Discreet Young Gentleman (8 page)

The barman leaned forward. "And you'd be right. When Meg heard he'd been killed, she threw herself into the river and was drownded instantly. But you'll never guess what happened next."

"Try me," Dean muttered, and Rob nudged him again.

"The lad wasn't dead! He came back to steal her away into exile with him, and found them pulling her cold white corpse from the river. He snatched the dead girl away from her grieving father and

leapt with her into the water. And this time, they never recovered either body."

"Very romantic," Rob said with approval. "Which one is the ghost?"

"Oh, Meg, of course. It was here that she lived, and met her fine young lord in secret, and waited for news of the battle. About one guest out of five tells me they can still feel her waiting, but when she weeps we all hear that. I've heard her myself, and sober as a judge I was, too. Pathetic. Just pathetic." The barman shook his head mournfully.

"Too true," Dean said. "You know, if we're going to see the Abbey, we should—"

"Then there's Dick Turpin."

"The highwayman?" With a pointed glance at Rob, Dean settled back into his chair. "I have a soft spot for the breed. Don't tell me Turpin haunts you as well."

"Well, not that anyone's spoke of, no. But the Arms was his favorite pub, and many a night Black Bess was tied to that oak tree yonder while Dick wet his whistle.

Wouldn't be surprised, though, if he came back now and again for a pint of the finest bitter in England."

"Now that, I'll give you," Dean said, draining the last of his brew. Mild and slightly sweet, it was a perfect thirst-quencher for a warm August day. "But two's my limit, and I'm afraid we really must be going. Rob?"

Tewkesbury Abbey. Dean wasn't much for old churches, but he tried to be polite for Rob's sake. "A big square tower like this is Norman, right?"

Rob nodded, then glanced deferentially at their guide, an elderly verger in mildewed black robes. "Norman Romanesque, to be precise. Isn't it, sir?"

The verger beamed. Rob did seem to have an effect on older men. Dean thought with sour amusement. "Very good. Yes, the Abbey was begun less than forty years after the Conquest, when Romanesque architecture was at its height in England. Note the arches in the nave, which are also characteristic..."

Dean let his attention wander. There was only so much interesting about stone and mortar, but the history of the place had its appeal. The great families of England had worshiped here: Neville and Warwick, de Clare and Beauchamp and le Despenser, many of their number still lying beneath richly-carved effigies. The stained glass was nice, too, Dean thought, craning his neck to better see a particularly colorful window in the choir, depicting Old Testament

kings and prophets. Rob nudged him. "Don't step on the Prince of Wales." "What?"

"Look down. That plaque marks the grave of Henry VI's son."

"Right. The one killed in the Battle of Tewkesbury." Despite himself, Dean was impressed.

The verger shook his grizzled head. "Nasty business, the Battle. Lancastrian troops sought sanctuary here, and were pursued right up to the altar by the Yorkists. The Abbey had to be closed for a month to be cleansed and re-consecrated, due to the bloodshed." He sounded as if he remembered it personally.

Rob's eyes sparked. "Men struck down on sacred ground. Do any of them haunt it still?"

"Oh, we have our share of hooded monks." The old man pursed his lips.

"Benedictines always outstay their welcome, don't they? And we've a White Lady who screams in the courtyard from time to time. Not as well known as the White Lady of Bredon Hill, but there you have it, don't you?"

"Bredon Hill?" Rob looked interested. "Where's that?"

"No time," Dean reminded him sharply, then relented at the abashed look on his companion's face. "You were talking about the ghosts here in Tewkesbury, sir," he reminded the verger. They could spare another hour for ghost-hunting, if it didn't mean leaving the town.

"Aye. If you want soldiers, try the Bell Inn. Can't remember if they're from the Wars of the Roses or Civil War, but I'm sure the barman will tell you. Now the Black Bear's got a Lancastrian knight, doesn't it? And the Royal Arms—"

"That one we know," Dean said. "Is all of Tewkesbury haunted?"

"Bits and pieces, bits and pieces. When swords clash, the echoes ring through the ages. And this town has certainly seen some bloody days, hasn't it? Do you have an interest in the Wars of the Roses?"

Rob admitted he did.

