Chapter Four
Four days later, their small party set off for Lanercost Priory, home of Lady Jane Dacre. Maddy rode pillion behind Nicholas Ryder. Although she despised the man, she was happy enough to share his warmth. A footman accompanied them, leading a packhorse carrying her belongings. She wore a traveling gown with an overskirt to protect it, a woolen riding hood and cloak, and a scarf, leather gloves, and sturdy boots. The temperature hovered near freezing, but at least it wasn’t snowing.
The past few days had seen a flurry of preparations. Maddy had been measured for a wardrobe, since she’d arrived at the castle with nothing wearable. She now possessed newly stitched smocks, kirtles, skirts (one slashed), and three bodices. She had done much of the sewing herself, having always been handy with the needle.
Ryder thought it would look odd if she arrived without any personal belongings, so he presented her with a coffer and instructed her to choose from an array of goods he had laid out on his table. She was uncomfortable with this, being quite certain everything had come from families like her own, whose beloved fathers, husbands, and brothers had been executed and their property seized. When she’d asked Ryder, a corner of his mouth ticked up, and he’d given her what she had come to think of as his do-you-truly-expect-me-to-answer look: a cold-eyed stare and a slight rise of his brows.
She chose a couple of goose quills, a penknife, and an inkhorn. “Is that all, mistress?” Ryder asked. “I’m sure Lady Dacre will provide you with writing supplies. What about this necklace?” He gestured toward a chain strung with enameled flowers, with pearls set in between. It was lovely, certainly of higher quality than anything she’d ever owned.
It was tempting, but she couldn’t accept it. “Nay, I do not want it. Someone like me would not own jewels, and it must have been precious to the lady from whom it was stolen.”
Ryder shrugged.
As Maddy’s eyes swept the table one last time, she noticed some embroidery supplies. Linen fabric and a few hoops of different sizes. Next to them were a needle case and a hempen bag filled with silks of different colors. “I shall take these,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “If I must sit with Lady Dacre while she stitches, I may as well do the same.” In truth, needlework was a great pleasure of hers. She did feel a pang, though, wondering what had happened to the lady to whom these once belonged.
“Good.” He nodded in approval.
While she had sewed her clothing, Ryder had often circled the chamber, bombarding her with suggestions and counsel about her demeanor (sober), habits (circumspect), speech (submissive), and appearance (unremarkable). Now, as they rode alongside the sere fields, he told her a little of the Dacre family history.
“Sir Thomas married Jane Carlisle late in his life, only a few years before he died. She was an heiress, thus enriching him further, and she inherited a generous portion of his estate. Your living situation should be quite comfortable. I don’t believe you’ll be treated as a servant, which you so disliked at the home of your sister-in-law.” Puffs of frosty breath shot from his mouth as he spoke. Maddy was not sure if he was being sarcastic or merely stating a fact.
Ryder had turned his head toward the side so she could hear him, and this afforded her an opportunity to study his profile. His face was narrow, a young man’s face—skin taut and unmarked. She judged him to have about thirty years, but he may have been younger. His curling hair and beard verged on black. Nose straight, except for a slight bump in the middle. Although she couldn’t tell from his profile, she recalled the unusual clary sage color of his eyes. She had noticed that the first time she’d sat before him as his captive, because they were quite extraordinary.
“The Lanercost Dacres are Protestants, awarded the priory after the Dissolution for their loyalty to the king. They are estranged from the Naworth Castle Dacres, who remained Catholic. At present, nobody is living at Naworth. Leonard, as you know, has fled to Scotland, and his brothers have been banished for their suspected role in the rising.”
“Ah, yes, banished, disgraced perhaps, but not executed. The queen needs the use of their land and property until their death. Not so for the rank-and-file foot soldiers.”
He turned his head abruptly, spurring his mount into a canter, and she had to throw her arms around his waist to keep her seat. The warmth of his body felt better than it should have. She regretted her impulsive comments, because talking made the journey more bearable. Maddy again reminded herself that Master Nicholas Ryder was no friend of hers. She recalled his disdain for her, his cruelty when he’d told her of Ann’s death. No, she should converse with him as little as possible, and most assuredly should not be admiring his handsome visage, nor enjoying his nearness.
There could not be much else that he had not already told her about the Dacres, in any case. They rode in silence until sometime later Ryder said, “We are near Brampton. Lanercost is not far.”
