Masques of Gold (54 page)

“Now walk,” he said.

Hope flickered up in Lissa again. If he took her to the market, she would hear although she could not see, and she would struggle in his grip. Surely someone would ask why, or she might be able to throw back the hood and show her gagged mouth. But he did not take her that way. He held her arm through the sleeve of the robe. They went farther up the lane, then past a house, through a garden, and on into what seemed open common fields. He stopped and pushed her to the ground, tied her feet, and rolled her, not ungently, against something hard, a fallen log, she thought. Then he passed a rope through the sleeve, through her tied arms, and attached it somewhere she could not see.

“I will not leave you long,” he said. “I must get the horses.”

When the hood was finally lifted form Lissa's head, she was so astonished by whom she saw that she almost forgot hours of discomfort and alternating rage and fear. She was so stunned she hardly felt the gag being removed and her hands untied, and she stared speechlessly at Robert FitzWalter, not even lifting her slightly numbed hands to her lap. If she had not been seated on a bench, she might have fallen down in amazement.

“I hope you were not hurt, mistress,” he said in a calm, polite voice. “I gave order that you not be harmed, and frightened as little as possible.”

“If you did not wish to hurt or frighten me, why did you simply not send a message that you wished to speak to me?” Lissa said, her astonishment fortunately still superseding all other emotion.

If it had not, she would either have fallen on the ground screaming in senseless, ungovernable terror or have leapt at him to scratch out his eyes because rage, too, was roiling under her surprise. She did not recognize her own voice, faint and creaky from being gagged and thirsty.

“Unfortunately I did not wish anyone to know I needed to speak to you,” FitzWalter said. He saw her breath draw in and her eyes grow blank with terror, and he shook his head and added quickly, “I do not wish to hurt you or kill you. If you tell me what I wish to know, you will not be harmed at all, but I may need to hide you until my purpose is accomplished. That is why you were taken in secret.”

Lord Robert watched her face; he wanted her to be afraid but not without hope. His opinion of women was low enough that he expected her to believe the lie and not be clever enough to realize that he would not take the chance of freeing her. He also had reason to believe that too much fear only made a woman hysterical, unable to think or answer questions, no matter how much she wanted to. For the same reason, torture was useless. A woman would scream anything to save herself pain, a new lie for each pain, so fast to find one that would please him that he would never know what the truth was. Later, if this one refused to speak, he could slap her a few times, but for now he wanted her eager to please him.

“But what can
I
tell you?” she whispered. “I have no secrets, except those in my receipt book, and you surely cannot mean that?”

FitzWalter gestured, and the man who had captured her came into the lighted area. “Bring her some watered wine,” he said, and then leaned back and waited until the cup was put into her hand and she had sipped from it.

“Please,” Lissa said quickly, “may I have something to eat? I am very hungry.”

She had not been fooled by FitzWalter's lie; Lissa knew that, having taken her, he would not dare let her go to accuse him. She, however, had a hope about which FitzWalter knew nothing. The man who took her might have known Witta was with her when she left the house, but he could not know the boy was to meet her at Goscelin's. When Witta got there and discovered she had never arrived, surely he would run home and tell Paul, and Paul would tell Justin—and Justin would crack London open like an egg seeking her. It was a tiny hope, perhaps, but it was a real hope. If she could only stay alive until Justin could find her—only discover what Lord Robert really wanted and seem about to give it if only he tried a little longer.

“Get Mistress—What is your name?”

“Heloise,” Lissa said, thinking the name she hated was good enough for this man.

“Get Mistress Heloise something to eat,” FitzWalter said.

Lissa heard a door open and close, and FitzWalter turned to her again. “No,” he said, “I am not interested in your receipt book. Your husband had a secret—”

“Justin?” Lissa caught herself as she swayed and almost fell off the bench. Liquid slopped out of the cup, staining the thick robe she was still wearing, and she put the cup down beside her and brushed distractedly at the mark.

“No,” FitzWalter said. “Not Sir Justin. Peter de Flael.”

Lissa's hands flew up to smother the scream that was choking her. She had closed her eyes instinctively to shut out FitzWalter's face as he spoke Peter's name, but that only brought back an image of her first husband's broken body. She groped for the cup of wine, her eyes blind, nearly spilling what was left in it when she brushed it to the edge of the bench with her fingers, allowing herself then a tiny cry of distress, finally bending over to lift the cup in both shaking hands and sip. Her mind fled the pursuing monster of fear. If she allowed it to catch her, she would scream out the truth—butcher! murderer!—and be killed at once.

