A Parliament of Spies (26 page)

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Authors: Cassandra Clark

BOOK: A Parliament of Spies
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‘Do you feel like talking about it?’
When she made no reply he asked, ‘Who was it in the boat?’
‘Somebody sent by the man I was once married to.’
‘The husband in the crypt. How did that happen?’
The directness of the question was an invitation. She
told him how they met. How they parted. About the years of believing herself a widow. Of finding peace and eventually a purpose at the priory in Swyne. There was nothing to hide. When she finished he took one of her hands in his. ‘But now he’s back you’re free of your vows to your Order.’
There was a little silence while she came to understand what freedom might mean.
He stood up. ‘How did you get into the Thames? Did he push you or did you jump?’
‘Ravenscar’s man tied my arms behind my back then dragged me to the boat. When we got out into midstream he unloosed me. I thought it meant he knew I’d go without any fuss to meet my …’ she hesitated ‘ … but I was wrong. He untied me so that when he pushed me overboard and my body was found it would look as if I’d slipped on the river path by accident. That’s what he told me. So I jumped—’
‘Jumped?’ he mocked. His dark eyes travelled over her face.
‘I thought I’d have a better chance of swimming to shore than waiting for a crack on the head and being thrown in.’
‘Why would your husband want you dead?’
‘Because I’m in his way. He probably fears I’ll refuse to sign anything he’s got his lawyer to draw up. The Ravenscar lands passed to his brother but my dowry and any profit accruing from it went to our children and my Order. Now he wants it all back.’
‘Your children?’
‘A boy and a girl.’
‘You’re fortunate.’
She tilted her head. ‘Does your Order forbid family life?’
‘That. But the sort of life I have leaves no room for the responsibility of children either.’
‘You seem surprised I have any.’
‘My research into your background did not lead me into such detail.’
Their eyes met and his expression invited her to laugh but she felt a shiver run through her. ‘You’ve been following me, haven’t you?’ When he didn’t reply she said, ‘It’s too extraordinary that you should have been so close to where I was nearly drowned.’
He got up briskly, saying, ‘If you want to show your gratitude, light a candle to save my soul.’
‘I could light a cathedral full, but even that would not be enough.’ As she uttered the words she realised she meant it. She owed her life to him twice over.
He began to move briskly around the small chamber, looking for something, and then he picked up a roll of twine from a shelf next to a prie-dieu where a book lay open. He came back to the couch. ‘Stick your foot out.’
‘What?’
‘You need new boots. I know just the fellow to make them in a hurry. He owes me a favour. You’ll be trapped here for ever with nothing to wear on your feet. You don’t intend to walk barefoot, do you?’
When she did as he instructed he stretched the twine from heel to toe and tied a knot in it to mark the length. Chancing to glance up from where he knelt, he held her glance for a moment then took her foot between both
palms. After a short meditative pause he lowered his lips to it and pressed them against it. Soft as breath. He moved them sensuously over the arch to her ankle.
When his eyes met hers again she could see mirrored in them the battle she had faced in the past – between desire and the demands of their vows.
The twine with her foot measurement had fallen to the floor. He stood up hurriedly. She watched him go to a peg by the door, take down a thick cloak, put it on, go out, come back, pick up the twine, slant a smile then go out again.
She heard him call to his housekeeper. ‘Matilda! Do not enter my chamber.’
A voice, distant, called up, ‘Very well, magister.’
The door at the bottom of the stairs slammed.
She heard the housekeeper going about her chores, singing.
 
A promise was a promise. A vow was a vow. Of course, she knew some nuns took their vows lightly. They had long-term carnal relations with men, even bore children who became acolytes in their monastic houses. Such women and men, if also in orders, had no belief in the reality of hellfire. Hildegard had never been able to make up her mind about the existence of other worlds, heaven, hell, because where was the evidence?
On the other hand, she was brought back to the importance of keeping her word – and she had given it to her Cistercian superiors when they accepted her into their Order.
The canonical law upheld by Abbot de Courcy, the abbot and proctor at St Mary Graces, the Chapter at
Clairvaux, even Pope Clement in Avignon, would not judge otherwise now Ravenscar lived. She was no longer a member of the Order. Her vows were invalid.
It changed everything.
As Rivera said, she was free.
 
When he did not come back, and with her clothes at present unwearable, she had no choice but to stay where she was. Now and then chill waves would shake through her and when she got up to use the bucket in the corner she felt dizzy and had to steady herself against the wall.
Pulling on a mulberry gown with trailing sleeves she found lying on a chest she opened the door and listened. There was no sound below. She took the bucket downstairs and went out into a yard at the back, where she emptied it into the barrel for the dyers to collect.
When she looked up someone was watching from across the yard. It was a very small man. No bigger than a child. He noticed she had seen him and made an ironic bow.
‘Ave,
dulcissima
. Are you an angel sent from heaven to bring peace on earth?’
‘I’m flesh and blood like you, sir.’
He acknowledged her remark. ‘Then we are kin, Sister.’
‘Indeed, Brother, God be praised.’
He walked back into a house opposite with an amused smile.
 
