Rivals for the Crown (42 page)

She'd failed in her goal to prevent others from becoming his victims. As she had failed in London to withstand Langton, failed to see Alis and Lady Dickleburough for what they were. And failed in Berwick, where Rachel, her parents, and Gilbert had been harmed because of her, their lives shattered because they'd protected her. Her accounts were far from settled.

"I cannot imagine that you have anything to worry about," Florine said.

Isabel blinked to stop herself from staring. The woman had an uncanny ability to sense Isabel's turbulent thoughts.

"Your merchant seems pleased enough with your efforts," Florine said. "I saw him just yesterday, you know, and asked him how you did at your tasks."

"Did you?" Isabel asked icily. The effrontery of the woman! "And what was his answer, mistress?"

"That you acquitted yourself well. I knew you would be pleased to hear that, Miriam. You are, of course?"

"Of course," Isabel said.

"You were fortunate to find such a position."

"Yes," Isabel said, and in truth, she had been extremely fortunate.

That first night, left on the southern shore of the River Tweed, she'd not thought about it at all, simply followed the road south, fleeing Berwick and what she had done. When snow had begun to fall the next day, she'd found sanctuary in a church. A kindly priest had fed her and brought her to a convent, where she'd stayed for two months, until the new year had arrived and her sanity with it.

She'd not told the abbess who it was that she'd served in London, only that she had been in service. Nor that she'd been in Berwick. But the attack on Langton was much discussed, and Isabel suspected the clever abbess had guessed the truth. She'd attempted to employ Isabel in the convent kitchens, but it had soon become apparent that she had no talents there. Instead, Isabel had earned her keep by repairing the altar cloths and mending the nun's habits—simple tasks that had pleased the abbess. So much so that the abbess had asked her if she would like to stay at the convent, if she had a calling to God. To which Isabel had firmly said she did not.

They had discussed her skills, the abbess's eyebrows rising when she discovered that Isabel spoke and wrote Latin, French, and English. It had been those skills that had brought her to Newcastle, where she taught the three pampered daughters of a merchant, and where she lived quietly, keeping to herself.

She had debated whether to stay in Newcastle, whether to stay in England or return to Scotland. Each had its hazards. In England, she had been outlawed, which, while sobering, also amused her. Isabel de Burke, wanted by the crown for attempted murder. But in Newcastle she could hide among the people who crowded into this

ancient and most northern of the English ports. In Scotland her accent would give her away, and with English soldiers billeted in every castle and town, the English were most unwelcome. But Rory was in Scotland, somewhere. He would never find her in Newcastle. But then, he'd not come to find her in Berwick.

And if she did not stay here in Newcastle, where would she go? Not to London, obviously. Not back to Berwick. Not to some small village, where a newly arrived woman with a London accent would be sure to draw attention. And so she had stayed, living quietly, keeping to herself.

It was simple to be invisible in the merchant's household, for it was a noisy place, with seven sons and three daughters. She had declined their offer to live within their walls, preferring her freedom. The sons were at church schools, or taught at home by monks. The daughters were being groomed for successful marriages. The better she did her job, the sooner it would end, but still she applied herself, and the girls were eager students. Isabel steeled her heart against them, was reluctant to care about them or mourn that she would never be a mother or a wife. Life was as it was, she told herself, and she should be content. Some days she had to repeat that several times.

The older woman was now complaining about the arrivals expected in Newcastle. Soldiers, the woman said, due to arrive this day.

"Why are they here?" Isabel asked. She pulled her cloak tighter, suddenly chilled. The king's soldiers in Newcastle.

"Why to protect us from the Scots, of course. They continue to defy King Edward, fools that they are. We're to have some of the king's own knights arriving soon, I've heard. Perhaps you could find a new husband among them."

Isabel looked at the woman. She'd let the world think Miriam was a widow, the better to confuse those who would be seeking a virgin named Isabel de Burke. New name, new past. She'd even dyed her hair darker with walnut stain.

"It would be good for you to have a man in your bed again."

Rory.

It was far too easy to imagine him in her bed, long legs and wide shoulders and his golden hair sweeping across the pillow. Three years and she still could not forget the man, nor his touch. His kisses. His lean body pressed against hers, ready. His smile, that mouth that made her knees buckle and her will weaken. He never came to see you. She remembered watching Rachel open Kieran's letters, happy for her friend, but sick for herself at being so quickly forgotten by magnificent Rory MacGannon. Who had never been in her bed except in her dreams. The past was past. And just as well. Better to be an aging virgin than the bastard mother of a bastard.

Florine nudged her. "I can see that brought on some memories, eh? Well, wipe them from your mind, lass. We're here at the church, and it will do you no good to walk inside thinking of a man between your legs." She chuckled and walked through the open church door, crossing herself with holy water.

Isabel followed more slowly. This time, she told herself, she would try to pray. This time she would ask for forgiveness and listen for God's answer. But she knew she did not deserve His absolution, for she did not repent her sins; she only regretted that she'd not been more successful. And so, sinner that she was, with full knowledge that she was only visiting the house of God and would spend eternity in Hell, she went inside.

When they left the church it was sunny, rays of light slanting through the clouds. The streets were wet, but it did not hinder the parade they found in progress. A troop of the king's cavalry had arrived in Newcastle. Hundreds of them, it seemed, riding gaily through city streets, waving to the citizens, then disappearing into the Black Gate, the entrance to Newcastle's castle.

