“The same has happened again, your grace?”
“Not entirely,” said the king, and smiled. “What has happened is a little different this time.” He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers and watching Nicholas over their tips. “You are already aware that Dorset is once again attempting escape from France, and following his mother’s instructions, intends to desert Tudor and return to safe haven back at home. His first attempt last year was intercepted and the French dragged him back and held him hostage. I believe his second attempt will prove no more successful, but if he succeeds in reaching our shores, someone must be waiting, ready to help should help be needed. Lovell has taken the eastern shore. You will go south.”
Nicholas bowed. “I will leave at first light tomorrow, your highness. On your grace’s previous orders, I have already begun investigating the situation, and have been given to understand that Dorset, should he avoid recapture at all, with take ship for the port of Weymouth, or for some more secluded beach in that vicinity.”
“I have been informed of another visitor to our green land,” the king continued. “Christopher Urswick has been involved more than once in conspiracies and errands involving Tudor, and is once again expected. He brings a letter of uncertain information, directed, so I believe, to Northumberland. He will land on the south shore sometime over the next four or five days. If my information is correct, which I believe it is, this letter must be intercepted at once. The king nodded, without pausing. “Others have been alerted, but since you will recognise Urswick from past occasions, I consider your cooperation of particular importance. I expect you to intercept Urswick and take this letter from him. You will then deliver it to me, or to Kendall if I am not at court when you return.”
“I am, as always, at your service, your grace.”
“You need not depart so soon, Chatwyn,” continued his grace, “Another two days, I think, and then head south. Detailed instructions will be explained by Kendall directly. For now foreign travel to Burgundy and to France must wait. It is the English countryside which demands your presence, my friend, and two separate missions, both of considerable importance, which I believe can be combined.”
Not far distant at the Chatwyn House in the Strand, David Witton was, from memory, mapping the route from Southwark to Weymouth and England’s southern coast, then listing those villages, towns and any smaller hostelries along the way which seemed of relevance to him. When a shadow slanted across the study’s doorway, David looked up quickly, turning the parchment over so that what was written there was no longer visible. He could deal with the smudging later.
It was his mistress who had come, and he stood at once, bowing slightly. “My lady? His lordship is not yet returned.”
“I know,” Emeline said, sitting herself at the other side of the small table from her husband’s squire and regarding him with what she hoped would appear as natural and friendly curiosity. “It is you I wished to see, Mister Witton.” She smiled. “I have a question to ask you.”
“Of course, my lady, if I can be of help.” David sat again, smoothing back the hair from his face. “Though I must warn you –”
“Don’t look so suspicious, Mister Witton.” Emeline folded her hands neatly in her lap and smiled again, a habit she had acquired with her father when wishing to see particularly innocent. “I’m well aware of my husband’s secret work and his loyalty to the king. How can I reassure you? Talking of Berwick, for instance, and the treasure taken abroad after King Edward’s death?” She paused, smiling again. “You see, I fully understand my husband’s work. So don’t worry, I shall not be asking about anything you feel you cannot answer.”
“My lady, forgive me.” He appeared no less concerned than before. “What his lordship imparts is his to decide.”
Emeline frowned. “This is something I cannot ask him. But we’ve spoken before, Mister Witton, and you’ve been ready to explain certain matters – the Chatwyn family, about this house, and the house you own yourself. My question is no more intrusive. You see, I know he’s about to leave on the king’s business. I simply want to know how dangerous this is going to be.”
David Witton looked down at the parchment he had turned over, which now rested at his elbow. “My lady, danger is always inherent. Yet unknown. Nor does his highness speak privately with me so I can know only as my lord informs me.”
“If I ask his lordship,” Emeline said, her voice low, “he will tell me there is nothing whatsoever to worry about, and to sleep easy. But I need to know the truth, Mister Witton, or I will not sleep at all.”
David cleared his throat. “I cannot say – not only because I cannot impart – but because I do not know.” He watched her face cloud into disappointment, and relented. “Far less dangerous than the business of the Scottish wars and the siege at Berwick, of that I’m sure, my lady. But somewhat more dangerous, I imagine, than his tutorship of the Lady Cecily.” He smiled, not noticing Emeline’s surprise, and continued, “but my lord is no unpractised simpleton, my lady. He has never been afraid, not that I know of, not even of the pestilence. Nor would his highness send a man on any errand if he thought that man incapable of achieving its ends with success.”
Emeline stood. “You have put my mind a little at rest, Mister Witton. I thank you.” She turned to go. “I expect his lordship to return late tonight. Am I correct?”
“Indeed, as far as I know myself.” David looked towards the small sunny window, as if his mind had suddenly wandered elsewhere. “The stars will guide him home, my lady,” he added softly. “As they always do. His lordship may travel far, and face danger for many reasons, but as the astrologers will tell us, we follow a destiny as best we can. “He bowed briefly again. “May I also assure your ladyship, that whatever happens I will be at my master’s side, watching his back, and doing everything in my power to keep him safe.”
She smiled. “Thank you, Mister Witton.”
“No thanks are required, my lady,” he replied. “I would lay down my life for my lord at any time and without compunction. He is everything to me.”
By late afternoon, with Nicholas and Adrian still gone from the house, Emeline was cuddled in her nurse’s reassuring embrace, her mother sitting still beside them in the small downstairs solar. The windows were open to the sunshine and a soft humming of bees floated on perfumes of lavender, rosemary and apple blossom. Sunbeams played like small transparent lemon clouds along the window casements and turned the glass mullions from muted green to glowing hazel. The baroness squinted, eyelids heavy in the glare.
Martha said, “Hush my dearest lambkin. Your little sister is safe, I promise you. Avice has a better head on her shoulders than you realise, my dearest.”
Emeline mumbled, “No she hasn’t. All she thinks of is new gowns and romance.”
“Quiet,” said the baroness suddenly, half rising from her chair. “Someone is coming, and there’s a deal of clatter and shouting outside. Is that just Nicholas returning? Surely he’s no need to make such a drama of simply coming home.”
Emeline jumped up and ran to the door as her mother ran to the window. “It’s Avice, surely. I’ll go at once to the stables –”
Cart wheels, the squeak of rusty hinges against wooden planks, a horse’s high pitched complaint and the stamp of hooves on cobbles, the wheeze of an oiled hessian awning flapping in the breeze, cart wheels again and ostlers yelling. Far too much noise and baggage for the simple return of Avice and Sysabel. Then finally a woman’s quavering objection. “My good man, I have not the slightest interest in your gout, your ineptitude or your very bad temper. Hand me down immediately. I must speak to his lordship at once.”