“I did not kill Flael,” FitzWalter said, as if he had read her mind. “I did not intend for him to die—it was the last thing I desired. I only wanted to ask him a question, and I never got to ask it. He just died.”

Lissa knew suddenly that was true. Of course it was true; he had just said Peter had had a secret, and Peter had died before he could tell it. The burns and cuts and breaking—that had all been done after Peter was dead; Justin had told her that.

“My lord,” Lissa began, but the door opened and he lifted a hand to silence her.

The man who had captured her came in and set a platter beside Lissa on the bench. Cheese and bread and some kind of cold pasty—a good meal. Her gorge rose and she stared down at the food, knowing she would have to eat some of it; she had said she was very hungry. To give herself another moment, she held out her empty cup mutely, and the man took it and filled it. When he handed it back, FitzWalter gestured and the door opened and closed again.

Lissa said, “I will tell you gladly anything I know about Peter or his business and about our marriage—”

“I have not quite time enough for that,” FitzWalter said. “Instead, let me tell you what
I
know while you eat. Then you can tell me what might pertain to my tale.”

Ice had run in Lissa's body instead of blood when FitzWalter said he had not enough time. She thought he would ask a single question and, when she could not answer, order her killed, but she fought down the fear again. If he intended that, why bother having this man bring so substantial a meal? And the last statement eased her terror by implying that he would let her search her memories at length.

He began with Flael's apprentice, bitter because the master preferred his sons even though their skills were not as great as his, who decided to sell his master's sin to the highest bidder.

“Flael's sin?” Lissa repeated, having become so interested that her fear diminished and she began to nibble at the pasty without even realizing it.

“Flael was a favorite of King John,” FitzWalter said, and Lissa nodded, remembering the design for cup and plate among Peter's records. “He designed and cast the king's privy seal—but he cast
two.
”

“A counterfeit seal,” Lissa breathed, and then drew a sharp breath in when she remembered herself saying to Justin that whoever wrecked Peter's house had been looking for something small.

“You remember something?” FitzWalter asked eagerly, not mistaking the indrawn breath.

“Yes,” Lissa replied at once, “but I do not think it is the answer you want.” And she told him what she had been thinking, glad to seem willing to please him. “I do not think they found it.” She paused, fearing to suggest something that would make her useless, but could not believe he would not know already and went on to remind him about how Peter's sons had fled. “If they took it—”

“No,” he said. “Your father found the sons in France, but they knew only that their father had made the seal and swore he had given it to William Bowles, as agreed. It was because they knew no more that they fled when they saw…I am sorry about that, but a warning was necessary.”

The words were rote, spoken for propriety's sake or to soothe her. Lissa heard no real regret in them, but she pushed away the memory they evoked, fleeing terror, which could do her no good. She needed time, and to gain time she must make FitzWalter hope that something would jog a memory in her that would let him find what he desired.

“But you think Peter did not give the seal to my father at our wedding—that was the arrangement, I am sure, though I was not told.”

FitzWalter nodded agreement. To his mind no one ever told a woman anything, but sometimes because they were dreadful sneaks, they saw things or their nasty, sly minds came up with thoughts no man would have.

“I know Flael did not give your father the seal then. The box that was supposed to hold it was passed directly to Hubert, and he brought it directly to me, still sealed in waxed cords. It contained a very lovely medallion—but not King John's privy seal.” He paused and fixed Lissa with eyes that were suddenly alive with hate and pain, the first real emotion she had seen. “Where is it?” he roared. “I need it
now
. That accursed archbishop will persuade the others, fools that they are, to make peace with the king—as if John would ever keep a bargain. I must prove, with letters written under his own privy seal, that John intends death and ruin to every man who stood against him…”

Lissa dropped the piece of pasty she was holding and covered her ears, beginning to weep aloud. Whatever small hope she had of surviving was being ripped away with each word FitzWalter said. If Justin came for her, Lord Robert would kill them both now that he had spoken aloud this treason.

“You stupid bitch,” he bellowed, “think!”

But thought was finally beyond Lissa. Only fear and death remained, and she tilted on the bench, putting her hands out weakly as she toppled to the floor.

