A Murder at Rosamund's Gate (6 page)

“What in the name of heaven?” Adam had pushed his way through the crowd. His face creased. “Who strung this woman up?”

Some of the boys shifted their feet. A tall, skinny man dressed in tattered clothes stepped forward. He looked wiry and mean, like someone accustomed to a fight. “What’s it to you?” he sneered, kicking a small rock toward where Adam stood. The crowd that had begun to disperse began to sidle back, hoping for a bit of fisticuffs, some unexpected revelry on the Lord’s Day.

Adam drew up his frame, squaring his shoulders. “You have no right to treat this woman in such a fashion. It is a matter for the courts, and the law of this realm, to determine justice for this woman.”

The man scowled. “This here bunter has made a mockery of God’s law, or have you forgotten that? Perhaps you have some sympathies for her? We could make room for you here in the stocks!”

As the crowd snickered, the man smirked, pulling the scarf from the woman’s head. Her dark hair, thick and matted, fell loose. Lucy could see that the woman’s lower lip was trembling fiercely. Drops of blood trickled from her nose. Lucy willed her not to weep, fearing that her ridicule would be worsened. As if she heard Lucy’s pleas, she steadied her chin and spoke. “Thee hast thyself made sport with God’s law, and thee shalt suffer in the bowels for tormenting one of his own handmaidens, picked to deliver his truth!”

“Who dares make such sport on the Lord’s own day?” The reverend’s voice boomed from the steps of St. Peter’s. For a moment he stood still, the stone magnificence of the church adding to his stature. Lucas stood behind him, taking in the scene uncertainly, looking more serious and pale than Lucy had ever seen him.

A great rumble of hooves and a cloud of dust moved before the church. Alerted to the disturbance, two king’s men appeared on horses.

The magistrate, who had just emerged from the church, hailed the king’s guardsmen. “You there! Bring a cart around! And you! Cut this woman loose!”

At the presence of the magistrate, the jeering men and women began to slink away. Master Hargrave turned back to the woman, who still crouched, trembling, in the mud. One of her eyelids was matted shut, and her nose was swelling purple. She began to mumble feverishly.

“Miss? Could you tell me your name?”

The woman stopped mumbling and looked directly at the magistrate with her one good eye. Without a curtsy or even a nod to his authority, she answered him. “Dorcas White.”

The magistrate looked at her sternly. “I do not condone the violence that has been taken against you today, Mistress White. Only the courts should punish such wrongdoing. I am sorry that you have been treated so injuriously, on the Lord’s Day at that. You say that your conscience guides your actions—”

Mistress White interrupted, protesting. “It is God’s will! I am his voice and mouthpiece. He has told me to speak out against the wickedness of—”

Master Hargrave held up his hand. “Enough!”

The woman fell silent. The magistrate continued. “I do not wish to debate the merits of your beliefs, as misguided as they are. It is not for me to challenge the heresies that you speak. It is for the reverend here”—he nodded to the minister, who gravely nodded back—“to counter such lunacy.

“I am concerned only with keeping the peace,” Master Hargrave continued, “and with punishing those who transgress it. As I am sure you are well aware, you are accused of violating the Peace Act, by disrupting this church service and propagating your heretical beliefs among the godly. For this transgression, you will be imprisoned and stand trial.”

A few people nodded, approving. Lucy looked down for a moment so no one could see her face. She had never seen the magistrate issue a charge, and she felt confused. No doubt the woman had disrupted the king’s own service—appearing in such shocking dress!—and yet, had she not been punished enough? Who knew how long she had been tormented, how long she had been mistreated by those bullying men, before the service had ended. Now she was to be carted off to jail?

“So be it,” the Quakeress said, biting her lip. “Thee cannot take a righteous woman from her path to God, even if thee do throw me in chains!”

“Get her to Newgate,” the magistrate told the soldiers. “I’ll tend to her on the morrow.”

4

“I don’t know how you got me to do this,” Lucy muttered to Bessie, drawing her cloak closer around her body. It was nearly midnight, and they were on their way to Linley Park to see the gypsies. Ever since yesterday at church, when she had heard that the gypsies had encamped nearby, Bessie had insisted she needed to speak with them.

Now they were making their way through gaping shadows and dark fields, against Lucy’s better judgment. Visiting gypsies during Lent seemed a bad idea, let alone in the deep of night.