"Well, then. I might be persuaded to show you something only rarely allowed to our most special visitors." He winked at Rob. "Perhaps a small donation?" His withered hand emerged discreetly, and Rob slipped a few coins into it.

"Now there's a change," Dean said under his breath.

Rob narrowed his eyes. "For that, you deserve a good quarter-hour with the Wakeman Cenotaph."

"The what?"

"Just wait."

The verger led them behind the main altar. His knees creaked as he lowered himself stiffly to the floor, opening a wooden trapdoor set into the stone. "Below is the only underground area in the Abbey, the vault containing the Duke and Duchess of Clarence," he said proudly.

Dean raised his brows. "Richard Ill's brother George? That Duke of Clarence?"

Rob grinned. "See, you do know your history."

"No, just Shakespeare." Dean dredged it up from memory. "Convicted of treason, and drowned in Malmsey, wasn't he?"

"Aye," the verger said. "Fit end for a drunkard, to be drowned in a butt of wine."

The sunken eyes held such satisfaction that Dean cringed. "The evils of drink—"

"I know all about them, thank you. Is it because Clarence was disgraced that there's nothing like that for him?" He gestured at some of the other ostentatious sarcophaguses near the altar.

"Nay, there was a tomb, with magnificent figures upon it, but it's long gone now.

The coffins are below, though. Take some candles, 'tis dark down there."

The verger waited above while the two younger men descended into the vault.

Dean expected the grave to be eerie, and it was, the flickering candlelight casting suggestive shadows on the walls. He hadn't expected the stone coffins to be open, though, and the bones exposed to their view.

Rob shuddered and stood nearer to him, staring down at the remains. "That was a real man, the brother of two kings even— foolish perhaps, but he paid for it with his life."

'"False, fleeting, perjured Clarence,'" Dean quoted softly. He spread his fingers in the wavering light, picturing the bones beneath the freckled skin, and had to fight the urge to move even closer to his companion.

Rob let out a sigh, then crossed his arms. "Bones should be private, don't you think? Not something to be displayed for a couple of coins."

"Come on. Let's go," Dean said.

After that, Rob let him escape with only a brief stop to appreciate the horrors of the Wakeman Cenotaph.

"Oh, my," Rob said. "I was afraid it couldn't possibly live up to the lithograph in my uncle's book. I had nightmares for years."

They both surveyed the Cenotaph in awe. Bishop Wakeman had chosen to make his tribute less a memorial than a memento mori: his effigy was depicted as a rotting corpse, in the process of being devoured by lizards, mice and other unsavory creatures.

Ghastly, but—

"I don't know," Dean said. "Somehow actual bones make the point even stronger."

It was later than they planned when they finally left the Abbey, and a light rain had begun to fall.

Dean glared at the sky with disapproval. "Look how dark it is—the rain's only going to get worse." He hailed the coachman. "Erich! Schau dir den Himmel an."

Erich scowled. "Es ist nur Regen."

"Well, that's settled," Dean said. "I can't make Erich drive in this. We'll have to stay over and get an early start in the morning. Good thing the days are still long. With luck we'll make Dursley by sunset tomorrow."

"Will we go back to the Royal Arms?" Rob asked, as they climbed back into the coach.

"No, let's try the Black Bear. Didn't the verger at the Abbey say it's got a phantom soldier? Who knows? Maybe he's the sweetheart of the girl at the Royal Arms. What was her name, Meg?" He called the destination to Erich, who covered the short distance in a trice.

They pulled up outside the inn, whitewashed and half-timbered, its upper story jutting out over the High Street. Rob paused as he emerged from the coach, looking up at the hostelry's carved sign. "Ah, the bear and ragged staff—those were Warwick's arms. We won't find poor Meg's young lord in a Yorkist establishment."

Dean shrugged. "Signs aren't permanent. Easy enough to switch depending on who's in power at the moment."

Rob smiled. "Cynic."

Dean procured the one remaining room, saw Erich settled among the servants and ordered tea sent to a private parlor. The parlor was attractive for a public house, the furniture old and dark with age, but recently upholstered in a pretty flowered chintz.

Rob settled into a cushioned chair and brushed the rain from his dark hair.

"Whatever the ghost is here, I don't see how it can beat the Royal Arms. I adored that story."

