Kissed by Shadows (29 page)

She shook her head and put her hands at her waist, forcing the conversation into a path that would douse desire. “How soon do you think it will it be before I have to put panels in my gowns?”

He shrugged. “Another month perhaps, maybe more. Women are very different in the way they carry their children.”

She took a deep breath, then spoke the thought that she had not dared to articulate even in her mind. “There are ways to rid oneself of an unwanted child, are there not?”

“So I believe, but I don't know them.” He kept his voice as calm and neutral as hers.

“No, neither do I.” It was spoken at last, and now perhaps it could be forgotten.

“Is that what you would wish?” He asked the question with difficulty.

Silence stretched taut between them, swarming with a hive of impossible considerations, impossible possibilities. Then eventually Pippa said, “I don't know. What of you?”

She looked at him with a clear, direct gaze. “Would you wish to rid the world of this child . . . the child of the man who tortured your sister to death?”

“How can I answer that?” he said in a low voice. “If you cannot answer it, Pippa, how can I?” He opened his hands in a helpless gesture.

She gave a little shrug, a gesture as helpless as his own, and turned her gaze from him. He wanted to hold her but he didn't dare, so he hurried away, leaving her alone in the little chamber above the washhouse.

Twenty-two

The solemn party of four black-clad gentlemen climbed down from their open carriage before the door of Lionel Ashton's mansion. They carried their black bags and the lappets of their caps were tied firmly beneath their chins. Their gowns flapped at their ankles.

A man at the head of the troop of horsemen who had accompanied the queen's physicians strode to the door and rapped sharply with the hilt of his dagger.

The door opened slowly and Senor Diaz, the steward, surveyed his visitors with a mixture of curiosity and hauteur. “Mr. Ashton is not within,” he pronounced, the English fluent but the Spanish accent heavy.

“No matter. He understands our business. We are come to see Lady Nielson,” the visitor stated. “I bring the queen's physicians to attend her.”

The steward gave him a blank stare. “Lady Nielson?”

“Aye, Lady Nielson. She is at present residing under Mr. Ashton's roof,” the other said impatiently.

“I don't believe so,” Senor Diaz stated, his not inconsiderable bulk barring the door. “But if you will remain here a moment, I will consult with the lady of the house, Dona Bernardina.” He stepped back and firmly closed the door.

The steward was not in his master's complete confidence, but he was aware that something concerning the suddenly absent Dona Luisa had caused Mr. Ashton's present journey. Dona Bernardina's long face and frequent sighs merely added to his suspicions.

He found the duenna in the small parlor where she was accustomed to sitting with her charge.

“Was that someone knocking?” She rose eagerly from her chair, setting aside her tambour frame. “Is Don Ashton returned?”

“No, madam. 'Tis a troop of the queen's horse escorting the queen's physicians. They say they are come to attend upon Lady Nielson.”

“Lady Nielson?” Bernardina gazed blankly at him. “How could that be?” She smoothed down her skirts with anxious little pats of her plump white hands. “Why would they expect to find Lady Nielson here?”

“I do not know, madam. I understood the gentleman in charge of the troop to say that she was residing at present under Mr. Ashton's roof.”

“What a silly mistake to have made. Send him in to me.”

The steward bowed and returned to the door just as a series of imperative knocks rattled the oak.

He swung open the door. “My lady will speak with you, sir.” He offered a half bow to the leader of the troop. “Who shall I say is calling?”

“Sir Anthony Crosse,” the man said, brushing past the steward. “And I do not care to be kept cooling my heels on the doorstep.”

“No, sir. Forgive me, but in Mr. Ashton's absence I am instructed to keep the ladies from any disturbance.” The steward opened the door to the parlor. “Madam, Sir Anthony Crosse.”

Bernardina had resumed her seat and now kept it, offering her visitor a calm but cold smile. She spoke in Spanish and waited for the steward to translate for her. “We are not accustomed to visitors in Don Ashton's absence, senor. How can I help you?”

Sir Anthony stepped into the parlor and felt the first stirring of discomfort. He was on the king's business, bearing His Majesty's writ. He had been told to expect some resistance from Lady Nielson but that he was to overcome it however necessary. He had not been told to expect a confrontation with a stately, jewel-encrusted, mantilla-swathed lady who spoke no English.

