23. Phoebe

P HOEBE Newark-upon-Trent, Nottinghamshire, the same day

M Y FATHER, THOUGH THE day was warm, had lit the fire in his room. I told him lightly, ‘Logan will not thank you for that. He worked hard at wrestling.'

‘Did he?' Turning as I came into the bedchamber, my father smiled. ‘And where is he now?'

‘With Sir David and Hector. They went to have a walk around the castle grounds. The owner is an old friend of Sir David's who is travelling in Italy, I do believe. Sir David said he would not mind.'

‘And why are you not with them?'

I could not explain that properly. Not to my father. I said only, ‘I was tired. Besides, I wished to spend some time with you.'

His eyes weren't fooled. ‘You worried for me. That's not the same thing.'

‘You said you'd come to find me.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry. I had business to do.'

I frowned. ‘What business?'

‘It's finished, now.' He drew a chair beside the window for me. ‘Come sit with me. There are things I would say to you.'

He looked so tired. I shook my head. ‘You need to rest.'

‘It is important.'

‘What could be of more importance than your health?'

‘My soul,' he told me. ‘My eternal soul.'

It was strange to see him reflect upon something so serious while through the window the sounds of the fair drifted in – mingled laughter and music and snatches of brief conversation as people walked past in the square below.

‘Phoebe,' he said to me. ‘Sit.'

Trying not to show concern, I sat, and turned my chair to face him.

‘I've been thinking,' he began, ‘of Sunday's sermon. It has been a heavy weight upon my mind these past few days.'

I didn't understand, and would have said as much except he held his hand up in a plea for silence before he went on.

‘When Mary, Queen of Scots was held in prison here in England, she kept up a secret correspondence with her Catholic friends. It was a simple thing to intercept their letters and discover their conspiracies,' he told me, ‘but the spymasters of our late Queen Elizabeth desired to draw as many flies as possible into the web. They already had people with the skills to open all the letters to and from Queen Mary and reseal them so they could be read before they were delivered. What they wanted was a person who could take those unsealed letters and so alter them, by adding postscripts, say, and in a hand like the original, to lure more traitors to the light.'

I frowned. ‘I don't see how—?'

‘Suppose we intercepted a letter in which Queen Mary instructed a man to be somewhere at seven of the clock on Friday evening, to receive information. I might add a postscript telling him to bring along five of his friends, whomever he should choose, so long as they be well affected to the cause. No more than that.' He looked away. ‘No more than that. Except, of those five friends, I doubt that all of them had treason in their heart. And none would have been there at all if not for me.' He rubbed his forehead. ‘Anyway. I did the job that I'd been hired to do. I did it well, and men were drawn into the trap and hanged. And my reward for aiding in their downfall was our house at St Bartholomew's.'

I heard the shame within his voice, and felt some measure of it, too. It was no easy thing to learn, to know my father, who had always taught me that it was a sinful thing to tell a lie, had been a part of such an underhanded venture.

With a sigh, he carried on, ‘My lord Northampton knew, of course, what I'd done in the late queen's time. He told King James.'

I was not sure I followed. ‘Was the king then angry that you'd so deceived his mother?'

My father shook his head. ‘This king has not the sentiments of ordinary men,' he said, without explaining further. ‘No, he was not angry. He was interested.'

Then I was still at sea. ‘But what does any of this have to do with Sunday's sermon?'

‘The sermon turned upon the Lord's commandments, and how we must follow them to find our way to heaven. And what is the ninth commandment?'

‘?"Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour".' Even as I spoke the words, I saw my father's eyes begin to water, and my own mind cleared. I leaned to grasp his hand in both of mine. ‘But what you did was very long ago, and you've long since repented, and…'

‘It isn't what I did, my dear.' My father laid his free hand over mine, and pressed it lightly, as though I were the one seeking comfort. ‘It is what I'm doing now.' He did not let go of my hands, but he sat back into his chair and turned his focus to the fire. ‘Why do you think my lord Northampton sent me north with Logan?'

‘Why, to write down…' Then I began to understand. I said, more slowly now, ‘To write down what Sir David says.'