She might have slept. She had no recollection of doing so but when she opened her eyes Rivera was standing over her with a wooden bowl full of delicious-smelling broth.
As she took it she noticed that he had rearranged her clothes in front of the fire. Her heavy worsted cloak was still steaming and there were puddles underneath it. Her linen shift drooped where he had spread it over the back of a chair.
He took his outer clothes off, pulled up a stool and watched her eat.
‘Rivera,’ she said as she put the emptied bowl to one side. ‘Tell me truly, how did you come to be on the river at the time I went in? It could not have been coincidence.’
When he failed to answer she stared hard at him and asked outright, ‘Why follow me? I believe I’ve seen you, here and there about the town, but I was never sure. It doesn’t make any sense.’ She wondered if he knew about her visit to the Tower. She shivered. The pause lengthened. Eventually he ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’m clearly losing my skill. I don’t deny it. How could I? I saw this beautiful woman in the crowd and had to pursue her. Of course I’ve been following you. I’ve been trailing you all over London like a lovesick swain.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’ He did not look at her. ‘The truth,’ she insisted.
He paused long enough for her to hear herself breathing.
Then he said, ‘I learnt that you were the eyes and ears of Archbishop Neville.’
A chill spread through her that was nothing to do with her near-drowning. He was dangerous. She had been warned. He was an interrogator at the Tower. It was easy to forget when he looked at her with eyes filled with kindness and ministered so thoughtfully to her needs.
The truth was, she now realised, ever since being saved from drowning, she had been his prisoner. Whatever she told him, about the Cross, about the archbishop’s guests and their business, could be used to further the conspiracy against the King. That was why he was keeping her here, taking advantage of her temporary helplessness to find out what he could about Bolingbroke’s opponents. She would be more guarded in what she told him.
She watched, horrified at the way her thoughts were tending, as he took her bowl from her and placed it on the table.
When he returned to sit on the side of the couch it was as if a coin were spinning on its edge. It could fall either way. One push could set a different course.
Just one.
She reached forward, resting a hand on his shoulder, toying with the rough edge of his shirt. ‘Rumours,’ she murmured softly. ‘This city runs on rumours. It’s the same at home. I can scarcely set foot outside my grange without somebody whispering some nonsense about me. His Grace brought me down from Yorkshire to minister to his health needs.’ She made a face. ‘He suffers terribly from arthritis.’
He took her hand in his and held it. After a moment he pressed her fingers against his lips.
‘The thing is,’ he hesitated, avoiding her glance, ‘I’ve been following you ever since I saw you in the crypt with what I took to be a French spy. I saw him arrive off a ship from France before the blockade came down.’ He paused as if what he was about to say was difficult and kissed the palm of her hand. ‘It made me suspect you and your lord
archbishop of being traitors and, as such, opponents of My Lord the Duke of Lancaster.’
‘The Duke?’
‘And his son.’
‘I am not a traitor to England and nor is the archbishop.’
‘But the Duke is your enemy.’ He pressed his lips into her palm again.
‘Only if he is a traitor to the King.’
‘He is not. The rumours about his aim to usurp the throne are exactly that. More, they’re deliberate lies. Spread by the King’s inner circle for their own ends.’
‘That’s a view, certainly. But his son? Are you confident he has no designs on the throne?’
Rivera did not answer. His eyes darkened.
The coin was still spinning. And she knew now what she must do.
She chose the words that would determine her fate.
‘There is another rumour, Rivera. I’m sure you’ve heard it.’
He shifted his glance back to her face.
‘They say King Richard is trying to arrange a secret meeting with King Charles of France. His aim is to do a deal to ensure his own safety. If that is true then we are best off if we let him go. We should choose another man, one who is worthy of the English people.’
She sank back onto the wolfskin and it slipped a little as she put a hand to her mouth. ‘Forgive me! That must sound most seditious. I don’t mean to speak against the King …’
He was staring intently into her eyes as if testing the truth of her sentiments.
She stretched out her arms. ‘I feel so chilled. Will you warm me again, Rivera?’
Without expression he stood up, hesitated, and then, like a sleepwalker, unbuckled his leather belt and let it fall to the floor. With his dark eyes fixed on hers, he disrobed, pulled his shirt over his head and stood naked for a moment before climbing under the wolfskin and lying beside her. She matched her body to his and allowed her fingers to trail slowly over his chest, over the taut muscles of his stomach, lingering, then moving lower. It was no hardship to simulate desire, she discovered to her dismay.
He lay back on the mound of pillows with his eyes closed, his mouth set in a straight line.
Without his penetrating stare she could gaze at him without shame. His beauty moved her. It was full of contradictions. Harshness and tenderness. Eyes that could light up with humour, with warmth, or darken with secret danger.
In other circumstances and in less troubled times, she thought … if the world were different … She sighed, partly from regret, partly also at the reawakening of a pleasure long forbidden as he turned to her with that sudden smile that made her heart turn over and her limbs melt.
 
His tone was puzzled. ‘Your prioress wouldn’t agree with what you said earlier.’ He watched her carefully.
‘My prioress … ?’ Sleepily, a brief image came to mind. The prioress of Swyne. Ever faithful to King Richard. Upright, honest and intransigent. What would she think now?
She recalled her pragmatism and courage. Then she remembered the man beside her. ‘You forget, Rivera, my Order, if I may still call it that, is under the rule of the Pope in Avignon.’
‘She’s a Clementist. Of course.’ His expression changed. ‘I made an assumption about you – travelling in Neville’s household – forgive me. We have more in common than I guessed.’ He was still looking thoughtful but turned and took her more firmly in his arms. ‘I believe we shall soon have Richard where we want him.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stiffened.
‘The evidence against him and his attempted private treaty with the French will be damning. Enough to give Bolingbroke his chance at the throne.’
‘Evidence?’
He began to kiss her, lifting her hair and letting it fall. She was scarcely able to concentrate.

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