He bowed deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, madam, but I am on the king's business. I bring the queen's physicians to attend upon Lady Nielson, who, I understand, is at present a guest under Mr. Ashton's roof.” He glanced expectantly at the steward, who provided the translation in a monotone.

Bernardina was so astonished, so anxious to correct such a misapprehension, that she felt the need to speak directly to the visitor and searched her sparse English vocabulary.

“No . . . no . . . indeed not so. Such a stupid notion, senor. Lady Nielson was here for . . . for supper, yes . . . yes, but no . . . no she does not live here. I can tell you that she is with Dona Luisa de los Velez of the house of Mendoza . . . as chaperone. Dona Luisa will be back anytime now, yes . . . yes, she will, but Lady Nielson . . . no, I do not think.” Her expressive shrug filled in the blanks.

Sir Anthony stared at her. None of it made any sense to him. He opted for a simple route. “Where may I find Mr. Ashton, madam?”

For the first time some of Bernardina's confused anxiety showed. Flustered, she stammered, “I . . . I do not know . . . I am not party to Don Ashton's business.”

“I see. I must ask you to forgive me, but my orders are explicit. If you cannot produce Lady Nielson then I must search the house to find her. Pray remain in the parlor, madam, and you will not be molested in any way.”

Sir Anthony strode from the chamber. He flung open the front door and stood in the doorway, preventing anyone from closing it, while he bellowed his orders to his men.

Bernardina listened to the booted feet tramping through the house. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she would swoon. She had no idea what was happening but she had only one thought, to protect Luisa's reputation. Don Ashton was not here to do it so it was up to her. It might seem as if these men were not interested in Luisa, but since Don Ashton had told her the girl was with Lady Nielson then any business that involved the one would inevitably involve the other.

After what seemed an eternity the booted feet crossed the hall again and the great front door opened and slammed. Only then did Bernardina rise from her chair.

The steward entered the parlor. “Forgive me, madam. They wouldn't let me come to you.”

“What did they want?”

He spread his hands in incomprehension. “They seemed convinced that Lady Nielson was in residence. I told them only you were here and that Don Ashton has gone on a journey and so has Dona Luisa.”

“You did not imply that Dona Luisa had gone alone?”

“Hardly, madam. You had already told Sir Anthony that she has gone somewhere with Lady Nielson. I would not contradict you.”

Bernardina waved him away and returned to her seat. She could do nothing but wait and pray. She took up her rosary.

“So it seems all our birds have flown the coop,” Philip said in a low voice that throbbed with rage. With a sudden violent movement he drove the blade of a silver paper knife into the table. The blade bent and he hurled the knife to the floor.

“How did it happen?” He glared at his two companions.

Ruy Gomez steepled his fingers. “Our men lost Nielson and his lover when they attended mass at Southwark Cathedral this afternoon. But they are sure to pick them up again within the hour. They cannot have gone far.” His tone was smooth and soothing.

“They are of no importance with the woman gone,” Philip declared. “But by the mass, when they're caught they will die a hard, unshriven death.” He took up a silver chalice and drained its contents.

Simon Renard pushed back his chair with an impatient movement, his customary poise disintegrated. “Where would the woman go? And where in the name of grace is Ashton?”

“He has gone after her, I imagine,” Gomez said.

“Why would he not tell us then?” Renard demanded. He stood up and began to pace the council chamber like a caged panther.

The question remained unanswered as its incredible implications dawned for the first time. Ruy Gomez stared down at the table. “He cannot be working against us,” he said finally, almost in an undertone. “'Tis not possible.”

The sound of Westminster's bells ringing the six o'clock curfew penetrated the closed windows of the chamber. Philip stood up abruptly. “Send to the gates and question the watchmen. If Ashton left the city . . . if the woman left the city . . . someone must have seen them. I go to the queen.” He stalked from the room, slamming the door at his back.

“Please God, the queen comes to full term and a healthy delivery,” Renard muttered.

Ruy Gomez looked across the table at him. “You would do better to pray that we lay hold of Lady Nielson and her bastard.”

