Suzanne Robinson (27 page)

He woke from a black death of sleep a day later to find Mag at his side gently shaking him. Another girl as bare-breasted as her mistress stood behind her with a tray of food. He smiled at Mag, then bolted upright.

“Have you found him?”

“Easy, my lovely. Not yet, but soon.”

Blade looked down at himself and found that she’d removed his clothes. He shoved the covers back.

“I must search for him.”

Mag pushed him back down on the bed and threw the sheets over him “Rot. If you don’t eat, you won’t make it down the stairs. René said you refused to eat all the way south. I’m not having that. I want you fit and ready to reward me for giving you this Richmond fellow.”

“I’m not hungry”

Mag plumped herself down on the bed and took the tray from the girl, who left them alone. Mag placed the tray on his lap, and Blade sighed. She tore a piece of bread and stuck it in his mouth.

“Chew,” she said.

He chewed. As soon as he swallowed, she shoved a cup of ale to his lips. Mutton and cheese followed, alternating with ale and bread. Finally he turned his head away, and she put the cup down on the tray. Popping a candied apple slice in his mouth, she surveyed him from head to foot.

“Now, are you going to tell me who she is?”

He choked on a piece of apple. Clearing his throat, he took a sip of ale.

“Who?” he asked.

“Listen, my pretty stallion with eyes like a thundercloud, you may not have Christian de Rivers’s evil tongue, but you abjure food as he did when he ran afoul
of Mistress Nora. I’ve seen you twist women into knots with a smile. I’ve seen you beguile and lure and enchant as if the devil gave you dominion over everyone in skirts I know what you are, and why you spend so much time in France And I’ve also seen you ply sword and dagger so swiftly I couldn’t mark their paths. I’ve never seen you so sick of heart as to refuse nourishment”

“Your tongue clatters like a windblown shutter, woman.”

“Then I’m wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Prove it,” Mag said, and took the tray from him.

She set it on the floor, then bent over him. Bracing her arms on either side of his body, she lowered her head to kiss him. He remained still, allowing her to do as she wished, for as her lips moved on his, he felt a surge of unhappiness, and a desolation so great it threatened to pitch him into a black and endless abyss.

When Mag ended the kiss she pulled away to peer into his eyes.

“Who is she, lovely, that her loss has brought you such sorrow?”

“Leave off, Mag,” he replied harshly.

“Ah well, you’re young, and if I were this girl, I wouldn’t allow you to gad about London on your own for long. So, you want to know where this Richmond man is?”

“You know!” Blade grabbed her and shook her until her head bounced.

“Stop, you damned harlot’s cub.”

“Where is he?” Blade released her, leaped out of bed, and began donning his clothes.

“In a town house on the north bank near the Strand. One of them French conies owns it, but he’s not there. He’s an auburn-haired swaggerer, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he sent for five expensive bawds from Goody
Jen’s house last night and rode them all. Paid in good coin, too. That kind of patron gets talked about.”

Mag picked up the cup of ale and took a drink. “No need to hurry, my lovely Your cony is waiting for someone, sure as straw burns. He’s burrowed into that deserted house and he peers out the windows on the hour. He’s got two men with him on guard, and they chase away tradesmen and cutpurses alike.”

Blade was relieved to hear it. It seemed he was in time. Stuffing his shirt into his hose and pulling on his boots, he said, “There’s no reason to tarry either. Have someone show me where Leslie Richmond is. At once.”

The sun was touching the tops of the leafless trees by the time Oriel emerged from the forest and pulled her mare up so that she could stare at the gates to Richmond Hall. She had sent on ahead the men Blade had provided as escort. She felt as empty as a beggar’s cup in a famine. Even her shame had faded, the shame that had assaulted her after her first anguish. Now she mused with blessed numbness at her guilelessness and credulity. What a marvel she must have appeared, priding herself upon Blade Fitzstephen’s wooing.

How witless of her to have expected a man of such beguiling charm to have given his heart to her. Her, with her dried pea eyes, frazzled locks, and head stuffed
with useless learning. She nudged her horse into motion again and thanked God for the numbness that had come over her after an afternoon of near-hysterical weeping in the deserted lodge.

She must take care to conceal what had passed this day. Should her aunts discover her rejection, they would chastise her endlessly for her failure. She didn’t need a pack of aunts nipping at her heels.

Upon her arrival at Richmond Hall she discovered that a visitor had made an appearance and she was expected in the great chamber. George met her in the gallery.

“Where have you been?” he asked “I’ve had men searching for you for hours.”

“I went riding and got lost.”

“Lost? You? Mother is furious, and we’ve a guest.” George puffed up, roosterlike, and forgot her bad manners. “The son of Viscount Moorefield has arrived with an invitation from the queen for me to come to court and consult with Her Majesty’s ministers on border affairs.”

George began herding her toward the great chamber. “Try to behave with courtesy and maidenliness, Oriel. Lord Derry is a friend of your betrothed, and has the favor of the queen.”

She was propelled into the chamber, where she curtsied before someone who, to her disinterested eye, appeared to be a tall mountain of leather, gold braid, and flaxen hair. Around her rose the baying and howling of aunts and cousins, to which she paid little heed. After a few minutes, she excused herself and fled the great chamber. Wearily she set foot on the bottom stair of the flight that would take her to her own chamber when a sudden thought came to her.