"It was utter tripe." Dean took a position on the sofa facing Rob, pouring them both tea from a sturdy blue and white pot. "Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, please. And yes, of course it was. But how can an inn that old not have a resident ghost?" He smiled, taking the cup from Dean with a nod of thanks. "I think I'd make some changes in the story. It would be better if the young lord were Yorkist instead of Lancastrian, because then he'd be coming back triumphant after the battle, certain that he'd find his barmaid waiting for him with her arms full of white roses...only to find the mourners covering her corpse with them instead."

Dean nodded with approval, sitting back with his own cup, which felt wonderfully warming to his chilled hands. "Not bad.

May is a little early for roses to be in full bloom, of course."

"No one will care, and you have to admit, it's very romantic."

"I wouldn't have thought someone like you would have much use for romance,"

Dean said without thinking.

Rob stiffened. "On the contrary, my lord." He looked away, and his voice was very soft. "Someday, I hope to.. .I mean, it would be wonderful if..."

"Would you tell her—him?—about your past?" Dean shook his head. "I wouldn't."

Rob took his time replying, staring into his teacup as if the answer might be found in its depths. "I think I'd have to be honest."

"You'd be a fool, then. No one would want someone who—"

His companion's eyes blazed. "How many women have you been with?"

"That's hardly relevant."

"How many?"

"Oh, Christ, I don't know. There was a group of us who went brothel-crawling nearly every Saturday night when I was at Cambridge. There were only so many girls to go around, of course. Over the course of four years? Twenty-five or thirty, I suppose."

"And since then?"

Dean looked away. "Not so many."

"Can you guess how many men I've slept with? Can you?" He shrugged. "No."

"Thirteen, my lord. About half your total, or less. Is that really so horrible?"

"There is a difference," Dean said softly. "You know there is. Maybe it shouldn't matter so much, who was the buyer and who the seller, but it does. Virtually every unmarried man frequents prostitutes, but let a woman in the direst need accept money even once, and she is ruined forever. And for a man? Good God."

"Outcast. Unclean." Rob's lips twisted wryly. "I hope to prove you wrong someday, my lord." He tilted his chin and looked Dean in the eye. "I refuse to give up on myself."

'"A man is what he makes of himself,'" Dean quoted. "One of the few things of use that my father ever told me. Find another job."

"That's not so easy."

"Why not?" Dean waved a hand in frustration. "Look, it's increasingly clear that you're not stupid. All that stuff you know about history and architecture—"

"So I'm lying?"

"Sometimes we lie to ourselves. And God knows you don't like getting up in the morning. Maybe it's just easier for you—" "Easier?" Rob folded his arms around himself. "Oh, bloody hell."

Dean didn't back down, for some reason increasingly angry. "Or is it just that you're making too much money now? Why find a respectable position you can toil at for the rest of your life, when servicing your older gentlemen will let you retire when you're still a young man?"

Rob leapt to his feet with such force that his teacup overturned, stalking over to stare out the window, fury and hurt emanating from him like a dark cloud.

With tight lips, Dean righted the cup and mopped up the liquid. It was clear that Rob really believed in his mental inferiority, despite growing evidence to the contrary.

Now that was stupid. The man had a fine mind to match his glorious body, and by rights Dean should hate him for having the luck to be born with both. He poured fresh tea and took the cup over to the window, offering it to Rob.

"I'm not entirely certain I should apologize, but I'm going to anyway—and since you don't know me, you can't appreciate the effort it's costing. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, all right?"

Rob accepted the tea, stiff shoulders relaxing by degrees. "Thank you, my lord."

"Try to call me Dean, will you? We're pretending to be friends."

Rob looked at him, dark eyes tired and wounded. "I didn't thank you for letting me see Tewkesbury Abbey either, or taking me to the Royal Arms. We lost some time from the journey for it, and I appreciate it."

"Ah, well. We had to eat somewhere. And...and..." Dean tried to think of why on earth he had taken time out from such an important quest to indulge a virtual stranger, even one who at times was proving to be a surprisingly pleasant companion. He gave up and shrugged. "Now come and sit down."

The prostitute turned back to stare out the window at the rain. "It's so close in here.

Confining. Do you feel it?"

"It's just the weather. And the charwoman was too generous with the fire. It will be better soon."