‘Except that's not what they did truly send me here to do. It's not what I've been writing. I've been crafting a confession of how he did kill Prince Henry, as my secret orders told me to.' The shame shone still more brightly in his eyes. ‘I wove some of Sir David's tales in, to be sure, but most of it was mine.'

I pulled my hands back, shattered. ‘No.'

‘I'm sorry, Phoebe. Please forgive me.'

‘No, you cannot do this. They will execute him. It's not right, you—' Breaking off, I looked towards the fire, then at my father's face, and realized what he'd done. ‘You cannot do this,' I repeated, with the certainty of one who knows the limits of the conscience of a person they do love.

He shook his head. ‘No, I cannot bear false witness against any man, much less a good man like Sir David. I have burned it all.'

I flung myself against him as though I had been a little girl, and sank into the reassurance of his warm embrace. ‘I'm glad,' I told him, as he stroked my hair. ‘But why agree to such a terrible arrangement in the first place?'

‘Why, for you, of course. You are the thing I hold most dear, most precious, so what else could make me strike the Devil's bargain?'

I felt certain I would not like what came next. ‘What was this bargain?'

‘I compose Sir David's false confession, and my lord Northampton will arrange for you to marry Valentine.'

That brought me upright, and my father said again, ‘I'm sorry, Phoebe. But I cannot do my part, and so the bargain will be broken. We shall have to find another way for you to have your life of ease at court.'

I told him, ‘I don't mind, believe me. I don't wish to marry Valentine.'

He viewed me with new interest. ‘No? When did your heart change course?' And then, ‘On second thought, there are some things a father need not know. It is enough for me to know your heart will not be broken, and that I've not lost your love.'

‘You never could lose that,' I promised, and settled myself once again in my own chair. My father looked content, but there was still one thing that troubled me. I asked, ‘Did Logan know what you were doing?'

‘No.' He seemed surprised I would suggest it.

‘How can you be sure he did not read what you were writing?'

‘I am sure.'

‘But, how…?'

‘He cannot read.' He said it bluntly, in the manner of a man who knows that nothing less will stop the questions, but who doesn't like divulging a friend's secret.

‘Oh.' I was taken by surprise. I'd just assumed, for all these years, that Logan was an educated man. I said so to my father, and he set me straight.

‘He is. He came to me for lessons, and I taught him all in private. He's as educated as the finest merchants' sons in London. But he holds the lessons all in memory, here.' My father tapped his temple. ‘For he cannot read. He says the letters dance and shift upon the page, when he attempts it. I have seen it happen thus for some. It is a sad affliction.'

‘Oh,' I said again, because there seemed so little else to say. I could not think what my world might have been, if I'd not had my writing and my books.

‘He mustn't know I've told you. He's a proud young man, is Logan.'

I said absently, ‘He is a Leither.'

‘I do beg your pardon?'

‘He's a man of Leith, you do remember? Stubborn, proud and…' I could still not think of that third quality.

My father sent me an indulgent smile, and said, ‘At any rate, he shares his private life with but a precious few. My lord Northampton knows, of course. He was a friend to Logan's father, and he is a help to Logan now. When Logan's sent on an assignment that requires any writing, he's provided with a scribe. Most often me.'

‘That's thoughtful of my lord Northampton.'

‘Sometimes. Though I do suspect the reason he chose Logan for this mission was precisely because Logan cannot read.' His gaze touched mine with certainty that I would take his meaning, and I did.

If Logan could not read, then he'd not know what was in the ‘report' my father wrote each evening. He'd not understand the depth of the deceit, nor yet its danger to Sir David.

My father warned me, ‘Logan must not learn that, either. It would wound him terribly, and I would not hurt Logan for the world.' He made me promise, then he nodded, and said, ‘Anyway, it's naught but theory. Nobody can know the workings of my lord Northampton's mind.'

The fire had begun to die, the low flames only showing with reluctance now and then amongst the ashes.

Watching them, my father said, ‘It's just as well you've changed your view of Valentine. I do confess I've had my doubts about him, although I did overlook his failings because you were fond of him, and closed my ears to all that people said.'