As devious and unprincipled as Leslie had proved, it would be well to search his rooms. There was no imagining what other foul designs and plots he’d hatched. How many others were in danger because of him? Miserable
as she was, she couldn’t neglect her duty, which was to stop him from hurting anyone else. After all, that beautiful fiend Blade wouldn’t have had time or the opportunity to search for tokens of Leslie’s disloyalty before he raced off after his quarry.

Having something to do pushed her agony away somewhat, so she directed her steps to the opposite wing of the house, where Leslie and his brothers dwelled. Leslie’s chamber was a small one, and as usual festooned with discarded possessions and clothing. His prized possession lay to the left of the entry, a giant four-poster bed. The posters were thick, carved columns, each ending in a tall, rectangular base. The hangings were of midnight blue brocade. He’d won them at the throw of a pair of dice in London. Another win at gambling had brought him the tapestries that hung on the walls.

As she looked around the room, her sorrow at Leslie’s betrayal returned fullfold. Her love for him had been destroyed by his murder of Uncle Thomas, his deceit, and by his casual forfeiture of her own life, yet some tiny measure of feeling for him remained, foolish as it was. Blade was going to hunt him down, and now she realized that she wanted to be there when Leslie was captured, for Uncle Thomas’s sake.

She would search Leslie’s room, and if she found anything, she would take it with her to London. Though he’d done murder, she would stand by him, for in the end, he would die condemned as a traitor. And that was another reason for finding him, because traitors’ deaths were hellish. They were hanged, then cut down while they lived, and their entrails cut out before their eyes and burned. Her thoughts veered away from more details.

Oriel stepped into the room and over a pile of discarded doublets and cloaks. Leslie had packed and left hurriedly. This sudden departure would have been no
surprise to the family. They were accustomed to Leslie’s cavorting from Richmond Hall to London and back.

Slowly she turned in a circle in the middle of the room and tried to imagine where Leslie might secret any treasonous documents. At least she’d learned a few useful skills from Blade. Wincing at the thought of him, she went to the fireplace and pushed on the decorative molding of the chimneypiece with no results. She opened the chest at the foot of the bed, but it held only a spare sword and other weapons. A cabinet was stuffed with ruffs, hose, codpieces, kerchiefs, and the like. She peered into caskets and even tested the floorboards. She was stomping on the last of them when a stranger entered the room. She paused, her foot raised in the air, and stared at him.

“Who are you?”

“By my faith, Mistress Oriel, you slay my heart.”

“Oh, you’re the guest.”

The young man bowed. “At last you remember.”

“Your name?”

He covered his heart with his hands and sighed. “Alas, she does not remember, though it was but a short time ago. I am Derry.”

“Hmm.” She stomped on the last floorboard and scowled at it.

“A dance, mistress?”

“No doubt you’ve lost your way, my lord. I’ll call a servant.”

He was at her side swiftly. “Don’t call anyone, mistress, for I’ve come at the request of your lord to protect you.”

“My lord? My lord? I have no lord.”

“Blade Fitzstephen.”

“I have no lord. Go away.” She went to the wall opposite the bed and began rapping her knuckles on the wood paneling.

He followed her, matching his steps with hers and
knocking on the wood above her head. “Does this noise drive away evil spirits?”

“Go away.”

He bent and whispered in her ear. “I know about your cousin. Blade sent me to help you.”

“God’s patience!” She sidled away from Derry, glaring at him. “I’ll have naught to do with him or any of his friends.” She clamped her mouth shut when she realized she was shouting.

He stopped tapping on the panels and stared at her. “Ah. So the notorious Blade has made an enemy of a woman, for once. You find me amazed, but please, mistress, rail not at me, for I know your lord only slightly.”

“I told you he’s no lord of mine.”

“Forgive me. We’ll not speak of him at all, if you desire, but I have come to do what you appear to be doing now—to search among the possessions of Leslie Richmond for anything that will help us foil this vile plot against our queen.”

“And how do I know you’re trustworthy?”

He cast a reproving glance at her. “Mistress Oriel, the queen has given me her favor. She has even given me one of the royal manors as a reward for certain services I’ve performed for her. I’ve no desire to see the Queen of Scots take the place of a sovereign so generous and wise enough to appreciate my remarkable self.”

In spite of her own sorrow, she had to smile. He spoke jeeringly of himself, and with great affection of the queen. She offered her hand, and he kissed it.

“I’ve searched everywhere and can find nothing,” she said.

“The chimneypiece, the walls behind the tapestries, the cushions?”

As he went through his list, she nodded at each item.

“Under and on top of the bed and in the bolster and mattress?”

“Yes.”

“The posters?”

“What mean you?” she asked.

He went to the foot of the bed. The base of the massive posts that supported the hangings was carved and thicker than her torso. He knelt and banged on it. Unsatisfied, he moved to the opposite post and knocked on it. A hollow rapping sound resulted.

After much pushing and tapping on the carving of the post, he finally hit a raised portion of the relief that pushed inward with a click, and a small door jarred open. Inside lay a wooden casket. Derry brought it out and held it while she threw back the lid.

Inside lay a pile of buttons. Frowning, they each picked up one. Buttons were commonly transferred from one costume to another, which was why everyone kept boxes and caskets of them.