Geoffrey Condit (20 page)

    “I suppose you know Henry Tudor, too,” Clifford said.

    Peter ignored that.  “We will send you across the Narrow Sea to safety.  You may go to your father or stay with our people in Bruge or Antwerp.”

    Will’s agitated young face echoed his voice.  “Real escape was something I only dreamed of.  I’ve been hiding much of my life.”

    “King Richard would not have gone after you.  You are sixteen.  I suspect you’ve only been seriously hunted for about two years if that.  That’s when Buckingham would have become interested.  Tell me what you did these six years before you began to run?”

    Will stared at the ground and Catharine touched Peter’s arm.

    “You spent it with your cousin in hiding in Westmoreland.  Black Clifford’s heir,”  Peter said, and saw the boy go red, eyes filling with alarm.  “Don’t be afraid. This King is not vengeful.  He knows, but won’t move against a man unless he comes out in open rebellion.  Since I was given the Barony of Westmoreland, I’ve come into a great deal of information.  You started running when you heard Buckingham’s agents asking about you.  Protecting the Clifford heir.  Am I right?”

    “True,”  Will said, eyes wide on Peter’s face.

    “Then Buckingham started hatching his little plot two and a half years ago.  At the time it was known King Edward’s health was beginning to fail.  The duke has been plotting for a while.”

    Catharine trembled, and Peter put his arm around her shoulder.  “I understand your anger, Catharine.  Some men will go to any lengths to get what they want.  I wonder what he will do next?  We have foiled him twice.” He beckoned a small energetic man forward.

    Will Clifford said, “You still have an attained outlaw on your hands, which is a crime in itself.”

    “Not for long,”  Peter said, clapping his hand on the small man’s shoulder affectionately.  “This is Patty McNaughten.  A clever man you will not find.  He will take you to Lynn to meet one of our ships heading for  the Low countries.  He will see you to your father.  So where will it be after your reunion?  Our trading  houses or your father?”

    “My father,” Will said without hesitation.  He looked like he wanted to say more.

    “And?”  Peter said.  He’d learned long ago to probe, to leave nothing unsaid, to encourage people to speak their minds.

    “You can trust Peter,”  Catharine said.

    “I heard something.  It maybe what you’re looking for in regards to Buckingham.”  Hesitancy still guarded his tongue.

    “Do you want to speak alone?”  Peter asked.  Paddy stepped back, and the rest of Peter’s retainers walked out of ear shot.

    “It might be nothing.”  Will hunched his shoulders, twisting his hands.  “I heard whispering among his men.  His Grace is planning a revolt.  He has thousands of men waiting in east Wales for the word to rise up.  He is negotiating with some southern lords to help him.”

    “Jesus wept, Peter.”  Catharine looked up excitedly. “This is just the thing we need to clear Will with the King.”  Her face glowed.

    “Or get him in trouble for a false accusation,” Peter said.  “I think Will is accurate, but you saw how far the truth went to get me free.”

    “What are you saying?” she protested.  “This has to be worth something.”

    “The question is how to use it.”  Peter kicked a stone with his heavy boot, and watched it sail in to stump fifteen feet away. “We’ll tell Caxton, and drop a hint where the information came from.  Caxton can verify it by checking the duke’s estates.  It would explain why Butcher Carnahan is here, and why he’s been in the duke’s service for the last year.”

    “It would also explain why he’s so interested in your money,” Catharine said, hugging the cape close when a cool breeze sprang up.

    “Our money,”  Peter corrected, mind roaming over the possibilities.

    “These are great events that affect nations,” Will said.  “I’m afraid to be a part of it.”

    “We can keep your name out of it, if you like.  It might be wise, considering where you want to go, especially if Henry Tudor has a hand in this.”

    “Tudor?”  Catharine asked. “Why Tudor?  Buckingham has as much royal blood as Henry Tudor, and as much right to the throne.”

    “Almost,” Peter said,  “Tudor is the most direct descendent of the bastard Beaufort line of John Gaunt, fourth son of Edward the Third.  Their maternal grandfather’s were brothers.  Tudor’s the older.  Each can equally discount the other.  Dynastic ambition.  It ruins us as a nation, sucks our sustenance dry, and wastes our nobility.”