‘What did they say?'

He raised a shoulder in a half shrug and replied, ‘The talk in the Close when we left was that Valentine debauched a young lady, and that her brother, who was even younger, called Valentine out in the Star. They said her brother struck Valentine, who then turned his friends upon the boy like dogs in a pit, and had Logan not stepped in to be his defender, the boy surely would have been killed.'

This was a day of revelations. I stayed silent for a moment, thinking now I finally understood why Logan, on that morning at the conduit in the Close, had told me that I had his pity if I stood in Valentine's defence. And that he felt no shame for having done what needed doing.

‘One never knows,' my father said, ‘if all the tales one hears are true, but it is best to pay them mind.'

I nodded. ‘Mayhap I'm not meant to have a life of ease at court.'

‘You can't escape it,' he assured me. ‘It's your destiny.'

I'd lived too long with destiny to try to win this argument.

My father said, ‘But there are other men at court. Some are mere scribes, like me. And some are Messengers.' He met my startled glance and smiled. ‘You'll find the path you're meant to take. You'll have a good life, you will see. Your stars may have concealed themselves when you were born, but they were most auspicious stars. They marked you well for happiness.' He reached one hand as he had often done when I was small, and smoothed the hair behind my ear. ‘You will be loved,' he said, ‘as you deserve to be.'

Something was wrong. When I rose and dressed and came out of my bedchamber on the next morning, Hector and Sir David were already at the stairhead, going down. They did not turn to say good morrow.

And before I'd taken two more steps, the door to the men's chamber opened. Logan moved into the corridor, where just by standing there he blocked my progress and my view.

He did not say good morrow, either. He said, ‘Phoebe.'

And I knew.

Before I saw his eyes, I knew.

I felt as though someone had dropped a stone upon my chest, and pressed out all my breath and feeling. Logan gently took hold of my arms and told me, ‘It was peaceful. In the night. He didn't waken.'

I was glad of that, at least. There was a tiny, frayed spot near the second button down on Logan's doublet, and I could not look beyond it. Each imperfect, broken thread was seared into my mind.

I said, ‘I wish to see him.'

Logan seemed about to argue. Then he nodded. Stood aside.

My father lay upon his bed as though he were still sleeping. I might almost think he was, until I touched his hand, and found it cold. I slipped my fingers into his. They did not hold mine back. ‘Could not you wait?' I asked him in a whisper when I bent to kiss his forehead, knowing I'd receive no kiss in answer. But I knew that, even had he waited until we were home in London, there would never have been any time that I would have been ready to let go my father's hand and say farewell. I couldn't bring myself to do it now.

And Logan didn't force me to.

He simply went on standing there, a solid presence at my back that radiated comfort.

Though I had no certain memory of the order of events in the few days that followed, I remembered Logan being often close behind me.

He'd retreated from me since the fair, and all the passion that he'd shown me in his kiss was gone now from his manner, which in all ways was deliberately polite. But he was there. He did not leave.

There were so many things that needed to be dealt with and arranged. My father had not brought much with him north from London. It was tactfully suggested to me by the local minister that I might wish to give his clothing to the poor, and I allowed it, though I kept the gilded clip he always wore upon his hat – the one shaped like a rose. I kept his almanac, with Mr Parker's forecasts and advice. And I kept all my father's writing instruments.

It seemed to me impossible that he should never hold his pens again. I laid them carefully like fallen soldiers in the little wooden box he carried when he travelled, with the pouncet-box and ink.

Logan, watching from my shoulder, asked, ‘Where are his papers? I should take those now and keep them safe.'

I hesitated, wanting to be truthful, and yet wanting to preserve my father's honour. He did not deserve to have his failings and his past mistakes forever colour how he was remembered, like a drop of ink will stain a glass of water.

I didn't know if God himself had so arranged things that my father might be gifted with the chance to ask forgiveness for what he had done, and for what he was doing to Sir David; or if it had been my father's stars, as he so fancied, which had brought him to this place and let him hear that sermon in the days before he died. But in the end, it did not matter. He'd repented and he'd set things right, and I felt certain he had been forgiven, and had gone now to his peace, and I'd not break it.

