The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) by Fiona Buckley

having persuaded Dale and Brockley to come too, I prepared, in my own words, to go through with it.
    I wrote the letter to Matthew after all, thanking him for his forgiveness, sending him my love, and saying that I would come in May; that the Queen would not release me sooner. Cecil duly provided a messenger. Meanwhile, with Dale’s help, I stitched pockets inside all my over-gowns, in order to carry my lock-picks, and a little slate and pencil for taking notes. I would also carry a small dagger. The open-fronted gown is an elegant fashion which, I am glad to say, has never gone out. From my point of view, it is thoroughly practical.
    The court was in process of moving to Richmond. I was informed that I was officially on leave and moved myself to Thamesbank instead, to say goodbye to Meg, and to join up with Rob Henderson.
    The Hendersons were good people. Rob was a cheerful, strapping, tow-haired fellow in his thirties, endearingly fond of his wife Mattie. Mattie was a gracious dumpling of a woman, always trying to behave in a manner befitting a wellbred lady, but given on occasion to uncontrollable gurgles of merriment. I hadgrown fond of them both. I was glad I would have Rob for company on my journey.
    I spent two nights at Thamesbank. I played with my dark-haired Meg, heard of her progress in her lessons, and was delighted to learn that she showed early aptitude on the spinet and lyre.
    Early on the second morning I kissed her goodbye and we set off. Rob was debonair, cloaked in green velvet with a matching hat adorned by a kestrel’s feather. He also wore a very practical sword, and he and his men all had the kind of broad shoulders which even thick winter cloaks couldn’t conceal. In such company, we weren’t likely to be attacked by footpads, or anyone else.
    It was a pity, I thought, as we mounted, that for some reason, Brockley had chosen to undermine the dignity of the cavalcade by donning some extraordinary garments. His clothes all seemed to be too big for him. His hat was enormous, and when he held my mare, Bay Star, for me to mount, I saw that his doublet was oddly wide across the chest.
    He saw me looking at him and gave me his rare smile. Then he raised his hat as if to scratch his head, resettled it when I had had a chance to see beneath it, and opened a button on his doublet to let me see what was under that.
    “A helmet and breastplate?” I said quietly.
    “And my sword.” He lifted his cloak further back to reveal that he too was travelling well armed. “All left over from my soldiering days, madam. Because we may be going into danger, may we not?”
    “I sincerely hope,” I said, “that it turns out to be all a mare’s nest.”
    “Is that really likely, madam?”
    “I want it to be likely!” I told him.
    • • •
    I was whistling in the dark, of course, but I was committed now. A good rate of pay was not, after all, a total antidote to fear, but I had better ignore the shrinking sensation which intermittently attacked my vitals, so I put a good face on things, and tried not to pine for Matthew. The work in hand required concentration.
    Rob, who was musical, encouraged us to sing as we rode, and I joined in with the rest. We jogged across the flat, wintry ploughlands and meadows round Maidenhead, singing all the way, and it did make me feel better.
    We crossed the bridge into Maidenhead, singing a popular roundelay about the street calls of London. Rob took the chimney sweep’s part, and his two men, although they were dragging a lazy packhorse, still found the energy, respectively and hilariously, to vend mutton pies and mousetraps. I sang the strawberry seller, Dale made quite a tuneful attempt at the cry of the milkmaid, and Brockley, whose voice was surprisingly good, was the ballad-monger. In noisy harmony, we arrived at the Sign of the Greyhound in Maidenhead and put up for the night.
    • • •
    Next day we set out again, in weak winter sunshine, reaching Lockhill later in the