Danger's Kiss (42 page)

“Stretch ‘er neck!”

“Break her like a twig!”

Desirée’s step faltered, but Nicholas never let her stumble, shouting to the crowd, “Patience, buzzards!”

Desirée lowered her head as they drew closer to the center of town, so she wouldn’t have to look at the stark black skeleton of the gallows and the ominous hooded executioner waiting for her.  But the journey seemed endless, and she found the whispers far worse than the shouts.

“She’s a wee thing.  She’ll strangle for an hour.”

“Nay.  Grimshaw’ll crack her neck.  Probably take her head clean off.”

At long last, Nicholas brought her to a halt, and Desirée lifted her gaze from beneath the hood just enough to glimpse the bottom rungs of the ladder leaning against the gallows post.  As they’d planned, Nicholas dropped the satchel at the foot of the ladder, near the base of the gallows.  He gave her elbow one subtle reassuring squeeze and released her.  Now they were on their own.

Desirée let out a bracing breath.  With a silent prayer to Hubert for a bit of his good luck, she prepared to pull off the most complex deception she’d ever attempted.

Nicholas knew he had to do the performance of his life.  Everything depended upon it.  Spurred to courage by the haunting vision of his beloved Desirée hanging lifeless from the gallows, he squared his shoulders and began the spectacle, circling her with slow menace.

“Good people of Canterbury!” he called out, his voice ringing as he addressed the crowd.  “You see before you a rare sight
—
a murderess in our fair town!”

The onlookers hissed and growled.

“’Tis the second murder in a fortnight!” he said, punctuating his words with an upraised fist.

The crowd booed.

He shook his head.  “Canterbury seems to have become overrun with outlaws!”

Several men shouted in agreement.

“So many, in fact,” he snarled, “that I’m dragged from my bed on a Sabbath morn just to keep up!”

The villagers joined in, creating a dull thunder of wrath.

He crossed his arms, pacing before them until they quieted again, then shrugged.  “Normally, ‘tis little matter to me who dangles at the end of the rope, as long as justice is served.”  He turned to Desirée and placed a hand atop her hooded head.  “But this time, I’ve found an outlaw under my very own roof!”

With a dramatic flourish, he whipped the hood back, exposing Desirée’s ghostly pale face to the gasps of the crowd.

For an instant, his heart went out to her, and he had to fight the urge to cover her again, to take her in his arms and give her comfort.

But that wouldn’t serve their purposes.  So when the villagers drew in their collective breath, he turned on them with even more venom.

“But justice is blind, and no one escapes the justice of Nicholas Grimshaw.  No one!”  He singled out several individuals in the crowd with an accusing finger.  “Not you.  Nor you.”  He swung around to cup Desirée’s chin with his gloved hand.  “Nor you.”  Then he uttered the most difficult words he’d ever spoken.  “Desirée Kabayn, you are charged with the crime of murder.”

The blood drained from her face, and for an instant he wondered if she was indeed only feigning her shock.  She swayed on her feet, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a faint, twisting to fall strategically facedown atop his satchel.

The townsfolk gasped, and Nicholas snorted, turning away from her, preparing to distract the crowd with a lengthy lecture on the evils of disobeying the law.

But in the silent moment, a quailing monk spoke to those around him.  “God will surely frown upon a hanging on the Sabbath.”

“Aye,” someone added, “is it not a sin?”

“’Tis bad luck, at the least.”

“All of Canterbury will be cursed.”

“The devil will come to live in our town!”

Bloody hell!  This was not part of the plan.  The hanging had to take place today.  It couldn’t be delayed.  He had to do something, quickly, before the crowd turned on him.

“Is that what you think?” he demanded, forcing a harsh laugh.  “That Lucifer will take up residence here?  Be assured, good folk, if ever the devil comes to Canterbury, I’ll snatch him quick and string him up by his ballocks!”

A few lads cheered raucously, but at the lack of unanimous response, Nicholas knew he had to raise the stakes.  He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head, issuing a sardonic challenge.  “If you doubt me, if you doubt the word of Nicholas Grimshaw, if you truly believe I am
not
God’s avenging angel, but the right hand of Satan...”  He let out a heavy sigh.  “Let me put your fears to rest.”

With great spectacle, Nicholas strode through the crowd, which parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, making his way to the monk who’d spoken earlier.  The onlookers backed away, making a wide circle around him as he dramatically knelt before the man of God and crossed himself.

While the monk stood in baffled amazement, Nicholas began to pray, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Heavenly Father,” he cried, “I pray for your divine guidance.  Make me, Nicholas Grimshaw, your humble servant, the instrument of your will.”

The air was so still, one could have heard the twitching of a mouse’s whiskers.  But Nicholas trusted all eyes were upon him now.

He continued to pray, loud and long.  He prayed for clear eyes that would not be deceived, no matter how pleasing a shape the devil assumed.  He prayed for a strong hand to administer what judgment God demanded.  He prayed for a true heart to follow the dictates of the Lord, however challenging they might be.  And he prayed for the soul of the condemned murderer, that she might find mercy in heaven, if not on earth.

Finally, adding a silent prayer that he’d prayed long enough, he genuflected, and the awestruck villagers around him echoed his Amen.

Then he rose.  “Satisfied?”

The crowd cheered wildly in response.  He had them in the palm of his hand again.

Cracking his neck and flexing his shoulders, he made his way slowly back to the gallows, where, God willing, everything had progressed as planned.

