in some other way.”
“So do I,” I said earnestly. “Master Blanchard falling ill in a French inn with a hostile innkeeper in the middle of an insurrection—what more do we need?”
We had dined along the way in a fashion, on bread and meat brought from the first inn. But fresh air and riding make one hungry, and Dale began to grumble that it was a long time until supper. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, ma’am, it’s a grumbling stomach.”
“I’m getting tired of other people’s stomachs,” I said. “My own was trouble enough on the boat. Now it’s yours and Master Blanchard’s. Well, you can go down and see if the kitchen can provide anything to eat. No doubt we could all do with it, the men included. Anything will do except cheese. I don’t think I ever want to eat cheese again.”
“But, ma’am, I can’t talk French.”
I was tired. I was no longer ill, but the voyage had drained strength out of me and the queen’s letters in my hidden pocket felt like an almost physical weight. In addition, the atmosphere of France oppressed me. Now, it seemed, I must take on the task of looking after my servants, instead of being looked after by them.
But perhaps, Dale being Dale, it might be better if she didn’t talk to the local population too much.
“Oh, very well,” I said. “I’ll go.”
4
The Hooded Man
Dale sighed with relief at not having to ask for food in sign language. Brockley offered to come with me, but I saw no need for an escort inside the inn. “I’m only going to the kitchen, Brockley.”
I left them unpacking the hampers, and hurried downstairs. I followed the smell of cooking along a stone passage to the kitchen where I found the landlord giving orders to a greasy youth in a leather apron, and a hefty woman with thick black hair in a knot on the back of her head and arms as massive as though she had spent her life shoeing horses. “Master Charpentier?” I said mildly from the doorway.
He turned to me, frowning. “I’ve sent Master Blanchard’s hot milk up to him. There’s soup and bread if the rest of you are hungry, and the wine of St. Marc is good.”
“Thank you. That’s what I came to ask about. Most of us do want something to eat and drink. Where . . . ?”
“Weather’s warm. I’ll have it put on the tables out in front.”
“Would you? It will be most welcome, believe me.” I was trying to placate this difficult man, but I wasn’t having much success. Which was a pity, because there was something else I wanted to ask him.
Huguenot influence might be strong in this part of France but St. Marc did not feel Huguenot, and Jean Charpentier certainly was not. Also, we had not yet traveled so very far from the Loire. Both of these things had been simmering together in my mind since we reached the inn. I had no idea how well known my husband Matthew was in his own country, but the owner of a château was usually known over a sizable area, and in the present troubles, he and Charpentier were on the same side. It was worth trying.
“In England,” I said, standing my ground, “I was for a while acquainted with a visitor from this part of the world. He’s back in France now. I wonder if you’ve heard of him? His name is Matthew de la Roche.”
I had no shadow of right to ask after Matthew, but I couldn’t help myself. It was unbearable to be so near, and not even inquire. The result, however, was shattering. The greasy youth and the black-haired woman froze, mouths open, and Charpentier first stared into my face with furious brown eyes, and then grabbed my arm and shoved me up against the wall. Close by was a table with cabbages and carrots on it, and also a sharp little knife. To my utter disbelief, he snatched it up and held it to my throat.
“Who are you?”
“What are you doing? Master Charpentier, please! I’m Mistress Blanchard, from England!”
“What are you doing in France?”
“I’m traveling with my . . . my
“So do I,” I said earnestly. “Master Blanchard falling ill in a French inn with a hostile innkeeper in the middle of an insurrection—what more do we need?”
We had dined along the way in a fashion, on bread and meat brought from the first inn. But fresh air and riding make one hungry, and Dale began to grumble that it was a long time until supper. “And if there’s one thing I can’t abide, ma’am, it’s a grumbling stomach.”
“I’m getting tired of other people’s stomachs,” I said. “My own was trouble enough on the boat. Now it’s yours and Master Blanchard’s. Well, you can go down and see if the kitchen can provide anything to eat. No doubt we could all do with it, the men included. Anything will do except cheese. I don’t think I ever want to eat cheese again.”
“But, ma’am, I can’t talk French.”
I was tired. I was no longer ill, but the voyage had drained strength out of me and the queen’s letters in my hidden pocket felt like an almost physical weight. In addition, the atmosphere of France oppressed me. Now, it seemed, I must take on the task of looking after my servants, instead of being looked after by them.
But perhaps, Dale being Dale, it might be better if she didn’t talk to the local population too much.
“Oh, very well,” I said. “I’ll go.”
4
The Hooded Man
Dale sighed with relief at not having to ask for food in sign language. Brockley offered to come with me, but I saw no need for an escort inside the inn. “I’m only going to the kitchen, Brockley.”
I left them unpacking the hampers, and hurried downstairs. I followed the smell of cooking along a stone passage to the kitchen where I found the landlord giving orders to a greasy youth in a leather apron, and a hefty woman with thick black hair in a knot on the back of her head and arms as massive as though she had spent her life shoeing horses. “Master Charpentier?” I said mildly from the doorway.
He turned to me, frowning. “I’ve sent Master Blanchard’s hot milk up to him. There’s soup and bread if the rest of you are hungry, and the wine of St. Marc is good.”
“Thank you. That’s what I came to ask about. Most of us do want something to eat and drink. Where . . . ?”
“Weather’s warm. I’ll have it put on the tables out in front.”
“Would you? It will be most welcome, believe me.” I was trying to placate this difficult man, but I wasn’t having much success. Which was a pity, because there was something else I wanted to ask him.
Huguenot influence might be strong in this part of France but St. Marc did not feel Huguenot, and Jean Charpentier certainly was not. Also, we had not yet traveled so very far from the Loire. Both of these things had been simmering together in my mind since we reached the inn. I had no idea how well known my husband Matthew was in his own country, but the owner of a château was usually known over a sizable area, and in the present troubles, he and Charpentier were on the same side. It was worth trying.
“In England,” I said, standing my ground, “I was for a while acquainted with a visitor from this part of the world. He’s back in France now. I wonder if you’ve heard of him? His name is Matthew de la Roche.”
I had no shadow of right to ask after Matthew, but I couldn’t help myself. It was unbearable to be so near, and not even inquire. The result, however, was shattering. The greasy youth and the black-haired woman froze, mouths open, and Charpentier first stared into my face with furious brown eyes, and then grabbed my arm and shoved me up against the wall. Close by was a table with cabbages and carrots on it, and also a sharp little knife. To my utter disbelief, he snatched it up and held it to my throat.
“Who are you?”
“What are you doing? Master Charpentier, please! I’m Mistress Blanchard, from England!”
“What are you doing in France?”
“I’m traveling with my . . . my
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