“Aye.” Her spirits were low. The thought of being left at the priory to fend for herself was daunting, since, despite the store of facts Ryder had drilled into her, she still possessed only a vague notion of what she was meant to accomplish. And Maddy much misliked helping the queen, who had given the order for the executions.
Not long after, they rode through Brampton. A few shopkeepers had their wares out under their signs, though they themselves were sheltering indoors. She glimpsed a mercer, glover, and shoemaker, and farther along, a carpenter, tinsmith, and wheelwright. Not many people were about; it was too cold. Ryder bestirred himself to point out Church Street, where his family home was situated.
And then, in the distance, there was Lanercost. They crossed over the Abbey Bridge and rode under the arch of the gatehouse. The gray stone buildings of the priory spread out before them. Farm buildings stood to the south of the road, and they passed those first. A few brindled mongrels gave chase, barking at their heels. The church, once for the use of the Augustinian canons in residence, was now a parish church, Ryder had said. It dated from several centuries ago. Ryder walked his horse up to a two-story building and stopped.
“I believe this is known as the vicarage. It was renovated by Sir Thomas as part of the residence for the family.” After he dismounted and handed the reins to a stable lad, Ryder lifted Maddy down from the pillion.
She said nothing. Her stomach was quivering with trepidation. Something occurred to her, and before he turned toward the entrance, she grasped his arm. “You said they were Protestants. Do they know I am a Catholic? Do they know about my brother and my participation in Dacre’s raid?”
His expression briefly softened before assuming its usual mask of indifference. “No. I thought it best to let you decide if and when to inform Lady Dacre of your family history, or anything else personal in nature. If she seems sympathetic, you may decide to confide in her, but religion is a topic you should steer clear of.” He looked at Maddy with bewilderment. “God’s wounds, mistress, never tell anybody you’re of the old faith! As I said before, I doubt she will be interested enough to inquire about such matters.” He turned, then spun back. “Do not forget; she thinks we have ridden over from Brampton.” Maddy nodded, and they ascended the circular steps to the entrance.
A female servant welcomed them into an entryway of small proportion. “My lady will receive you in the drawing room.” They followed her up a staircase to a first-story gallery, hung with portraits that could only be of various Dacre ancestors.
They entered a comfortable-looking chamber with south-facing mullioned windows. Good. The room would be warm. Two upholstered chairs were positioned before the fire, and from one of them rose a woman whom Maddy took to be Lady Dacre. Two men were also in the room, sitting at a chessboard, and they got to their feet as well.
“Lady Dacre, I am Nicholas Ryder of Brampton. I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance until now, although your late husband was well known to my father.” He gave an impressive bow. Here was a side of him she’d not seen.
“Master Ryder. I trust your journey was safe and pleasant. As much as was possible in this dreadful cold.”
“It was but a short ride from Brampton, my lady.” He turned and, taking Maddy’s hand, drew her forward. “May I introduce my relation, Mistress Madeleine Vernon? She is come to provide assistance in whatever way you should require.”
Maddy curtsied low, as gracefully as her not-quite-healed ankle would allow. She could sense the older woman looking her over before she even rose.
“Mistress Madeleine, welcome,” Lady Dacre said, surprising Maddy with the warmth in her voice. “I am glad you are joining our little household. You and I will talk later about your duties.”
“Thank you, Lady Dacre.”
She glanced at the two men, which apparently was sufficient inducement for them to come forward. “My stepson, Christopher Dacre, and his friend up from London, Thomas Vine.”
Jesu. She knew this man, and his name was not Thomas Vine. She’d stake her life on his never having stepped foot in London. But she did not dare let on.
The men gave their requisite bows, and Maddy curtsied. Dacre was the elder, with mud-brown hair, sallow skin, and a sparse beard. But he had a pleasant enough smile. “Lady Dacre is in need of female company, mistress. Welcome.”
“I’m happy to be of service,” she said, keeping her gaze squarely on Dacre, feeling as though a wild animal had sneaked up on her, ready to pounce. Had Nicholas Ryder sprung this on her for some fiendish purpose of his own? Did he know who Vine really was?
“Will you take refreshments before departing?” Lady Dacre asked Ryder.
He hesitated, no doubt weighing up the advantages of leaving before the early winter darkness fell, against those of common courtesy.
Pray do not desert me yet.
Courtesy won out. “Most gracious of you, Lady Dacre,” Ryder said. She opened the door and ordered food and drink, and Maddy risked a quick glance at Vine, whose true name was John Musgrave.
