Free A Traitor's Tears by Fiona Buckley Page A

can’t have done it and nor can Jack Jarvis. Roger Brockley had every reason to detest the lady. He could have heard fresh gossip in Woking, come to the hall to protest to her, met her in the garden, been outraged by something she said, and struck her down in a fit of momentary fury.’
    â€˜Only,’ I said coldly, ‘he didn’t.’
    â€˜Loyalty between servant and lady is of course a virtue,’ said Sir Edward politely. ‘But it can be carried too far.’
    I didn’t offer him any refreshment. I bade him good day, gave him a sketch of a curtsey, and walked out of the hall. I found Wilder hovering outside. ‘See him off the premises,’ I said, and went on upstairs, back to Dale and Sybil.
    I couldn’t leave instantly to seek Lord Burghley’s advice, because Dale was too upset to travel and I wanted her with me. While I waited, I tried to make plans, with difficulty because to make a journey of any length without Brockley in attendance felt so strange, and Dale burst into tears every time she was reminded that he couldn’t be with us.
    I finally decided to take Arthur Watts, our gnarled and gnome-like but very reliable head groom. Dale could ride on his pillion. Sybil could stay at Hawkswood and act as my deputy.
    â€˜There may be visitors to receive,’ I said to her distractedly.
    There might – oh, please God – there might be a messenger from Sir Edward Heron to say that Brockley had been released; his arrest was all a mistake. Or there could be visits from friends who had heard the news, coming to offer help or condolences.
    Dale was better the next day and we had begun to pack, when the first of the possible callers arrived. Wilder came up to the bedchamber where we were filling saddlebags, to announce that Master Anthony Cobbold was here to see me and was waiting in the Little Parlour.
    The Little Parlour was the room in which Sybil and the Brockleys had so firmly told me that I must obey the queen and attend Norfolk’s execution. It had once been very much a private place for Hugh and me. In those days, visitors were taken into the hall or the bigger parlour, which nowadays we often called the East Room. During my absence abroad just after Hugh’s death, Sybil had taken to calling it that, because it was at the eastern end of the house, and the name had stuck. And now, visitors – unless they were official, as Heron had been – were usually shown into the Little Parlour to await me.
    â€˜Anthony Cobbold?’ I said. ‘What can he want with me?’ I didn’t in the least wish to see him. I pitied him in his loss but that same loss was doing dreadful injury to Brockley and to all of us at Hawkswood. I had stayed away from Jane’s funeral. I couldn’t imagine what had brought her husband to Hawkswood.
    For a moment, I considered refusing to see him but it would be discourteous to send my guest away, even if he had come uninvited.
    So with Dale at my heels, I went downstairs. I found Master Cobbold, all in black, standing uneasily by the window, twisting a velvet cap between his hands and obviously embarrassed.
    â€˜Mistress Stannard!’
    â€˜Do sit down,’ I said automatically. I seated myself and signed to Dale to do the same. ‘Have you been offered any refreshment?’
    â€˜Yes … but I said no. Thank you. Mistress Stannard, I can hardly suppose I’m welcome here but I had to come …’ Tall and swarthy as ever, he looked like Beelzebub in a hangdog mood. ‘I’m so
sorry
! I couldn’t stop Sir Edward from … Of course I know that Roger Brockley wouldn’t have harmed my wife. Even he had reason to be angry with her and I suppose he had, and so had you, but I’ve known you both for years and I am as sure as I can be that there’s been a terrible mistake!’
    â€˜
Please
sit down!’ I said, and this time there was some warmth in my voice. He did