The Master of Winterbourne

Henrietta fell into a deep, dreamless sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, cocooned in the four-poster with the curtains drawn tight all round against the draught.

When she woke the room was

chill and a light was shining in her face. Confused, she put up her hand to shield her eyes, still three-quarters asleep. ‘Who is that?’

‘Henrietta,’ Alice's voice whispered from the darkness. ‘Are you awake?’

‘What time is it?’ Henrietta demanded, struggling to get into a sitting position and gather her wits. ‘Alice? What are you doing here?’

‘’Tis three of the clock. You must get up, he will not speak to anyone else.’

‘Matthew?’ Henrietta's face lit up. ‘He is home?’

‘No, not your husband. Robert says it is our man come at last from Oxford.’ Alice put the candle down on the bedside table and held Henrietta's robe out for her.

‘Where is he?’ Gathering the heavy folds around her, Henrietta picked up the candle and followed Alice's unwieldy figure into the corridor. ‘Alice, wait here, get into my bed and keep warm. You should not be walking about at this time of night. What if you fell? And besides, did Mistress Perrott not tell you to rest?’

‘I'll come with you, then when the messenger has gone Robert and I will return home together.’ Alice was characteristically obdurate. ‘They are in the kitchen yard.’

‘Well, take my hand, then. We will go down the back stairs and avoid Cobham's chamber door, that man has ears like a fox.’

They crept down the dark stairs clinging to one another, wincing each time a board creaked in protest under their slippered feet. The wind had risen in the night, moaning and soughing in the eaves and under doors. Twice Henrietta froze, certain she had heard a footstep on the upper landing, but it was only the old house settling for the night.

They reached the storeroom at the foot of the stairs, eased open the door and crept along the hall passage, past the sewing room and stillroom, past the steward's office and the gaping darkness at the head of the cellar steps.

Outside in the yard it was cold. The wind had sent the clouds scudding across the sky and a thin, fitful moon had broken through the darkness. Dry leaves trapped in the corner of the Arcade scudded and eddied, the only sound in the silent yard. The candle guttered and went out.

‘Are you sure they're here?’ Henrietta whispered hoarsely, her throat dry from nerves and excitement.

‘Here.’ Robert's shadow freed itself from the door in the far corner. He gestured them to join him and, as they circled the walls like rats clinging to the skirting board, Henrietta saw a second, heavily cloaked figure standing behind him.

Alice's hand clutched hers convulsively as she glanced round. ‘Pray God we are not seen.’

‘Robert, take Alice home at once. What were you thinking of, bringing her here with her time so near?’

‘I could not enter your chamber, Mistress.’ His scandalised whisper would have been amusing were not the danger so acute.

‘Go and wait in the laundry, Alice. The ashes under the copper should still be warm.’ She steered Alice towards the door, then turned to face the messenger. ‘You wrote to me, sir?’ She could not see his face under his hood, but he nodded. ‘What is your name?’

‘It is best you do not know.’ His deep voice was cultivated. A gentleman, then, by his bearing. ‘You have the casket?’

‘It is in the priest's hole in the small parlour floor.’ An awful thought struck her. ‘But you fixed it down, did you not, Robert? How can we lift it without rousing the whole household?’

‘I did not nail it, I wedged it. All we need is a thin knife to prise it up, and that I have.’ He held up a slim blade that glinted in the muted starlight. 'Come, Mistress.'

They crept back, Robert in his stockinged feet, leaving the messenger with Alice in the laundry. The board was easily freed, although to Henrietta, with her heart in her mouth, every creak was magnified into a crash that would surely wake everyone.

She reached down into the cold, cobwebby gap and withdrew the casket that had been the cause of so much heartache. If it could just be got safe away perhaps her troubles would go with it.

After what seemed an age they finally regained the yard. Henrietta felt as though she had been creeping about in the dark the whole night long. An owl screeched as it flew overhead and she jumped convulsively, stifling a scream, and Robert, pulling on his boots beside her, nearly fell over with shock.

Finally she was thrusting the casket into the messenger's hands, feeling the responsibility lift from her shoulders as though someone had raised a yoke from her neck. The man secreted it beneath his all-enveloping cloak and Robert stepped into the laundry to fetch his wife.

The messenger took Henrietta's cold hand in his gloved one, brushing his lips over her knuckles. ‘Your great loyalty to our sovereign lord the King will not go unrewarded, madam.’

‘I want no reward, only that you go quickly and safely. But tell me, is there no news of the King's safe deliverance?’

‘Not yet. We can only wait and pray.’