The Walsingham Woman

by Jan Westcott

 

Part I
Chapter 1

The storm was violent. The first thunderclap and the beginning of the rain had come at fifteen minutes before four on the afternoon of August tenth, 1585. At that moment, John Wickerson, mindful of his best suit and satin shoes, high-heeled to keep him above the mire of London streets, flung open the door of the Bell Inn and ushered his companion into its murky interior.

Two aproned kitchenmen were lighting a few candles. Wickerson guided the woman with him into the ordinary; at this time of day it was deserted. Wickerson threw a brief glance over the room. "Over here, sweetheart," he whispered.

Frances Walsingham stood uncertainly. "I thought --- " she began.

Wickerson took her elbow and propelled her across to an alcove table. She slid along the bench to the wall and Wickerson sat down beside her. He brushed a few drops of rain off her shoulders and smiled at her.

"What did you think?" he asked.

He still spoke very low and his tone made her glance around again to make sure they were alone. "I thought you engaged a room at the Crosskeys." She drew her brows together and regarded him with blue eyes.

"I did. I did." He nodded at her reassuringly. "But we'd ha' been drenched, even running, even though it's only fifty yards or so. We'll just wait here a few minutes till the rain stops."

She had clasped her hands together tightly in her lap and her eyes were on him. He captured one hand, disengaging it from its fellow. "We couldn't have been wed in the country, sweetheart; every minister would have known you. London is best; don't let it frighten you."

"Why, I was born in London." She sat up straight now. "We had a house near the Wall at St. Mary's Axe; it was called the Papey because priests used to live in it. It had a courtyard and a garden; I remember it well." She had talked fast and now drew a deep breath and, for the first time, she gave him a smile that tipped the corners of her mouth. Then suddenly she fell silent again.

"Well, if the city doesn't frighten you, don't let me frighten you." He put the accent on the "me". "Please, sweetheart," he added.

"But the minister," she whispered. "We're late; suppose he doesn't wait."

"He'll wait," he said. "He needs the fee."

Her eyes were solemn as she digested the fact. She leaned forward a bit to look around Wickerson at the room. There was a door opposite, flanked by two windows which opened onto the big courtyard. The windows streamed with rain. A sudden gust of wind shook the small panes and a crack of thunder reverberated, and when the vivid lightning flashed she stiffened and waited breathlessly.

Wickerson said, "On Tuesday that courtyard would be full of carters from the country, selling, bargaining, bartering. And on Wednesdays there'd be a play — " His words were drowned out by the clatter of hoofs outside, by a rolling crescendo of thunder. The door burst open, rain slanted into the room, and a horse whinnied in high fright.

A liveried man was holding the door; the courtyard seemed full of horses. Frances Walsingham gasped and leaned forward to see better, for it looked as though the first big rearing horse and rider were coming right into the room. Then the horse quieted; its rider dismounted in a sweep of cloak. The lightning flared and the rider came striding in as the man at the door banged it shut after his master.

Rickard de Burgh was soaking wet and in a foul temper. He swore. He reached up and took off the wide-brimmed, feathered hat; he shook it and water flew in every direction. He was standing in a puddle of water and he stepped to one side and stamped each foot in its flaring calf-high boot; as a final gesture he tossed his cloak to the man waiting and swore again. Then he looked around the deserted room.

Wickerson had turned away and only the back of his head was presented to view. Frances leaned over the bare table and looked past him. Her wide eyes noted the gleam of silver spurs, the chased hilt of the narrow rapier. The newcomer was dressed in yellow and green velvet, with a flamboyant matching cloak. He was standing sideways to her, presenting a frowning profile, heavy brows drawn; his hair was thick and black and short. He was waiting, and not patiently. He drew off his gloves and slapped them against the palm of one hand, looking toward the door through which the landlord would come. She couldn't see his eyes, but she was sure they would be deep brown. Then suddenly he turned his head and looked straight at her. She looked hastily away from those dark eyes.

She leaned close to Wickerson. "Who is he?" she whispered.

His voice was very low. "Lord de Burgh," he answered. "Don't look at him."

This had the contrary effect. Her eyes went to de Burgh in a brief stolen look. She lowered them again. "Why not?" she whispered again.

Wickerson didn't answer this. He was listening hopefully for the sound — any sound — of an interruption. He sighed gratefully as he heard a door bang, footsteps, and the landlord's hurried tones. He kept his back to de Burgh, and was startled when he perceived that de Burgh was standing right beside him. The landlord was fluttering in the background.

De Burgh loomed tall and very real. He rested one brown hand on the table and his eyes surveyed both Frances and Wickerson.

Wickerson drew Frances to her feet, then forward into the open space just past the table and bench. His hand was hot and sweaty on hers as he bowed briefly, and waited, silent. Frances made a little curtsey.