“I am deathly afraid to go alone,” Bessie had pleaded with her, “but I will, I swear it, if you won’t come with me.”

Try as she might, Lucy could not get Bessie to tell her what question she was seeking to answer. Lucy had frowned, but she knew she could not let her friend go alone.

Thankfully, the moon was bright and full. Moving quickly, they began to warm up. Sporadic shouts and boisterous laughter from late-night revelers reached their ears, but as the girls moved away from the public thoroughfares, the world grew steadily darker and quieter. The sound of an occasional branch breaking behind them would make them whirl around, fearing a wolf or a wild dog at every turn.

Bessie stopped abruptly, gripping Lucy’s arm. “There!” she said, pointing to a hill that loomed before them. Tiny flickers of campfires could be seen in the distance. For a moment, the two girls huddled together, uncertain whether to venture forward or to run home.

A moment later, the decision was out of their hands when a hoarse voice called to them out of the darkness. “Come you to hear your fortune, did you now?”

Lucy could not tell if the voice was of a man or a woman, so rasping and harsh it was. She waited for Bessie to speak, but she seemed struck dumb. A heavily shrouded figure stepped out of the shadows and appeared to be waiting.

Lucy found her tongue. “Yes, we wish to have our fortunes read.” She hesitated. “If you please, ma’am.”

The old woman barked, a rough mirthless sound. She jerked her thumb toward a campfire. “Over there. Maraid, she’s waiting for you.”

Gripping each other’s arms, the girls sat down, warily watching the woman called Maraid. The fire made Maraid’s hair and skin shine, as if the flames dwelled within her deepest being. Frankly, it unnerved Lucy.

Bessie passed her a bit of silver. The woman took Bessie’s hand and held it to the light of the fire. She looked up at Bessie and then at Lucy. She sighed, a long weary breath. “I remember you, child.”

Lucy looked at Bessie in surprise. She wondered when Maraid had read her fortune before.

The gypsy continued. “I remember your hand. ’Tis no new fortune I can tell you, I’m afraid. There is a darkness upon you, but as I told you before, it does not have to be that way.”

Seeing Bessie’s face blanch, she added more gently, “But you have not come all this way to hear the same fortune. You have paid your silver. You may ask me one question.”

Bessie whispered something in the gypsy’s ear. The woman frowned, shadows dancing across her ageless face. She shook her head. “This I cannot see. There is a veil down across that time. From what you have told me, I do not believe it shall pass as you like.”

Seeing Bessie’s crestfallen face, Maraid added, “You have many who love you and will tend to you, including this loyal friend here.”

The gypsy turned to Lucy. Something about Maraid drew Lucy in, almost against her will. The crackling fire added odd sparks, so it looked almost as if there were fire within her eyes.

Lucy looked at her tattered clothes, a hodgepodge of colors, including a brightly embroidered red sash wrapped around her waist. It caught her attention. She pointed at it. “That’s lovely.”

Maraid’s eyes flickered to the beautiful young woman tending the fire. “Yes, it is,” she agreed, “but it comes from a dark place.”

The young woman scowled, and a new tension tightened around them. A shadow passed, scratching a cold place upon Lucy’s neck. Eager to be off, Lucy urged Bessie to stand. “We’d better go.”

As the girls scurried out of the gypsy’s camp, Lucy felt they were being watched, a feeling she could not shake for all the dark journey home. Adding to her unease, although Lucy pressed, Bessie refused to tell her what she had sought from the gypsies.

*   *   *

Lucy sighed a bit impatiently, pulling the cloak closer around her shoulders, watching the sun set. Since their visit to the gypsies the day before, Bessie had grown more jumpy and anxious. To make matters worse, Bessie had been gone for much of today, and Lucy had been covering all her duties. This could work during the day, when Sarah and the mistress did not need to be tended to, but tonight they were dining out and would soon require Bessie’s expert hairdressing skills.

Lucy bit her lip, peering down the dimly lit road to see if she could make out Bessie or her red cape. “Where
is
she?” The sound of her own voice startled her. Soon someone would surely notice their absence from the house. She had a package holding Adam’s shoes, and she thought they could pretend they’d been at the shoemaker, although there was no good reason that two of them would have been needed to tend to this task.