***

Witta had not been told to hurry and knew his mistress well enough to be sure she would not punish him for being late when he reminded her of that. He thrust his bundle at Mary and rushed off to the market where he spent a most delightful afternoon, actually purchasing a farthing whistle on which he could play simple tunes. The glare of the westering sun low in his eyes warned him that he must go. Mistress Lissa was fair, but her hand was heavy when she felt advantage had been taken. He ran quickly to Goscelin's house to Ebba, who looked hard but had a soft spot for boys, and begged her not to tell Lissa how late he was in coming.

“You little devil,” Ebba said, “you're going to get your hide lifted. You've forgot where Mistress Lissa said she was going. She never came here.”

For a moment Witta stared blankly, searching his memory, but he was certain. “She
did
say Mistress Adela,” he insisted. “Maybe you didn't see her come. Ask for me.”

Ebba shrugged. It seemed an odd mistake for the boy to make, and it was possible she had been busy or out of the house. She went through the shop quietly and up to the solar, but Mistress Adela was sitting alone by the window at her embroidery frame and denied Lissa had been there at any time when Ebba asked. She patted Witta, who looked frightened when she told him, and assured him his punishment would soon be over, since Lissa was a good mistress. But all he said was that he was not wrong.

Witta ran home as quickly as he could, reaching the house just when Paul, with Oliva and Ninias to help, was taking in the counter. He asked for Lissa, and Paul looked at him in surprise. “You were with her, not me,” he said.

“No, no, I wasn't,” Witta cried, then lowered his voice as Paul gestured at the window above, indicating that Sir Justin was home and might be asleep. “Mistress Lissa told me to bring the food to Mary—Oliva knows about that—she said she would walk ahead to Mistress Adela's house. But she never came to Mistress Adela. Ebba went up and asked, and she hadn't been. I—I did look around in the market, but Mistress Lissa didn't say to hurry. Where is she?”

Paul stared blankly at the boy and then said in a harsh whisper, “Go in and be quiet. If there is cleaning to do in the workroom, do that. Mistress Lissa will come home when she likes. Do not ask so many questions.”

The journeyman felt sick. He could have sworn that Lissa adored her husband, and they had been married only six months. Yet she was already making up visits to hide time spent elsewhere. Plainly she had expected Witta to spend more time in the market, and she would come back furious that her deceit was uncovered. Sir Justin would kill her. How could she be such a fool as to trifle with that man?

As the train of thought went through Paul's mind, he knew it was false. Mistress Lissa was no liar and no fool. She could have changed her mind and gone elsewhere, but not without leaving a message for Witta at Goscelin's. Pushing Ninias out of his way in sudden panic, Paul ran up the stairs, calling out for Sir Justin.

He came from the bedchamber with sleep-drugged eyes and tousled curls, but when he saw Paul's face his eyes swept the room, judged the time by the light, then came back to Paul filled with fear, and he cried, “Lissa?”

“I—she did not come home with Witta. I—I mean, she never came to Goscelin's house where she said—” Paul stopped, choking, terrified by the expression on Justin's face, the hand he was lifting, fearing that the man would kill him in his rage. He tried to say that Lissa would not have betrayed him, but fortunately no sound came out, for in the next minute it was plain that Justin did not suspect his wife.

“Who has her?” he muttered. “Who needs to bind me to his will?”

The hand Paul had been flinching from fell on his shoulder, but not to harm. It trembled so that Paul put out both hands, fearing Justin would collapse. He did not, and in a moment his hand steadied and he looked at Paul with clear eyes.

“Send both boys up to me,” Justin said. “As soon as you have told them, go to my cousins—take the mare, you will be quicker—and bid them come to me.”

Justin saw the light of relief come into Paul's face and it took all the strength he had not to burst into tears as the young man flew out of the chamber and down the stairs to do his bidding. Paul was now certain that all would be well. Justin's stern face and calm voice had solved all his problems, as they had solved the problems of many victims and convinced many criminals that all was known and confession the easiest path. Only Justin himself was lost behind the knowing face and clear eyes, uncertain of what to do, terrified, feeling as if he had been struck in the heart and the blood running from him was making him weaker every moment. He heard the thudding of feet on the stair and reached the chair to sit before his knees gave way under him.