De Burgh gave her a smile of approval. Then he turned to Wickerson. "Master Wickerson?" he asked, with sarcastic courtesy.

Wickerson licked his lips. He made an almost imperceptible assent.

De Burgh looked pleased with himself. He took time to give Frances an amused grin. Then once again he looked at the man with her. "One-time strolling player, rogue of an actor, and spy for Mr. Secretary Walsingham — that is you, is it not?"

Wickerson set his jaw. "Your lordship — prithee — " He cast a glance at the girl whose small hand he held tight.

De Burgh apparently didn't notice the gesture. He threw back his head in a shout of laughter, and ended it with a name. "MacSorley." He took a step back, and as the man he had called came through the door, de Burgh flung out his hand to indicate Wickerson.

MacSorley had five men quick on his heels. He stood in the center of them; his eyes lit up and he smiled a sly Scots smile. "There he is, lads," he said softly, and they moved to surround Wickerson. After their steps, there was no sound in the dark room but that of the rain still beating hard against the windows. By the latched door, the landlord stood, transfixed by the sudden drama. He looked over the shoulder of de Burgh's nearest man, a shoulder embroidered with a sable lion and a gold croix de guerre. He looked past de Burgh to the frozen couple who waited, hand in hand, like quarry run from cover and at bay. The landlord could see only de Burgh's back and shoulders, where the green stripes broadened to accentuate the width of shoulder. Then the wench stepped forward.

She had pulled her hand from Wickerson's and she faced de Burgh. And the landlord saw suddenly she was dressed in the same colors; it was like a play. Her dress was plain yellow silk and her cloak, green. Her hair was shining black and it sat on her little starched ruff as pretty as a birthday cake. A silver fillet drew attention to the smooth brow; she had come to life now.

She lifted her eyes to de Burgh's face. "What do you wish wi' us?" she said, clearly. She couldn't accept the situation. It was as mad as the fact that she was actually eloping. What was going to happen next? De Burgh hadn't answered her; he was looking at her with a glitter of appreciation in those dark eyes. They swept over her quickly and she took another small sideways step to place herself in front of Wickerson. At her sides her hands were spread out as though to shield him. "What do you want wi' us?" she repeated, bravely, but a tiny sigh escaped her lips.

De Burgh said reassuringly, "Not you, lass. Not you."

She shook her head. "Us," and she would have explained that the one word meant they were to be married, but de Burgh had had enough of interruption and he too was impatient. He leaned forward, put big hands on her waist, and lifted her unceremoniously out of his way.

"Now, Wickerson," he said.

A flurry of green and yellow silk to his left distracted him somewhat and he put his arm out to prevent her coming between them. Wickerson jumped back, laying a hand on his sword, and for a moment de Burgh hesitated. Actors were good swordsmen, usually, and this might be sport. But then he remembered that his position in England would hardly be enhanced by a tavern brawl and a possible death. He ran his eyes rapidly over Wickerson.

"I've a six-inch reach on the knave, MacSorley," he said. "Take him upstairs. I'll have to forego skewering him," he added regretfully.

"No," Frances cried. She had run to Wickerson's side, had grasped his arm.

"Faith," said de Burgh, amused. "Ye can come too. I have lodgings above."

She shook her head. Her fingers were white on Wickerson's sleeve. De Burgh started toward her, and to her amazement, she felt Wickerson unloose her hand and abandon her to de Burgh.

"John!" she cried, in dismay and protest, and Wickerson looked at her longingly and helplessly and shrugged his shoulders.

"Follow me, lass," de Burgh ordered. He started toward the stairway door. For a moment, she stood motionless, then de Burgh turned slightly to her and in an elaborate gesture offered his arm. She drew back.

De Burgh frowned; he didn't understand this wench. His glance went over her in some puzzlement. She was sweetly curved and her wide, heavylashed eyes were deep, deep blue. He stepped toward her and took her hand in his.

She tried to pull away. His grip tightened, and he slipped one arm around her waist; then he picked her up. He stood there with her, her head against his shoulder. Wickerson didn't move.

De Burgh was paying no attention to Wickerson. He bent his head and kissed her ear. "What game is this, acushla?" he whispered.

She had buried her face in his doublet. De Burgh looked over to MacSorley. "Bring him," he said, inclining his head to Wickerson. He himself strode toward the stairway and carried her easily up the narrow, twisting steps. She heard the click of a latch and suddenly she struggled to get free. De Burgh kicked the door closed; he set her on her feet and looked down at her.

She half raised her hand to strike and then she drew it back, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I'll never forgive you!" She flung the words at him.

He laughed. "Aye, but ye will. I'll be back in a moment."

Without another word, he went to the door. She watched it close behind him and stared at the bare wood. Flight was out of the question; it was too late. She sat down stiffly on a hard chair to wait.

 

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