All I said to Logan of the papers was, ‘He burned them.'

‘Burned them? When was this?'

I told him, ‘Yesterday. He wished to play no part in what you're doing to Sir David.' Which was true, but I had phrased it poorly. ‘I am sorry. What I meant to say was—'

‘I ken what ye meant.' When Logan turned away from me, I could not see his face but from his voice I knew my words had touched too sharply where I hadn't meant to do him harm.

It likely was because of this that I did something highly out of character.

On Thursday afternoon, while I was passing by the dining room, the landlord hailed me. ‘Beg your pardon, Mistress, as I know you're busy with all the arrangements for your father, may he rest in peace, but as your lad's off fetching ale just at the moment, I do wonder whether I might give you this to take out to your husband? He was wanting it directly.'

‘This' was a sizeable mortar and pestle of bronze, holding a small bag of what looked to be sugar candy. I knew that Sir David and Logan had gone to the stables to see to the horses, and normally only necessity made me go anywhere within ten feet of a stables, but I felt I owed it to Logan, and anyway, I wanted company.

That was a brave enough start. By the time I reached the stable door, I was rethinking my decision. I could smell the beasts, and breathing in the scents of horse and hay, I felt a moment's panic. Stepping back to one side of the open doorway, I drew deeper breaths and sought to calm myself.

From here, I heard Sir David's voice.

‘The simple thing to do,' he said, ‘is to send Hector back to Leith together with the mare.'

‘Except,' said Logan, ‘I'm not sending Hector back. Not on his own. He's but a lad, it's far too dangerous.'

‘Well, naturally. I said it was the simple thing to do,' Sir David told him. ‘Not the best thing.'

‘No,' said Logan. ‘I'll hire someone else to take the mare, and put it on account. They can be paid by Lady Lindsay when they get there. They can take their time in doing it, and give the mare some rest. And ye can ride the gelding.'

‘Or,' Sir David said, ‘we keep the mare, and Mistress Westaway can ride her.'

‘No,' said Logan.

‘Why not? Brutus would welcome a lighter load. I know she's nervous of horses, but surely, with one or two lessons—'

‘No,' Logan said, more strongly. ‘She is more than nervous.'

‘Frightened, then. But all fears can be conquered.'

‘Can they?' Logan's tone was harsher than I'd ever heard it. ‘What would ye ken of Phoebe's fears? She lost her family, all except her father, to the plague when she was small. And when the dead cart came to take her mother and her brothers, she ran after it to stop them, and another cart horse knocked her down. A lass but four years old,' he said, ‘against a horse the size of Brutus. Picture that. And when ye've done that, toss in all the feelings she'd have felt upon that morn, and ye'll come close to understanding why she can't abide the sight of horses.' He fell silent for a moment, and I heard the scraping of a brush against one of the horses, rhythmic and with purpose. ‘That's a fear ye cannot conquer,' Logan said, ‘with a few lessons.'

I was frozen where I stood, in total shock. I hadn't known that Logan knew. It never once had crossed my mind to think that—

‘Do forgive me,' said Sir David. ‘I had no idea. I thought…'

‘Aye, I ken what ye thought. But ye're never to suggest it to her, else she'll think she's weak, and I'll not have that. I'll not have that,' he repeated as the scraping stopped. I heard a rustling sound as though he'd turned upon the hay where he was standing so he faced Sir David. ‘Are we clear?'

‘Aye,' said Sir David. ‘We are very clear.'

I could not stand forever in the shadows of the doorway like a coward. Someone soon would come along and I'd be noticed, and then everyone would know that I'd been standing here and listening. Much better if they thought I'd just arrived.

I drew a breath and set my shoulders and walked briskly through the door.

Logan stood beside the gelding, and as I approached he set his back to me and went on with his grooming of the horse. He always moved that way, now that I thought of it, whenever we were near a horse together. I'd just thought that he was being rude. But now I saw the move for what it truly was – not an attempt to shut me out, but an attempt to shield me, standing squarely between me and what I feared.

To his back, I said, ‘The landlord sends you sugar candy and this pestle.'

