To Ruin A Queen: An Ursula Blanchard Mystery at Queen Elizabeth I's Court by Fiona Buckley

many silvered pools of rainwater on the grass. Beyond the pastures I could see a line of hills, which Rob, looking over my shoulder, said were the Malvern Hills. “They’re maybe ten or twelve miles away and Vetch Castle is seventeen miles or so beyond, lying to the south of Hereford. We could be there by tomorrow, though, if we start early.”
    I looked worriedly at the pastures and wished for wings, so that I could fly across them, floods or no floods, and be with Meg. She was there, beyond the misty blue line of the Malverns. I could feel her. “If weget this far and then we’re held back by a few falls of rain …” I said.
    “They move the sheep in good time,” Rob said reassuringly. “The local folk are used to the way the Severn behaves. You’ll be with Meg tomorrow. And then,” he added slyly, “you can begin on your real task in Vetch Castle.”
    “Fetching Meg is my real task.”
    “Of course,” said Rob Henderson annoyingly, sweet and smooth as cream custard.
    The following day, it stopped raining and there was wind enough to dry the tracks. The Severn was certainly flowing high; when we crossed it on a bridge, we could see its waters swirling only just below the level of its banks. However, nothing actually hindered us. By midday, we had passed through the hills at the southern end of the Malverns and reached a market town called Ledbury, where we paused at an inn for a brief meal. Then we rode on and at last, as the sun was dropping westward, we emerged from a belt of woodland that had cut off the view for some time, and there in front of us, on a solitary hill, was Vetch Castle.
    It was Norman, of course, one of the string of fortresses that the Norman kings had founded all along the borders of Wales, to keep the Welsh from making incursions into England. The eastern walls, facing us across a valley, were built above a steep, rocky drop and looked as though they were growing up from it. But the evening sun lay kindly on the pale gray stone of the castle, and all around it were rolling hills, rich withwoodlands and sloping pastures, where flocks of sheep were grazing. In fact, despite its solid round towers, its stout buttressed walls, and its battlements, Vetch looked at first sight quite hospitable.
    Later, it occurred to me that one could say the same of the cheese in a mousetrap.
    There was a moat below part of the castle, though not where the steep drop made it unnecessary. The approach road curved around to the south, however, and crossed the moat on a drawbridge, which looked as though it still worked. At the gatehouse, a porter came out to greet us, accompanied by a big red-complexioned man who remarked in a bass Welsh accent that he’d just been having a gossip with his friend the porter here, and would show us the way inside.
    The porter was neatly dressed but his friend was scruffy. His old-fashioned green jacket and hose had seen much wear, his plain linen shirt collar was frayed at the neckline, and all his garments were marked by white streaks, which looked like bird droppings. He seemed to have authority, however. As he led us in, he shouted in a commanding fashion, and at once, a couple of young fellows appeared at a run, and said that if we would dismount, they would take the horses to the stable.
    We did as requested, although Brockley, who never really trusted anyone else to see to our mounts properly or unload our luggage without pilfering it, determinedly went with the horses, and Rob instructed his men to do likewise. Dale, Rob, and I, however, followedthe big man on foot through a wide outer bailey, part of which was arranged as a tiltyard, and through an arch into a cobbled inner courtyard.
    The courtyard had a well in the middle, a rather charming affair with a high coping and a little sheltering roof, neatly thatched and supported on three stone pillars entwined with honeysuckle. It was clear, indeed, that since the harsh medieval days when the castle was first built,