To her dismay, he was looking right back at her, his mouth curving in a brazen smile. Her heart quickened. The man was as fearsomely attractive as ever. He wore his dark blond hair long. It was streaked with lighter strands, most likely from his work being much out of doors. Running cattle, burning fields, and generally harassing innocent citizens usually took place outside. Although Musgrave had cleaned up for his visit to the vicarage, he still had the scruffy outlaw look about him. The look she had found irresistible at one time.
Maddy forced her gaze back to Lady Dacre.
Fashionably dressed in a slashed gown, she moved with an easy grace. She wore a partlet at her bosom and a small starched ruff around her neck. She was a short woman, her age hard to guess. Possibly as old as sixty, but she appeared to be in good health and not at all the termagant Ryder had warned Maddy of.
She led them to a small dining room, adjacent to the drawing room. “Our kitchens are in the tower, and we eat in the hall if we have a large number of guests. But with such a small party, we will sup here.” After she sat down at the head of the table, the rest of the party slid onto the benches, Dacre and Musgrave on one side, Ryder and Maddy on the other. She must keep her eyes down or on Lady Dacre, even though she longed to fix her gaze on Musgrave.
The first course was a salad, with a variety of lettuces and herbs and boiled eggs. With a nervous stomach, Maddy was hard pressed to eat anything, but it would be rude not to. Drenched in vinegar, salty and sweet all at once, it was delicious, and her appetite revived somewhat. They ate in silence for a time, until the second course was brought: salmon in a dill sauce and cheese tarts. While it was served, Lady Dacre asked, “Was your family affected by the recent unrest, sir?” Grateful this was addressed to Ryder and not her, Maddy waited to see how he would answer.
“Not significantly, my lady. Unfortunately, I lost a few dear friends who had thrown in their lot with the earls.”
Was this true? He had never said, but why would he share something like that with her?
“Fools, all,” proclaimed Musgrave. “They deserved what they got.” He banged his tankard down as if to emphasize the point, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Maddy itched to point out the irony of his standing in judgment of anybody else’s wrongdoing. But of course she could say nothing. Ryder only shrugged. “I suppose they had their reasons.”
“When men decide rashly to take up arms, it is their families who suffer,” Lady Dacre said, her lips thinning in disapproval.
Especially when the queen’s justice is cruel and wielded so swiftly. And when she steals your property afterward.
“And you, Mistress Madeleine? What of your family and friends?”
Maddy had just swallowed a sip of ale and coughed a little when she heard her name. What to say? She must tell a lie, probably the first of many. “No, my lady. I was not affected.” If Musgrave had heard about Robbie, she prayed he would keep his mouth shut. In his fake identity as Vine, admitting an acquaintance with her brother surely would seem odd.
“What circumstances cause you to seek employment, mistress?” she asked. “Are your parents no longer living?”
“They are both dead. My brother is wed now, with children, and living with his wife’s family. They were welcoming, but I could see there was not room enough for me. I wished to do something useful, in any case.”
“No room for you? I would think they would have done anything to accommodate you. Your help with a growing family would be invaluable.”
Maddy gave her a tight-lipped smile, having no idea how to respond to that. Let her interpret it as she liked.
Ryder asked if the rising had harmed their family, saving Maddy from further questions, at least for the moment. Christopher Dacre spoke between bites of salmon. “A few laborers and the son of a former cook joined with Northumberland. They’ve not been seen since. We do not know if they were killed, executed, or have fled over the border.” He made no mention of his close relation, Leonard Dacre, or his raid.
Ryder fixed Musgrave with a hard stare, one he had often used on her. “What is the London gossip about these events, sir?” Given the outlaw’s appearance, Ryder may be having doubts about his identity. Perhaps Musgrave had met his match.
The man took a long draught of ale before replying. “’Tis said the queen is furious and will send her army on raids into Scotland until she finds the rebels.”
“The Scots will mislike that,” Dacre said.
“Aye,” Musgrave replied. “She has other worries, too. Now that Moray’s been murdered, there is no regent. Who’s going to protect the little king?” He spoke of the infant son of Mary, the Scots queen. The babe had become king after Mary abdicated. The Earl of Moray was her brother, and this was the first Maddy had heard of his death. Ryder must have known, though.