The hold of the boat reeked of fish oil and was slippery with blood and silvery scales. Gabriel and Stuart were barely aware of their uncomfortable, malodorous surroundings as they waited for the rattle of an anchor chain, the sound of creaking sails that would tell them they were on their way from Southwark docks downriver to the English Channel.

They had entered Southwark Cathedral boldly through the main doors. Stuart had made confession to the Bishop of Winchester, Gabriel to a lesser priest, but they had both departed the confessional clothed in the robes of novices, hoods drawn low to hide their untonsured skulls. They had left the cathedral through a side door from the sacristy.

Stuart knew he was an able man, only blackmail and terror had robbed him of the ability to think and plan with the natural wit and wisdom that had attracted Pippa back in the days when the sun shone. Now, as he heard the anchor rattle, the feet on the deck turning the capstan, as he felt the first swing of the boat's hull beneath him, he knew again the stirrings of his old pride and self-confidence. He had defeated the spies. He was taking Gabriel to safety. Pippa was in Lionel Ashton's hands, in the care of a man who had sworn to protect her. And she was now free of her betrayer. Her husband was no longer her husband.

He reached over and lightly brushed Gabriel's hands, tightly clenched across his lyre. They would sail first to the island of Jersey while the fisherman trawled the deep waters of the Channel for its rich catches, which they would salt in the barrels behind Stuart's head. And from there they would find a small boat to take them to the French coast. They would go overland from there to Italy. No one could touch them now.

Pippa woke from a disturbed sleep as the moon fell across her face. She was disoriented for a moment, aware of that same deep unnameable fear that had dogged her for so long. And then she remembered that the fear had a name. A face. She knew all about it and so it was no longer a fear. It was a matter of fact.

She touched her belly. It felt the same. Flat. Concave, actually, as she lay on her back. But there was a life in there. A life that had been put there without her consent . . . without her knowledge.

She tried to force herself to bring Philip's face into her mind's eye but her mind slipped away from the image whenever it began to take on structure.

She heard a sound from the floor beside the cot and softly turned her head. Lionel was sitting up on his pile of straw and blankets. She held her breath, not knowing why she didn't wish to let him know that she was awake. Just that she didn't.

He stood up carefully, and she knew he didn't wish to wake her. He trod softly to the puddle of moonlight on the floor beneath the unglazed round window high on the wall. He was fully dressed except for his cloak.

She watched him, watched his rigid back, the set of his strong neck, the line of his profile as he turned his head up to the moon as if seeking warmth from the pale silver light. She knew that he was thinking of his sister. Reliving his helplessness in the agony of her death.

She wanted to go to him, to hold him and comfort him as he had once comforted her. But she was as wounded as he and while he had been helpless to prevent his sister's torment, he had not been helpless to prevent her own.

She lay with her head turned on the cot, looking at him as he continued to stand in the moonlight. Was forgiveness ever possible? Even if it wasn't was there some comfort they could give each other?

Without conscious decision she slid from the cot and trod softly towards him. He didn't turn, whether because he wasn't aware of her or chose not to be, she couldn't tell. She stood behind him and silently put her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back.

A slight shiver went through him but he made no other move. He felt himself suddenly devoid of will. The strength of his authority had evaporated up here in the little moonlit chamber. He was stripped to his frailties, the ordinary human weaknesses that he had not allowed himself to admit lest they interfere with a purpose that transcended all things ordinary. And now, as he felt Pippa's body against his, he knew that he had misunderstood the importance of ordinary things. A misunderstanding that was going to cost him all hope of happiness.

“You're thinking of Margaret.” Her voice was low and he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck.

“Aye.”

“Of how you could do nothing to help her.”

He made no reply and she stood there, encircling him with her arms, her bare feet chill on the wooden floor, the night air cold on her nape. But his body was warm against hers as she pressed herself into him with a hungry, urgent need for contact in her own hurt and loneliness.

“They all just stood there watching as she died. Hundreds of them. Blank-faced, silent, unmoved, and unmoving.” He spoke suddenly, his voice a harsh rasp in the moonlight.

“And like them I stood there and watched as Philip violated you . . . But I
swear
to you, Pippa, on Margaret's grave, that while I kept silence I was not unmoved.”