Desirée hadn’t anticipated how much her hands would be shaking when it came to opening the satchel.  Sweet saints, she was quaking like a winter leaf.

Nicholas had been convincing, almost
too
convincing.  When he’d whirled toward her like some all-powerful mercenary of the Grim Reaper himself, his shoulders broad and menacing, his eyes glowing like dark green coals, his voice booming like thunder, she’d felt the blood leave her face.  If she hadn’t hung on to the sliver of faith that his threats were empty, his brutality only a performance, that faint would have been genuine.

She forced her nerves to calm.  She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now.  This was the most difficult part of the deception, the point where she slipped the pea under the shell.

For a moment, when the monk protested the hanging on the Sabbath, she’d thought they were doomed.  But Nicholas knew his audience, knew how to restore their trust in him.  When she heard him move into the crowd and begin to pray, there was no doubt in her mind that all gazes were drawn to him.

Using Nicholas’s great cloak as a screen, she parted the top of the satchel beneath her, repressing a shudder as she came in close contact with Philomena’s cold body.  With painstaking patience, she gradually maneuvered out from under the cloak, inch by inch, squeezing into the space beside Philomena.  Making as little motion as possible, she then carefully draped the cloak over Philomena instead.  Bit by bit, she pulled the edges of the cloth around the woman, eventually enwrapping her completely and concealing her face within the hood.

Now, to any but the most observant eye, it would appear Philomena was the maid who had just fainted.

The trouble was, Desirée discovered, there
was
an observant eye.

As she lay in quiet concealment in the folds of the satchel, she felt a curious tickling atop her head.  Her first horrid thought was that Philomena wasn’t quite dead, after all, that her cold, bony fingers were scrabbling at Desirée’s scalp.  A panicked squeal stuck in her throat.

But she’d learned to remain calm in the face of fear.  So she drew two steadying breaths and lifted one eyelid just enough to see what plagued her.

Snowflake suddenly mewed in her face.

Desirée suppressed a gasp.

Shite!

This was just the sort of unforeseen loose thread that could unravel everything.

“Shoo!” she hissed as loudly as she dared.

The cat only purred.

“Shoo!”

But Snowflake stuck his nose closer.

Then, as if it weren’t bad enough to have a cat sniffing at her, giving away her location, when she let her focus drift past Snowflake, she clearly saw the constable, staring directly at her with his blackened eye, his brow furrowed.

She snapped her eyes shut again, held her breath, and prayed for a true miracle.  But whatever was going to happen would occur in the next moment, for Nicholas was already returning to the gallows.

Nicholas strode purposefully toward his satchel, but he almost missed a step when he saw Azrael.  What the devil was his cat doing here?

Hell!

Azrael seldom left the cottage.  Why had he chosen today to come to town?  Did the meddling beast mean to betray the very wench who slipped him scraps at the table?  Nicholas had to do something.

He would’ve liked to give the miserable cat a boot.  But Desirée would never forgive him.  Besides, the stubborn feline would only come sneaking back.  Azrael seemed determined to keep his mistress company.

Nicholas frowned at the cat, whose snow white exterior belied the devilish creature beneath.  Then inspiration struck him.  He reached down and scooped up the animal, holding him high for all to see.

“’Tis a sign!” he cried.  “An angel in the guise of a white cat comes to bless this holy vengeance.”

The onlookers gasped and began murmuring in wonder among themselves
—
all but the constable, who stood a short distance away, regarding him with an unnerving scowl.

Nicholas swallowed down the metallic taste of doubt.  He couldn’t dwell on what might go wrong.  He’d told himself at the start, if the very worst happened, he’d snatch up Desirée, throw her over his shoulder, and flee Canterbury on foot.

He lowered Azrael to the ground, giving him a light swat to send him away.  Then he hunkered down beside the satchel, where his cloak was draped over what he prayed was Philomena’s corpse.  A film of sweat formed above his lip.  He had to be extremely cautious now.

Blocking the crowd’s view with his back, he made certain the cloak was safely tucked around Philomena’s body so she was completely covered.  Then he lifted her slowly and carefully out of the satchel and into his arms, making certain the hood concealed her face.

“She’s asleep!” cried a young lass at the front of the crowd.

A few people booed in disappointment, but before the mob could join in, Nicholas made an announcement.  “’Twould seem the Lord has taken mercy upon her soul, after all.  She’ll meet her Maker ere she wakes.”

He nodded to the chaplain, who began reciting the sacrament.  While the executioner readied the noose, Nicholas climbed up the ladder with his burden, and the two of them secured the rope about Philomena’s neck.

For all the spectacle and ceremony preceding it, the actual hanging was over in a moment.  When her body dropped, of course, there were no death throes.  The crowd assumed her neck had broken instantly.  The rope squeaked in the ensuing hush as she twisted limply at its end, her hooded head lolling in the noose.

“So sins are punished,” Nicholas intoned.  “A life for a life.”  He gazed out at the villagers with mixed emotions, realizing it would likely be the last speech he’d give to them.  “Go now.  Go to Mass, and pray for this woman’s unfortunate soul.”

The crowd began to disperse, but as they did, the glowering constable shoved his way through the onlookers toward Nicholas, who suddenly felt a sick clenching in his gut.  The shire-reeve might hold command over the constable, but one word from his underling and Nicholas’s deception would be revealed.