Standing at my other side, Sir David swept in charmingly. ‘Ah! For your secret cordial powder, Logan. Now I'll finally see how it is made.'

Logan turned his head and looked at me over his shoulder. ‘Thank ye, Phoebe.'

‘It was nothing.' With a quick nod of my head, I turned and left them before I betrayed the depth of the emotion I was feeling.

I'd have given much that week to have passed one hour without tears.

But grief did not allow me that. It found me without warning, rising suddenly in surges for which I was unprepared. They always brought an unexpected rush of tears that filled my eyes and, even if they didn't quite spill over, made me sharply turn my head or even stop and close my eyes, until the surge had passed and I was once more in control.

I wanted sleep, but could not find it. Wanted food, but could not eat it. Wanted a distraction, but could take no interest in the world beyond my chamber door.

My father's funeral was on Friday of that Whitsun-week. They buried him near to the yew tree in the corner of the churchyard. He would have approved of that spot, from which a living man might gaze up at the steeple of the grand and lovely church against the summer sky, or watch the fledgling birds a-flutter in the branches of the trees.

I must confess I did not listen to the solemn words said by the minister, but after it was done and the few other mourners – there were very few – had gone, Sir David stood beside the grave, in his black doublet, looking down at where my father lay.

‘Though thou be dead in part, all cannot die,' he said. ‘Thy mind's brave conquest shall survive thy breath.'

I said, ‘That's beautiful. Who wrote it?'

‘I did.'

I'd forgotten that Sir David was a poet. I could feel my eyes begin to swim again with tears. I blinked them back and told him, ‘Thank you.'

He was such a gallant man. A good man, as my father called him. In these short weeks, I'd become accustomed to his company.

But it was strange to see him riding on the gelding as we headed out of Newark on Monday morning.

The black mare had been entrusted to a local groom who'd see her safely north to Leith. The groom had met us in the courtyard of our inn, where Logan gave him the instructions for her care, and stroked the mare's sleek neck, and told her calmly, reassuringly, ‘Ye will be fine now, lassie. Ye were bred to walk a gentler road than this one, were ye not?' She'd nuzzled at his sleeve and he had given her a final pat and said, ‘Ye will be well.' Yet I could tell he hadn't wished to leave her. Logan truly did care deeply for the horses, and I had the sense that part of him would always be a stable lad.

As we left the town, we passed a gallows at the roadside. It was empty, much to Hector's disappointment, though Sir David told him to be cautious what he wished for.

‘When I first came down from Scotland with the prince,' Sir David said, ‘there was a man yet hanging from this gallows.'

Hector's mood improved. ‘What was his crime? Was he a murderer?'

‘A cutpurse, who, appearing like a gentleman, had travelled down from Berwick with the court and robbed them all that way.'

‘From which ye should take note,' Logan told Hector, ‘that not every gentleman is what he seems to be, beneath his fine and fancy clothes. Nor is he to be trusted.'

Hector looked towards Sir David, who by changing his expression and adjusting his cloak round his shoulders, tried to look untrustworthy.

Hector ignored him, keen to know more about the cutpurse. ‘How did they catch him?'

‘I'm afraid I do not know, I was not there,' Sir David said. ‘I only know they brought him to King James, who ordered he be hanged. There was no trial.'

I frowned. ‘No trial? But that is not in keeping with the law.'

‘Whose law?' Sir David asked. ‘The law of common men? Or kings? Because I can assure you, King James does acknowledge only one of those.'

Logan warned him, quietly, ‘Be careful with your words, because your talk does sound like treason.'

‘Does it? Well, it may be I'm not thinking clearly. I am tired.' Sir David did look weary as he said, ‘At any rate, some people thought it was a poor way for King James to start his reign in England.'

‘Why?' asked Hector.

‘Well,' Sir David said, ‘if that was how the wind would blow with King James on the throne, if he would hang a man before that man was brought to trial, why then would he not bring a man to trial before that man had done aught wrong?'

He left that question there, for us to ponder, as we carried on towards the south, where London lay; but for some distance I could feel that empty gallows waiting, ever watchful, at our backs.