Even in her head, the story sounded false. She could hear their questions. “Why did you not say you would return when the shoemaker had finished Master Adam’s shoes? Why did you both need to stay?” Most frightening of all, “Where were you? What have you been doing?” If they were caught, surely the mistress would punish them. Most likely, she would refuse to let them attend Lady Embry’s Easter masquerade coming up in a few days’ time.

Lucy sighed. Perhaps no one would ask them to explain their absence. Cook would be easy enough to satisfy, to be sure. But Master Hargrave! She gulped. It would almost be like lying to God. She shivered. Bessie just had to make haste.

Hearing a quick step behind her, she jumped.

“Lucy!” Bessie whispered. “It’s me!”

Lucy faced her. Two red spots stood high in Bessie’s cheeks. Her hair was falling from her cap, and her skirt was rumpled as though she had run a long way. “Fix your skirts!” Lucy whispered fiercely. “We were at the shoemaker’s this long while, understand?”

Lucy’s fears, however, were for naught. The master and mistress had decided to stay in for the evening and had taken a small, quiet supper in their room. The mistress had not needed Bessie to help her dress. Adam and Lucas were out, no doubt at the tavern. Cook accepted their explanation without question and set them to work preparing for tomorrow’s dinner. John, sharpening knives by the fire, glanced at them but said nothing.

Not until they were preparing for bed did Lucy press Bessie about her whereabouts that afternoon. A sudden color rose in Bessie’s cheeks and she half smiled, revealing the little dimple in her cheek and her slightly cracked tooth. With her golden curls loosened about her face, she looked like an angel.

“Were you with Will again?” Lucy demanded.

Bessie looked away. “Lucy, actually, Will and I quarreled. I was—somewhere else.” She stammered, “I, uh, went out, um, to see my sister. Her little boy was, um, sick. I wanted to see if she needed me.”

As if she’d heard how feeble her reply was, Bessie’s next words came out a little strongly, tumbling over one another. “He’s so prone to the sickness, you see, ever since he had the ague.”

“Did he have need of a bleeding?” Lucy asked slowly, climbing into the bed beside Bessie.

Bessie pulled the cover up. “Oh, no, he’s looking to recover soon, the doctor said. And Lucy…”

“Hmmmm?”

“Thank you.”

Lucy felt Bessie roll over to go to sleep. Listening to her friend’s deep breaths, Lucy brooded silently.
How, Bessie. How did you know the baby was sick?
No messenger had come to the house. Poor Bessie, who could not make up a lie to save her life.

“You weren’t at your sister’s house,” Lucy whispered. “Where were you?”

5

Easter arrived, and as soon as they returned from the church on Sunday, the women began to prepare for the Embrys’ masquerade that evening. Lucy knew that the magistrate didn’t really approve of the Embrys holding such an extravagant affair on a holy day, but he didn’t wish to refuse his wife and daughter the delights of the ball, and of course no one wanted to be viewed as a Puritan these days. Even the servants would be allowed to share in a bit of the festivities, though naturally they wouldn’t be mixing with the Embrys’ guests. Only Lucas would not be attending the masquerade, having decided to help the reverend with the Easter evening service instead.

Lucy did not dare touch the shining silk brocades that Bessie had spent several hours ironing to perfection. Instead, she brushed shoes, smoothed petticoats, and found Sarah’s tiny silver combs. Finally, Mistress Hargrave, her hair curled and dress pressed, waved Lucy and Bessie away with a smile. “Go,” she said. “Make yourselves gorgeous.”

Once in their own room, Bessie helped Lucy pull on her only dress suitable for such an affair, a heather blue taffeta that Miss Sarah had given Bessie the year before. Slight watermarks had stained the sleeves and the skirt but no longer showed after Bessie’s expert alterations. Bessie’s dress was a soft mossy green taffeta that emphasized her well-formed figure.

Lucy twirled in her dress, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric against her body. Bessie had also loaned Lucy her second-best petticoat, a black one that was full enough to let the skirt flare out softly.

Bessie sniffed her underarms. “Yuck,” she scowled. With a bit of cloth, she lightly powdered each armpit with alum. “You want some?”

“No, thank you,” Lucy said. Better to have a little sweat under the arms than to have that unpleasant tingling all night.

“How about this?” Bessie uncorked a small bottle of scent, dabbing a few drops of the liquid behind her ears. She handed the vial to Lucy. “For your complexion, my lady,” she said, mimicking the gypsy’s wheedling tone. “Tonight, when you meet the man of your dreams, he will be unable to withstand your charms.”