She told herself not to look for a handsome, dark-haired knight among them, but she did nevertheless, searching through the faces for Henry's, hoping that he would not be there. And yet, that he would. She would like to thank him, to ask him what had happened after her departure. Whether he'd been discovered and punished for his part in it. Just to see someone who knew her, who knew the truth. But there lay danger as well, which made standing here watching those who might be seeking her madness in itself. If Edward's troops were here, could the king himself be far behind? And Newcastle, though a thriving city, was not large enough in

which to hide if Edward or Langton sought her here. But where to go?

"I wonder if I'll see the one who came to talk to me the other day," Florine said. "I thought I could point him out to you. In case he came back, to talk to you this time. He was looking for a young woman. From London."

Isabel tried to keep her expression calm. She unclenched the fist that she had brought to her waist. "Really?"

"Yes. Her name is Isabel de Burke. She was lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor."

"The queen has been dead for years. Why is he searching for her now?"

Florine laughed softly. "You remember, my dear. There was that attack on the king's Steward of the Wardrobe. In Berwick. A woman stabbed him. It was just before you arrived, maybe a month or two earlier. Didn't you come from Berwick?"

"What else did the soldier tell you?"

"That this woman was about your height. Her hair was a little lighter. Like the shade yours is in the new growth around your temples. He told me Walter Langton is looking for this Isabel de Burke in every city in England."

"And he thinks she stabbed Walter Langton?"

"So he says."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I knew no Isabel de Burke. He offered money for anything I could tell him. I imagine that Isabel de Burke, wherever she may be, might be willing to pay more for my silence." She waved at the soldiers, then threw Isabel a glance. "You look pale, dear. Does talking about stabbing a man make you feel ill?"

"Yes," Isabel said.

"Then we won't talk about it again. Shall I tell you if the young soldier comes looking for more information?"

"Yes. Please."

"I shall then. Are you off to your feast at the merchant's now?"

"Yes."

"Tomorrow I would like you to come with me to mass again. You will, won't you? Before you go to the merchant's. And again on Sunday. It's so much nicer to go with a friend than to go alone. We can talk. You do understand, don't you, dear?"

"Yes," Isabel said. "I understand."

She bid farewell to Florine and made her way to the merchant's house. She had to pause once, to calm herself. It was bound to

happen. Walter Langton would not willingly let her live to tell the tale. It made no difference that she would remain silent. While she lived, there was a risk that she would talk.

She'd known this might happen, that one day someone would come looking for her. She was fortunate that Florine had chosen to warn her. And all she'd asked in return was for Isabel to attend Mass with her. And pay her. Isabel took a deep breath. She could do this. For now. Until the demands grew greater. Dear God. She could do this, and continued on to her Michaelmas meal.

Today she would dine with the girls' parents and their guests. Normally on feast days she was alone, but this day Isabel was to translate for the visiting merchant, a Frenchman. Simple enough. She'd done this sort of thing before, sitting quietly while the men talked of horses and ships and wine. The merchant spoke French of a fashion, but his wife spoke none and would question Isabel afterward as to what had been said.

She was early, but better than spending more time with Florine. Here no one cared about her past, or her life outside these walls. She refused to think of Langton, thinking instead of the images of Rory brought on by Florine's comment about a man in her bed as she waited while the girls' maids dressed them for the meal. Glorious man. But best forgotten. If all went well she would teach these girls until they were ready to marry, live in her small room, and save her money for the day when she could not earn her food. Or needed to flee.

But now.. .if Edward's troops were here...Where would she go? Her mind ran in circles.

When at last all three girls were ready, she accompanied them down the stairs to the second floor, where the spacious dining room faced the street. The Frenchmen were already there, two of them, seated with her employer at the small side table. Her plump face serious, the merchant's wife drew Isabel aside, and Isabel knew she was about to be given her orders. The merchant rarely talked to her directly.

"Our other guest will be here momentarily," his wife said. "A wool merchant. You and I will, of course, refrain from speaking unnecessarily during the meal, but I would like you to assist my husband without seeming to do so. He sometimes gets confused in his French, though he will never admit it. Please see that he gets the sums correct this time." She smiled and patted Isabel's arm. "It will be a tedious meal, but I will see that you are compensated for your efforts."

Isabel nodded. She hated this, the part she played, of the deferential servant. But she would play it well, for she had few other choices. Who would have guessed, all those years ago, when she'd learned French as a child, that her very bread would depend upon it? She sat in one of the window seats, nearest the door, her hands folded in her lap, while the three girls, seated in the other window, giggled into their hands at some silly thing. She looked up at the
grey
sky, remembering being as silly with Rachel, in a different world.

The door opened. A man hurried in. He was of medium height, with lank brown hair.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," the man said.

He greeted the others, bowing to the Frenchmen, shaking hands with his host and kissing the hands of the three delighted daughters and their mother.

"And Miriam here," the merchant said, "will translate for us."

Isabel rose to her feet, a sudden roaring in her ears.

The man turned to her. His mouth fell open.

Isabel looked into the eyes of Edgar Keith. Rachel's sister's husband.

"His name," Edgar Keith said with pride, looking past Isabel, "is James Jacob Edgar Keith, named after his grandfathers and his father. My wife, Sarah, is delighted with him. He is fortunate to have two grandmothers who adore him and his aunt Rachel, who visits often since her return to Berwick with her parents. She and her husband, the butcher's son, visit us when they can, but it is difficult to leave a thriving inn. Her parents need her there." He sipped his wine and looked at Isabel over the rim of the fine crystal. Thus far he'd not given her away.

"It is a shame that you cannot trade directly with France, sir," Edgar told the merchant, "but I am happy to be the joint that connects you. Tell me, sirs," he said in French to the Frenchmen. "How was the harvest? I have heard the summer was very warm and dry. How did your vines do?"