    “So Tudor may have a hand in this?”  Will said, aghast.  “I may have betrayed our Lancaster heir.”

    Peter shook his head.  “No. Considering that King Richard’s support lies everywhere but London, there’s not much of a chance of Tudor returning and taking the throne,”  Peter said. “The money and the men aren’t there.  The Woodville’s won’t support Tudor, even with the money they stole from King Edward’s Treasury.  Duke Francis of Brittany won’t give anything but his blessings.”  Peter shook his head.  “Without men or money, Henry is dead in the water.  I wouldn’t worry about him.  If you want in his camp ... ”  Peter shrugged, then grinned.  “It doesn’t hurt to have a relative on the other side. Might soften the blow if the impossible happened.”  Peter took their hands and joined them .  “Say your goodbyes.  You will see each other again.”

    The trembling in their limbs, and the new anguish in their faces at parting made Peter turn away, to hide his own growing emotion, angry that an innocent boy must hide for something he hadn’t done.

    When Will Clifford and Paddy McNaughten and three armed retainers disappeared into the forest, Catharine turned back to him, her face bathed in tears.  He drew her to him, felt her body tremble, and tears drench his shirt.  “He’s safe.  His nightmare is over.  You will see him again.”  He held her left hand, feeling her unyielding wedding ring.  Perhaps she will begin to understand its meaning now that she’s crossed the threshold. 

    She tilted her head up to his, eyes shining.  “Take me home, Peter. Oh, take me home.”

    His heart leaped, and he caught himself before his hands tightened on her shoulders and arms. He savored the way she said ‘home’, and gloried in the possibilities of what they could do together.  Images of their careful plotting to rescue her brother, the laughter, the new found respect for each other, the genuine liking blossoming, all this made this moment and the future sweet, almost unbearably so.

    He’d begun to think of her as a necessary part of his life, looking forward  to their being together.  But until now he’d never dared unleash his hopes, for fear she’d return to the uncertainty of her pervious behavior.  Feeling the iron wedding ring on her slender finger reminded him of the fine caring shared between his father and mother.  That was what he yearned for with Catharine.  

    He lifted her left hand and kissed the ring.  “Indeed, my wife.  Let us go home.”

    The next morning intermittent rain, wind and scattered clouds promised a stormy day.  Peter felt a stray raindrop land on his nose, and Catharine laughed when it traveled to the tip and fell off onto Grey Harold.  He rejoiced at the fresh happiness in her voice.  The wet stones steps of the west entrance of St. Paul’s Cathedral dried as the breaking morning sun peeked through a patch of blue sky.  Sights and sounds of the city swept by them; trudging peasants bent under loads of produce to be sold to the highest bidder, the creak of wagon and cart, clopping of horses hooves, and the inevitable shouts of hawking shopkeepers and peddlers.

    Peter offered his right hand palm down to Catharine.  She laid her left hand on top of his, and they turned to enter.  “My lady, may I compliment you on your gown.”  Her troubled gaze focused ahead of them, forcing his to follow.  The Duke of Buckingham stood at the top of the steps, face impassive, watching them.  She squeezed his hand so hard he glanced at her surprised .  Her face was livid with anger.  “Courage,” Peter said.

    “I don’t need courage. I need restraint, and self-control, husband.  I could fry his liver and not bat an eye,” she said under her breath.

    Peter grinned. “God grant you the self -control you desire.  Let me deal with His Grace.  I wouldn’t want to be in the path of your anger.”

    She giggled. “I know.  Seems we’ve been trying each other’s souls for most of our marriage.  Let us see if we can’t try the soul of His Grace of Buckingham.”   She quickened her step, and Peter matched it with his own.

    On the landing at the top of the stairs Catharine curtsied and Peter and the Duke exchanged bows and courtesies.  The duke was  dressed in his usual black edged with gold.

    The duke’s face worked, his eyes watery with ill-concealed emotion.  “Clever ploy, sending a courier to ask the where about of Will Clifford, Sir Peter,” the duke said.  “Considering how you kidnapped him with that fake mummer’s parade.”

    “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Harry,”  Peter said.  “We still hope you will produce Catharine’s brother that we might petition the King for his pardon.”  Peter  wanted to smash the arrogant self-assured face in front of him.

