A Perilous Alliance by Fiona Buckley

Author:Fiona Buckley
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781780106724
Publisher: Severn House Publishers
Published: 2015-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

Scotland Versus France

We all swung round but we knew the voice before we saw his face, white and frightened in the moonlight. Duncan Ferguson, the young ginger-headed son of the house, who was being crossed in love by his father.

‘I sleep on this side of the house. I’m the only one that does,’ he said. ‘My parents and the wenches are on the other side. I like my room because it looks to the north and I can see the Pole Star from my window on clear nights. I don’t close the shutters at night because I like to see the sky but moonlight can send you mad, they say, so I don’t care for south-facing rooms.’ He seemed to realize that he was rambling and pulled himself up. ‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘Footsteps, and I thought it came from this direction. So you’ve found him. But how?’

‘Earlier, the wind blew this door open just as I was passing it,’ I said shortly. ‘I saw a hand dangling from under the sheet, and I recognized the ring on it.’ I tried to speak plainly, and was fighting my shivers and my irrational fears. I recalled that I was the sister of a queen and the daughter of King Henry the Eighth. It was not my business to cower in fear, even from a situation like this.

‘This man,’ I said, ‘was until lately a guest in my house. I now know that he was not a guest I would wish to harbour, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him murdered. I was told, by your father, that Count Renard had been here but had travelled on to France, with his companions. Now I find him laid in a room in this house, with his head half off. How did this come about? And where are his companions? Answer me!’

Brockley remarked calmly: ‘This is an uncomfortable place to hold a discussion. Shall we go back to Mistress Stannard’s room? Her women are there and they too should hear the answer to madam’s questions.’

Back in my room, Sybil and Dale were waiting nervously in the candlelight, sitting side by side on the bed. They looked horrified when we came in with Duncan, who whispered: ‘Sorry, sorry,’ to them, as Brockley pushed him on to a stool, before lighting some extra candles.

I closed the door quietly. I was trembling in spite of myself. I sat down on the bed next to Sybil. ‘We found what we expected,’ I said. ‘It’s the count and he’s dead.’

‘Very dead,’ said Brockley grimly. ‘Almost beheaded, in fact. Now then, young Duncan, just what happened? How does a guest, who no doubt believed himself to be among friends, come to be lying murdered in a disused bedchamber in your house? Who killed him?’

There was a long, aching silence. Duncan began to say something and then stopped, his mouth quivering. ‘Well?’ barked Brockley.

More silence. And then: ‘I did,’ said Duncan abjectly.

We all stared. ‘It wasn’t murder,’ he said. ‘He left this house, making for the port and the ship where he’d got passages for all his party.

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