Face Down under the Wych Elm (5 page)

She woke later than was her custom the next day, though it was still early morning. For a moment she lay abed, uncertain where she was. She'd been pulled from sleep not by third cockcrow, which customarily came at dawn, but by the ringing of bells to mark the hour. Outside Nick's house she could hear sounds of traffic on both street and river—carts passing and boats, as well. Someone called a cheerful greeting to a friend. Another cursed a wagon moving slowly enough to block the road.

Maidstone.

No doubt the market began to sell fresh produce from the countryside at dawn, which was reckoned at five of the clock at this time of year. The sun appeared even earlier than that.

"Awake?” a sleepy voice asked.

She rolled toward Nick's solid presence beside her in the bed, filled with a sense of contentment. Some time passed before they rose to share the simple tasks of washing faces and hands and dressing. This must be what it was like to be a new bride, she thought, bemused, if a woman married someone who cared for her.

"Jennet despairs of me,” Susanna remarked a bit later.

Nick poured ale and sliced manchet bread to break their fast, then planted a kiss on her brow, one on her chin, and finally a third on her lips before he placed the simple meal in front of her.

For just a moment longer, she allowed herself to bask in the admiration reflected in his eyes, to revel in the afterglow of physical release, but in her heart she knew she must not give him false hope.

"I will miss you, Nick,” she whispered, surprised by the catch in her voice.

He seated himself opposite her at the small, portable table set up to hold their food. “There's no necessity. I have asked you to come with me. Reconsider."

"I will not marry you, Nick."

"Well, then, give me one good reason why you cannot come visit me while I am in Hamburg."

"What excuse should I have to travel so far? I've no business there."

"You might wish to meet with German herbalists. Did you not tell me once that many fine herbals are written in German?"

"I read German, but I do not speak the language.” That confession provoked an intrusive memory that had her avoiding Nick's too-perceptive gaze.

Robert had mocked her study of languages. Although, at times, they had been able to laugh together at her lamentable lack of ability to pronounce foreign words, at other times she had felt the sting of his criticism.

Nick was nothing like Robert, she reminded herself.

Except that they both wanted to make decisions for her.

"Look upon a journey to the Continent as an opportunity to expand your linguistic abilities.” He paused to drain the last drops of ale from his mug. “Why, I can teach you the most common German phrases. And a sprinkling of Low Dutch, too.” His eyes glinted wickedly, suggesting that the words he had in mind from that language were not the most respectable.

Susanna made another attempt to turn the conversation. “I also read Latin, Greek, French, and Spanish. Would you have me embark on voyages to those lands, as well?"

"The German states will suffice. And here is another enticement. Not only could you confer with the herbalists, you'd be able to talk to some of the most skilled mapmakers in all the world.” Nick knew she was fascinated by maps that showed the topography of faraway places. “And you can talk to landowners,” he added. “Learn new techniques of husbandry."

"Nick—"

"'Tis the simplest thing in the world to take ship from London or any of the East Anglian ports.” He reached for the pitcher of ale to refill his mug and missed Susanna's reaction. Of a sudden, she lost her appetite, remembering that there were other reasons why she could not do what Nick proposed.

Just the thought of being out on the open water in a ship again had her stomach twisting and her heart pounding fast. Vivid images flashed into her mind—a seagoing vessel foundering in a storm, a small rowing boat at the mercy of choppy waves. With an effort, Susanna forced the memories away and managed to breathe calmly and evenly. After a moment, her traitorous body returned to normal.

A glance at Nick told her he'd noticed nothing amiss. He was only now returning the majolica-ware pitcher to the sideboard.

He was still talking about ships. “Just a short passage across the North Sea and you will be—"

"Deathly ill,” she cut in.

"Ill?” Momentary confusion abruptly turned to concern. “What is wrong, Susanna?"

Forcing a smile to assure him she had not contracted any disease apt to carry her off, Susanna resigned herself to explaining, at least in part. “You make me betray my deepest, darkest secret, Nick."

She'd tried to keep her tone of voice light but knew by the look on his face that she had not succeeded.

"Even the shortest journey over water makes me most violently sick to my stomach.” That was as close as she could bring herself to describing the true nature of her affliction.

She hated this weakness in herself, especially when she could not understand why it continued to grow worse with the passage of time. Common sense told her the reaction should become less intense, not more, and yet she could scarce argue with the evidence of her own senses. One fact was passing clear—she would not voluntarily venture out onto the choppy waters between England and the Continent.

Nick's brow had knit into a frown. “The shortest crossing can be made in a matter of hours in the right weather conditions."

"And if the winds be not favorable, even a fast ship can take weeks to reach shore again."

"There are remedies to still sickness caused by the sea."

Susanna again avoided his probing gaze. Certes, he must think it odd that she, an herbalist renowned for her knowledge, should not be able to cure such a mundane ailment.

