The Traitor's Daughter (27 page)

Stop,
she told herself. There was not a scrap of evidence that Robert was planning such an insane endeavor. Only a vague letter to Mother and a date. No proof at all.
Perhaps I am the brainsick one.

“Ah, here it is.” Her grandmother held up a paper. “This was delivered while you were upstairs resting. It's from your brother. He asks to attend the remembrance supper. He says”—she scanned the page and read from it—“ ‘To do the family justice, I request the great honor of an introduction to Her Majesty so that I may abjectly apologize for my mother's treason fourteen years ago. Please, your ladyship, allow me to come early to deliver a gift.' ” She put down the letter. “I must say, the sentiment does him credit. I have dispatched a note to him at your father's house giving my consent.” She added dryly, “Of
his
attendance I am sure Burghley will approve.”

Kate was appalled.

Her grandmother's voice became gentle. “I wanted to let you know, my dear. You might wish to visit friends that night.”

“Yes . . .” she mumbled. “Thank you.” She left the library. She crossed the great hall, crossed under the musicians' gallery, their tune a grating noise in her ears, and went up the stairs to her bedchamber.

Who would believe her? Not her grandmother. No evidence. Not Lord Burghley, who thought her a pariah.

Father? He would not believe her, either. He trusted Robert, not her.

Matthew. That was where her duty lay. Matthew
would
believe her.

But to explain her brother's mad plot would be to abandon him—again. She had so desperately been avoiding that. Robert had done nothing wrong yet, but Matthew would arrest him nonetheless. His fate would be taken out of her control, would become state business. If he was found guilty of plotting to kill the Queen he would die a traitor's death. No one could stop that.

And stop it Kate felt she must.

She reached her bedchamber. Her hand stilled on the doorknob. There was only one person she could go to. One man who might help her do what had to be done.

19

Decision at Petworth

T
he next day Kate rode out of London alone.

Before leaving she had gone to Matthew's lodging in the early morning, pretending to him that all was normal, and collected from him the four letters that had been in the Sheffield pouch, Mary's correspondence to her agents in Paris. The fifth letter—Robert's dispatch to Mother—was locked in the strongbox beneath her bed at her grandmother's house. She went to St. Bride's church off Fleet Street and tucked the packet of four letters behind the stone monument of the knight and his dame recumbent under the stained glass window of St. Brigit. Ambassador Castelnau's agent would collect it. Castelnau would then distribute the letters abroad, unaware that Matthew had copies. Thomas Phelippes was at work decrypting them now.

She reached the village of Petworth in the late afternoon. Her destination was Petworth House, the Earl of Northumberland's Sussex home. She had finally decided what to do about Robert. She was going to see Owen—and was praying she could smooth over the rough feelings of their last parting.

The roads were dry, the chill air ripe with the smells of scythed grain fields and harvested orchards. Leaving the village, Kate passed a field where starlings pecked at fallen kernels. The birds rose abruptly into the sky and her startled horse jittered. Kate watched the starlings sail away, undulating in a dense mass like a shaken blanket. Her spirits were charged with cautious hope. Her plan had its risks, and she hated her lies of omission to Matthew, to Lady Thornleigh and, soon, to Owen. But she truly believed this action would bring a resolution that everyone could live with. She was going to stop Robert—and save his life, too.

If she could persuade Owen to help her.

She felt a quiver in her stomach at the thought of seeing him, that familiar spark in her blood, her body wanting his. But beneath it ran a tremor of doubt. Would he forgive her? In the three weeks he had been living at Petworth they had seen each other only once, and in that time had wrangled so bitterly about Robert. The memory fired her cheeks with shame. She had brazenly defended her brother against Owen's warnings. They had rowed so rancorously she had feared she had married a hard man she scarcely knew.

But he had been right. She knew that now. Robert
was
involved with traitors. She regretted every harsh word she had hurled at her husband. He loved her, and his suspicions about her brother had been born as much from concern for her safety as for the realm. And how had she answered his concern? With foul-tempered insults and vile accusations. She longed to make it up to him. Longed to apologize and let him know how deeply she loved him.

And needed him—needed his nimble mind and his daring if she was going to save her brother. Her request would surely astonish him, but if she could convince him to help her she vowed she would never wrangle with him again. She would show him how much he meant to her, and do everything in her power to make him happy.

A peddler was coming her way on the road, a shaggy old man trudging beside an equally shaggy old dog that pulled his cart. Hanging from the cart sides the man's tin wares—ladles, cups, pots—jangled over the ruts.

“Is this the way to Petworth House?” Kate asked.