    “I’ll hang him for an outlaw when I do catch him,” the duke said, teeth grating, pitted face in a grimace.  “He’s probably across the Narrow Sea by now.”

    “I’m sure we wouldn’t know, being the King’s loyal subjects.”  Catharine smiled sweetly.

    The duke beckoned them to a vacant area near the great doors.  “You bested me again.  But this is not the end.”

    “You have other ideas on how to pursue my wealth?  How tiring,”  Peter said.  “Perhaps I could recommend a money lender to assist you in this urgent quest of yours.”   He wanted to strangle the man, felt his muscles bunch.  When Catharine’s fingernails dug into his forearm, he felt the pain and forced himself to relax.  “Why this urgent need for wealth?  Explain yourself?”

    “You don’t need any explanation, Baron Trobridge.  But rest assured, this is not the end.”

    “What do you plan next?  Mount a sea expedition to Burge to storm and sack our trading companies perhaps?”  Peter laughed, but his hands still shook from his desire to crush the man.  The bile crept up his throat, burning.  Catharine’s finger nails dug deep into Peter’s arm.  He could feel their cutting, knowing the edge of caution, barely holding him in check.

    “You will not know the final blow when it comes,”  the duke said, voice matter-of-fact.  “It will end your arrogance, and bend your behavior to my will.  There will be none left to protect you.”  He bowed, placed his feathered black velvet cap on his head at a jaunty angle, and strode down the steps to his waiting escort.

    They stood watching the duke mount.  “What do you think he meant by that?”  Peter asked.  Carnahan handed the reins of the black gelding to the duke.  Then, catching Peter’s eye, he brushed his coarse hand  down the side of his face in imitation of Peter’s scar.  Grinning, he sketched a bow.

    Peter pulled a deep breath, and gripped his sword hilt with great force.  “Calm, Peter,” he heard Catharine say, as if from far away.

    “God willing, one day he and I will ... .  I’ll avenge my friend’s death.  I swear it.”  The bile tasted bitter and burning in his mouth. His breath raced.

    “Would Buckingham use the Church?”  Catharine asked, turning toward the church door.

    Peter pushed his anger aside and gathered his scattered wits.  “Use the Church to steal our property?  I doubt it.  This is England, not France or Spain.  Charges of heresy don’t work well here.  I know more churchmen than he does.  I’d almost like to get into his mind, to see what evil thoughts he is thinking.”  The hilt of his sword felt good in his hand.

    “No.  It might turn your stomach,”  Catharine said.  “When we are done here, we’d best be on to Sir James Caxton’s manor house to see what he’s found out about the duke’s business.”  She moved inside the church.

    “True. But let us light the candles you wanted, to celebrate your brother’s freedom.”

    “Jesus wept, Peter.  I thank you for that. ”  She stopped as though struck.  “Peter! There will be no one to protect you!  He means Caxton!  He means to rid himself of Caxton.  Without Caxton we’d be at his mercy.”  She turned, running to the steps.  “Somehow he’s going to kill Caxton.”

    It took twenty minutes to reach Caxton’s manor house near Newgate.  Cheapside going west was clogged with people, animals, and wagons.  Their horses moved with exasperating slowness.  They received their share of curses from jostled and crowded pack men and peddlers which Peter calmed by tossing coins.

    Inside the courtyard, Catharine didn’t wait to be helped down, but scrambled to the mounting block, and flung the reins to a surprised groom.  Gathering her skirts, she charged in the manor house door, surprising Miles Northrop who stood there astonished with a ledger in his hands.  “Lady Catharine.”

    “Buckingham is planning to kill Sir James!  How, we don’t know.”

    “God’s Blood,” Miles swore.

    “Do you have anyone new on your staff?”  Peter asked, striding in behind Catharine.

    “A cook.  Our head cook was suddenly taken ill.  Oh, God.”  Miles ran for the study.  Peter raced past, and burst in to the room surprising Caxton about to take a mouthful of capon in white sauce.  Peter knocked the fork out of his hand just when it touched  his lips.  White sauce and capon spun across the room, staining the wainscoted wall.  Caxton stared in shocked disbelief.