairwell where Amy had died, came back with a heavy sack.

“Where are we going now?” Carey asked as he felt for his horse’s girth to tighten it.

“I’ve had men at Oxford setting up an encampment in a field north of the city wall, just past that alehouse with the good cider. It’s handy for the Schools and Balliol, there’s a stream and it’s not too marshy. We’ll stay there.”

“Why not in one of the colleges?”

“Don’t be wood. Unless you fancy going three in a bed with strangers…”

“No, my lord,” said Carey, climbing into the saddle with much more effort than usual. He was suddenly infernally tired, was thinking longingly of going to bed, alone, and staying there. “I’ve done that.”

Cumberland laughed.

It was only three miles to the outskirts of Oxford but by then Carey’s head was having nails pounded into it by invisible carpenters. The bedlam of Oxford’s streets didn’t help. The High Street, Cornmarket, and Broad Street were filled with scaffolding, stages, fences, and the noise of hammering and shouting made Carey feel physically sick again. He set his teeth, drove his horse on and let the animal follow Cumberland’s lead. At some stage the Earl must have quietly put a leading rein on the animal, which was humiliating, but otherwise Carey didn’t know how he could have stayed with the party. At last they turned aside through a gate and Cumberland shouted for grooms. Carey slid from the saddle, forced his knees straight and stood holding onto the horse’s reins, the world dissolving into a bedazzlement of light and noise that he could make no sense of. The horse dipped his head and nudged him, nickered with concern.

“Are you all right, Carey?” It was the Earl’s voice.

“Yes. No.” He had to admit it. “I need to rest.”

More bellowing by Cumberland, who seemed to think there was a gale blowing, and a man with a comforting Glasdale accent arrived to lead Carey to a tent behind the main ruckus, and to a pallet laid on a bed of sweet rushes. The man helped Carey with his doublet and boots, helped him to drink more mild ale and gave him a magnificent bear fur rug which he pulled over his head to keep out the light.

Despite the frightening exhaustion of his body and the pounding in his head, Carey’s mind was whirling. Could the Queen have got to Cumnor Place that day? If she had been hunting at Windsor Castle, she most certainly could. In her late fifties she could still ride like the wind for hours and leave her courtiers behind in the hunt. Windsor to Cumnor was only thirty miles and with a remount she could have done the distance in a few hours. But why? For what conceivable reason could she have disguised herself in Aunt Katherine’s hunting kirtle and ridden out with his father to see her lover’s wife?

Not to kill the woman. That didn’t make sense. Thirty years ago, the Queen had been much younger, of course, so probably more impatient, more ruthless, less cautious…but…

Unlike Mary Queen of Scots, she had a brain. He couldn’t believe she had plotted to kill Amy. Although Henry VIII had committed judicial murder of inconvenient women at least twice in his marrying career, Carey couldn’t believe it of the Queen. Not for morality’s sake, but for expediency. What a king could get away with, a queen couldn’t, as the Queen of Scots had proven.

He needed more evidence, and to talk to more people. Could Thomasina fetch him Topcliffe? Would Topcliffe tell him the truth if she did?

And he simply must do something about finding Dodd, who must either have headed straight for the Border with his loot or got into serious trouble. If ever he needed to be up and about, now was the time and his bloody eyes and head and body weren’t cooperating.

And who had poisoned him? Emilia? Surely not. Hughie? Unlikely. Someone unknown? Why? Emilia perhaps? He knew his father would have taken care of the lad and intended to find him as soon as he could, ask a few questions. He would be sure to warn the Earl of Essex, though there was no chance Emilia would try to poison the Earl. However it would be embarrassing for everyone if other bidders for the management of the farm of sweet wines suddenly started dropping dead.

Carey awoke once into daylight, heart pounding. Sunlight was shining through the canvas of the tent, he could see the shadow of a man sitting by the flap and another on the other side to stop anyone coming in that side. Although the painful light made him shut his eyes immediately, he smiled, quite comforted. George Clifford had a simple view of most things and a mysterious assassin was one of them. You put men in the way.

Something had woken him. Something loud in his mind, but there was no sign from the two men on guard that there had been a real noise of a blade slicing through a neck.…And his heart was beating like a drum, his shirt drenched, cold shivers down his legs.

Christ! It was the half-remembered fever dream from Saturday night. Or no, it was another installment of it. He had been shaving himself carefully in a small mirror in…Yes, definitely a stone cell, though quite well lit. His hand was steady, but looking into the mirror he had seen an older man, hair retreating a little up his temples, streaks of grey in the chestnut, a pouchiness to his face that he had seen in men who drank too much too often. His shirt collar was frayed and had been badly darned. He was facing the axe, he knew it, was sad about it but not angry. He had made many stupid mistakes and had unforgivably let himself be talked into rebelling against his royal cousin and aunt. He could not quarrel with the sentence, only hoped the headsman would be good at his job. If only Elizabeth Widdrington…The face in the mirror stopped pulling the razor over the sides of his face and just stood staring. If only he had married Elizabeth Widdrington.