“Aye, mistress.” He squinted up at her, the sun in his eyes. His walnut-colored face was puckered like a dried apple. Wound around one shabby sleeve were bright-colored ribbons, and around the other lace trim and gold cord, advertisements of his dainty offerings. “Keep on as you are,” he said, pointing, “and turn right after Hoby's Wood. You'll be at Petworth in a trice.”

“Thank you.” She gave way to an impulse. “Have you any ribbon in blue?” A memory tingled: Owen coming upon her naked after her bath and untying the blue ribbon in her hair to let it tumble.

“That I have, mistress.” The peddler raised the lid on his cart, revealing its many-drawered interior. There was a surprisingly varied selection of ribbons, including a bouquet of blues: peacock, turquoise, cornflower, azure, and a cobalt like the summer sea at dusk. Kate chose the cornflower shade. She had worn cornflowers in her hair on the day she and Owen were wed. The peddler thanked her for the farthing she paid him. She tucked the ribbon inside her cloak, thinking:
Tonight. When I undress.

She passed a wood brocaded with autumn's colors—Hoby's Wood, surely—and a few hundred yards ahead the earl's medieval manor house came into view. It looked more castle than house. A moat. High stone walls enclosing a jumble of steeply peaked rooftops and a square stone tower. A timber-framed gatehouse, its toothed portcullis raised. Behind all this stretched the earl's forests.

Her horse clopped across the worn wooden drawbridge. The moat's water level was low and gave off an odor of slime. She passed a fat woman waddling out of the precincts with a brace of live geese trussed to a yoke across her shoulders. Ahead, a boy sauntered in balancing a basket of cabbages on his head with one hand. Two men on horseback came riding out together at a fast trot, hoofbeats clanging through the passage under the gatehouse. Kate nudged her horse to one side to let them pass. They were well dressed, and there was arrogance in their uninterested glances at her and the people on foot. Kinsmen of Northumberland? The horses' hoofbeats sped up to a canter as they gained the road, then faded in the distance behind Kate.

She carried on. Looking up at the portcullis suspended above her she saw that one tooth of its black wooden grid was splintered with age. Darkness enveloped her as she rode through the tunnel-like entrance beneath the gatehouse. Perhaps it was the cutting of the light—she felt a stab of fear for Owen's safety. He had taken a great risk in infiltrating Northumberland's household.

She emerged into a courtyard where servants ambled to their chores. A freckled young woman swept the doorstep of the main entrance, where the door stood open for two men unloading firewood from a wagon. A little girl scuffed past with a wheel of cheese almost too big for her to carry. Coming from the dairy house, no doubt. The child smiled up at Kate. She smiled back, shrugging off her fear. She would have heard if anything had happened to Owen. He was sending regular reports to Matthew. He knew how to take care of himself.

She passed a low stone block of living quarters, then came to an alley that, judging from the sight of a groom leading a gray stallion that way, and the whiff of manure, led to the stables. She followed the alley and dismounted at the stable, where she asked a groom where she might find His Lordship's chamberlain. “Great hall, mistress,” said the groom as he took her horse. “He's reckoning with the bailiff.”

At the front entrance Kate received an idly curious glance from the girl sweeping. She entered and reached the great hall, a gloomy vaulted space that smelled of damp wool. Two men were seated at the far end of a long table, ledger books before them. The household administrators, she decided. “Master Chamberlain?” she asked the one who looked up at her.

“Aye, mistress, I'm Sutton.” A portly fellow, he eyed her figure with undisguised appraisal. “What can I do for you?”

She introduced herself as Owen's wife and asked where she might find him.

“Haven't seen Lyon since dinner.”

“Perhaps he's attending His Lordship?” she suggested.

He shrugged. “Usually is.” He directed her outside. “His Lordship's at the butts. By the pond.”

Archery did not seem a likely activity for Owen, but Kate decided to check. Where Northumberland went, Owen probably followed.

Once back in the courtyard she asked the men at the wagon for directions and they sent her down a passage that squeezed between the rear of the house and the brewhouse. It led through the compound wall and came out into a field. The open ground sloped down to a pond. On this side of the water a throng of men stood at archery practice. There were thirty or forty, and all looked intent, disciplined. Ten were lined up with bows raised, strings pulled taut. The others watched, waiting their turn. The drillmaster's voice boomed and arrows flew, thudding into the straw butts. Kate knew that a nobleman training his retainers and tenants was a common sight. England had no standing army, so all peers were required to supply musters to fight for Her Majesty should an enemy threaten the realm. But the focused, martial air here gave her a sting of suspicion. Was Northumberland training his men to fight
against
his queen?

There was no sign of Owen.