“He belongs with his mother,” Lady Dacre said. The unfortunate Mary, after a series of scandals, had been taken prisoner in Scotland, her infant son torn from her arms. She stood accused of conspiring with the men who had murdered her husband, Lord Darnley, father of her child. Subsequently, she had married one of them, the Earl of Bothwell. Somehow, she had managed to escape and make her way to England, where she’d become Queen Elizabeth’s prisoner. Lady Dacre’s expression of sympathy for the Catholic Queen Mary was surprising.
“A new regent will be appointed in due time, I’m sure,” Ryder said. “Any other news?” He was trying to act as though his interest was merely casual, but Maddy knew better.
“The French and Spanish are of great concern to the queen and her councilors. Whether they’re right or wrong, they believe this rebellion might have provided reason for one or the other—or both—to think the time is ripe for an invasion of England.”
Maddy was shocked, perhaps naively, and stared at Ryder to see if she could gauge his feelings on the matter. His bland gaze told her nothing, as usual. How in God’s name was it possible that Musgrave was privy to any of this information? Was he inventing it?
Dacre broke in. “The rebellion was so ill considered, and such a failure, it is hard to see how the queen and her advisors could draw such a conclusion.” Maddy had to agree with that.
“Surely the queen must take any such threat seriously until they can judge the truth of it,” Ryder said with a lift of his brows. Dacre merely shrugged in response.
After a platter of figs and blanched almonds was brought in, along with wine, the talk turned to hunting, and the Dacres said they were having problems with locals poaching within the priory grounds. When the conversation began to flag, Ryder smiled and said, “It grows late. Will you excuse me? I must be on my way.” Lady Dacre rose, and the others did likewise. Ryder turned to Maddy and said, “Perhaps you may visit my father and me on market days?” Then he hesitantly glanced at their hostess. He played the game well.
“We shall bid you farewell, then, Master Ryder. Mistress Madeleine will have market day afternoons to spend as she likes.” She turned to Maddy and said, “Join me in the drawing room when you’ve parted from your cousin, my dear.”
“That is kind of you, madam. I won’t be long.”
A servant brought Ryder’s cloak. He and Maddy spoke nary a word until they arrived at the outer door and she slipped outside with him. A lad was bringing his horse, and the footman who had accompanied them to the priory was already mounted and leading the packhorse. “We have only a moment of privacy,” Ryder said. “Have a care around Master Vine. I do not trust him. He has the look of a border reiver about him.”
Because he is one. Should she tell him the truth about Vine? Not now. It would take too long to explain.
“Anything you may learn about the Scots queen, take note of. Even if it does not seem relevant. You must go inside. You are shivering with cold.”
Was she indeed shivering with cold, or was it apprehension? Despite her hostility toward Nicholas Ryder, she felt tethered to him. She understood how things lay between them. Maddy did not want him to abandon her to these people, especially not with John Musgrave in residence. Faint candlelight shone from the entryway window. It had begun to snow, and big, lacy flakes settled in his dark hair. “Will you ride all the way to Carlisle tonight?”
“Nay, only to Brampton. Are you well, Mistress Vernon?” he asked gently. His eyes reflected the candlelight, giving them a soft glow.
“I am…ready. Farewell. Go, before you freeze.”
He mounted. “Until Wednesday, then.”
…
The snow fell thicker, heavier as Nicholas rode toward Brampton. He kept his mount to a trot, slowing to a walk when the terrain grew perilous. In the darkness, he could not see icy patches.
Several things about Lanercost made him uneasy, and he misliked leaving Madeleine Vernon there. Lady Dacre, while welcoming, lacked warmth. Her son Christopher possessed a weak chin and a gimlet eye. But Thomas Vine topped the list of his concerns.
The fellow was an outlaw, an obvious conclusion given his unkempt appearance and rough manner. Nicholas had caught him leering at Madeleine more than once. Jesu, he should have given her a stronger and more specific warning. The lass was not experienced in seduction, he was sure, and may be too naive to know when a man wanted to have his way with her. A thought flitted across his mind and gave him pause. The first man to bed her, to teach her the ways of the flesh, would be lucky indeed. In a different world, Nicholas could be that man.
As he dismounted and walked into the house, he chided himself with the reminder that the only matter he should care about was the efficacy of the information she would obtain to aid their goals. Madeleine Vernon was not young. Many women were already wed at her age, and she was no fool. By the end of his ride, he had concluded she could hold her own with Thomas Vine. He threw his gloves, whip, and cloak to a bench and went in search of a warm drink.