To Shield the Queen by Fiona Buckley

two full days. We had avoided pillion passengers or packhorses, but Dale was a very poor rider and her white gelding was a maddening slug. However, we made the best time we could and if we didn’t overtake many other riders on the road, we at least went faster than the farm wagons and donkey carts. The roads we took were well used, with grass and bushes cut back on either side to discourage footpads from lurking.
    We set out on a fine morning, and Arthur Robsart got us all singing as we went. He had a good tenor voice and when, after a respectful hesitation, Martin Bristow joined in, he turned out to be a good singer, too. We were quite a jolly party and despite our unremarkable pace, we got through Maidenhead on the first day. By the afternoon, Master Blount was saying that we ought to reach Wallingford by nightfall. We would be well on our way by then.
During the afternoon, a darkening sky and a distant rumble told us that a storm was coming. Dale promptly announced that if there was one thing she couldn’t abide, it was thunder.
    “That’s a new addition to the list,” I said sardonically. She gave me a hurt stare, which I ignored.
    Blount said, “I am not so well acquainted with the inns along here. Bristow?”
    We all turned to Bristow. He was one of the smart and knowing sort, a little cocky for my taste, but he had already shown himself to be an efficient guide. He knew which inns gave horses good fodder and which didn’t.
    “Can we take shelter anywhere near here?” Arthur enquired.
    “There’s an inn called the Cockspur a quarter of a mile ahead,” Bristow said. “It’s a good enough place, if plain. The landlord doesn’t cheat you.”
    “I don’t think we’d mind all that much if he did,” said Arthur, with one eye on the darkening sky.
    We raced the storm, by breaking into a canter. Dale’s lethargic steed didn’t want to but Bristow seized its bridle and John gave it a crack with his whip and it decided to oblige.
    The rain began just as we reached the inn. It was a rather ramshackle place, with thatch in need of repair and a yard full of potholes, but it was quite big. There was a first floor with a gallery linking the rooms, and a row of dormer windows looking out of the thatch above. The landlord, who met us in the porch, his bulky cylinder of a body wrapped in a white apron, was polite and apparently recognised Bristow. He asked respectfully after the health of Sir Robin Dudley, shouted for a groom to help John and Bristow with the horses, and whisked the rest of us to what he said was a private parlour.
This was more like a large cupboard, and we were sorely crowded, but it was clean, with panelled walls and a hearth. The sky was now so black that we could scarcely see each others’ faces, but the landlord lit candles and went to find food and drink for us. A few moments later, John appeared, carrying a couple of saddlebags.
    “I thought I’d best bring our belongings inside, Mistress Blanchard,” he said. Then he added, “I’d like a word with you, ma’am, if I may.”
    I went out with him, and we stood in the porch, watching the rain swish down and turn the potholes into pools. “What is it?” I asked.
    “I’ve been wanting to speak to you quietly since yesterday evening but I couldn’t get the chance, ma’am. I didn’t know where to ask for you, in that great palace, and once we were on the road, someone’s always been near enough to hear. Mistress Blanchard, you gave me to understand you were going into the country to be company to Lady Dudley, who is ailing.”
    “Yes, John, that’s right.” I noticed, for the first time, how I always called him John, as Gerald had done. One normally addressed servants by their surname, but not John Wilton. To us, he always had been, always would be, John.
    “I go about,” said John. “I hear the talk at markets and whatnot. And I talked to the other grooms at court. Seems there are rumours about, well, about the Dudley