She saw two men in private conversation near the drillmaster. One was stocky, wearing a battered leather jerkin, his cropped gray hair and weathered face the marks of a veteran soldier. The other was taller, lean, with sharp cheekbones and bony hands. Listening to the soldier, he scratched absently at his beard, russet-colored like his moustache that curved like two drooping wings. He wore a doublet of good green wool, though plain and unadorned. In the scabbard at his hip glinted the jeweled hilt of a sword, a very expensive weapon. He watched the drill with hooded eyes, like a judge, as though these men belonged to him. Kate felt this had to be Northumberland. She was curious to see him up close.

She made her way to the pair and curtsied. They both turned to her, frowning at the interruption. “Pardon me, sirs. Your lordship, I presume?” she asked the bearded one.

“Yes?” he acknowledged gruffly.

“My lord, I have just arrived from London. I seek my husband, Master Owen Lyon.”

Northumberland's frown cleared and a look of keen interest took its place. “Ah, Mistress Lyon! He said nothing about you coming.”

“He does not expect me, your lordship.”

“Well, you are welcome at Petworth.” The soldier, uninterested in her, had turned back to watch the archery drill, and Northumberland added quietly to Kate, as though sharing a secret, “Very welcome.”

A shiver ran through her.
He's heard I was at Sheffield. He thinks I'm one of them.
She imagined the trail: Fortescue sending word about her with his update about the Sheffield cabal. Had Northumberland confided to Owen about her? About Robert? She prayed that he had not.

“Looking for him, are you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He pointed a bony finger at the house. “Library. Writing a letter for me. He's good at that foppish language of court. It's to go with a gift for Her Majesty, a prize goshawk.” He added smoothly, “We must keep our friends close, eh, Mistress Lyon?”

Kate knew the rest of the saying:
And our enemies closer.
Was he inferring that Her Majesty was his enemy? Kate could not tell. Though blunt-spoken, he was certainly too wise to bluster his thoughts aloud to her.

“Go on in,” he said. “Find Sutton, my chamberlain. He'll show you.” He turned back to the soldier, saying over his shoulder to Kate, “Supper soon. You're welcome at table, of course.”

Back into the great hall she went and asked Sutton the way to the library. This time he barely glanced up from his ledger, merely waved a hand toward a corridor. “That way.”
Rude man,
she thought as she thanked him.

The corridor was short and ended at a door. Kate's heartbeat quickened as she reached it. In a moment she would be in Owen's arms asking him to forgive her.

She opened the door. And froze. A woman stood at the desk, bent over it, her naked buttocks facing the door. Owen stood beside her, his hands on his half-unfastened breeches. His head jerked to Kate. His mouth fell open.

She lurched back. Shut the door. Turned down the corridor. Her heart crashed against her ribs.

The door slammed behind her. Running footsteps. “Kate!” he called.

She kept walking. She could not look at him. Knives of shock flayed her.

“Kate!” He caught up to her and snatched her elbow. “Stop, please!” he said in a fierce whisper. She yanked her arm to free it, but he held tight. He glanced toward the great hall at the corridor's end, then pushed her against the wall so they could not be seen.

Fury flared through her. “Let me go!”

Gripping her shoulders, he pinned her to the wall. He looked distraught. “Please, listen to me. You—”

“For God's sake,” she spat, “what is there to say?”

“It's not what you think.”

“Oh? I did not see you with a trollop?”

“She's not—” He gritted his teeth. Glanced again at the hall, then at the closed library door. “Not that.”

Sutton suddenly loomed at the end of the corridor. “Everything all right, Lyon?”

Owen let Kate go. She sprang forward, itching to get away from him. But he caught her hand, stopping her. His grip almost crushed her fingers. “Yes, all's well, Master Sutton. My wife is giving me news of home.” He shot her a pleading look of warning, then carried on loudly to Sutton, “It's been a while since we've seen each other.” With a theatrical smile he kissed Kate to show his meaning.

“Ah,” said the chamberlain with a smirk in his voice. “Then I won't keep you from getting your
news.
” He plodded off.

Kate pushed Owen away. Trembling with rage, she kept her voice low lest anyone else hear her and witness her mortification. “Who is she, then? A scullery maid?”

He gritted his teeth again. “No, damn it.” His voice was a whisper, tight, urgent. “The countess.”

She gaped at him. This was too much. “Ha! It's not enough to humiliate me? Do not insult me, too!” She started for the hall.

He grabbed her arm again and spun her around. “It's true. Listen—”

“Let me go!”

“Kate, she is my
source!
”

The word was ice water dashed in her face. Amazement rushed over her. She looked at the library door, astounded.