He deemed her excuse petty. So it must seem, and the more so to one as widely traveled as Nick. Susanna despaired of making him understand her inexplicable fear of crossing over water when she did not fully comprehend it herself. In the end, she chose to let him believe she had a weak stomach, rather than admit to a weakness of spirit.

"For a short journey, I dose myself with ginger root, which allows me to manage a trip between London and Gravesend by tilt boat without disgracing myself.” Or it had, until a little more than a year ago. “For a longer journey, that will not suffice."

She knew how to induce in herself a state in which she would feel nothing at all, not panic, not nausea, not even caution. But to continue thus for long would be dangerous. The same herbs that could bring calm and sleep could also deliver death.

Nick looked thoughtful. “Is that why you prefer roads to waterways when you travel?” He did not wait for her reply. “What of river crossings?"

Susanna saw no censure in Nick's expression now. There was only concern, and a degree of understanding. She managed a faint smile. “Ferries make me queasy, but most times such a journey over water is so short that I can distract myself by watching those about me. Or the scenery."

She and Nick had never traveled together. Although he knew of some of the journeys she had made, he had never sat beside her in a wherry or stood with her, holding their horses’ heads, as a barge was poled across a river.

"I could distract you.” He rose and came around the table, slinging an arm around her shoulders and hauling her to her feet to be tucked in close against his side.

The gleam in his eyes sparked an answering response, astonishing Susanna. She'd thought she'd be sated by now.

But before Nick could do more than turn her in his arms to plant a gentle kiss on her lips, Jennet rushed into the room, skidding to a stop on the tiled floor at the sight of them. Susanna closed her eyes and slipped out of Nick's embrace. She heartily wished she'd had the foresight to restore the bar to the door after she'd returned from her visit to the privy.

"This had better be important,” Nick muttered.

"What is it, Jennet?"

Jennet danced from foot to foot in excitement. “Two of the accused witches, madam. They are gentlewomen!"

Witches again! Susanna bit back a groan. Some two years back, Jennet had become convinced that a witch had put a curse on her. And then, in April, she had purchased a pamphlet from a chapman, an account of the previous year's trial of three witches in the neighboring county of Essex. Ever since, Jennet had displayed what seemed to Susanna to be an unhealthy fascination with the subject.

"What witches?” Nick asked.

"The witches in Maidstone gaol. They are to be tried at the Assizes. And two of them are most unusual. So say folk in the marketplace. All those who have been tried for witchcraft ere now were common folk."

The poor and the friendless, Susanna thought. Those with none to speak for them. “And these women?"

"They are kin to the lord of Mill Hall, near Hythe. Mistress Lucy Milborne and Mistress Constance Crane."

The second name provoked a sharp, unpleasant memory. “Is it possible?” she murmured.

"Are you acquainted with them?” Nick's quiet voice and the feel of his hand on her elbow steadied Susanna.

"I may know the second. There was a Constance Crane who served as a waiting gentlewoman to the late marchioness of Northampton."

Jennet's sharp intake of breath caught Nick's attention and had him narrowing his eyes. “This Constance—is she a friend?"

"Scarce that.” The one time Susanna had talked to her, they'd parted on an acrimonious note. “She was one of Robert's mistresses."

Nick's expression turned thunderous. He had never cared for Susanna's husband alive and thought even less of Sir Robert Appleton since the revelation of certain dishonorable acts he had committed just before his death. “You've no obligation to her."

At his tone of voice, Susanna's brows lifted. She balked at being told what was best to do, as if she were a child incapable of making decisions for herself. One of Nick's most endearing qualities had always been his tolerance of her independent ways.

"You have gained no new rights where I am concerned,” she said in a quiet but implacable voice. “If I wish to inquire further into this matter, I shall do so."

"Whether this is the same woman or not, you'd be wise to have naught to do with her."

"A gentlewoman has been accused of a terrible crime for which she may be executed if she is found guilty. It was not so long ago that I was in a similar situation. I can still remember how helpless I felt, locked away in a cell, accused of a crime I did not commit. I would not wish that fate on my worst enemy."

Constance, if it was she, was scarce that. Indeed, Susanna had felt a deep sympathy for the other woman once they'd met and talked. Constance had truly loved Robert. She'd hoped to marry him ... before he'd wed Susanna.

"I cannot approve of this."

"I do not need your approval, Nick. This is a matter of simple justice.” And, no doubt, a case of murder.

Susanna assumed that someone had died. The authorities would not have troubled themselves to make an arrest for less. But had the death been caused by sorcery? That she questioned. In her study of herbs, she had learned that most effects had a natural rather than a supernatural cause.

It did no good to try and convert others to her peculiar way of thinking. Superstitions were too deeply ingrained in most people to be rooted out by mere logic. Generation after generation had frightened themselves and their offspring with tales of evil forces abroad in the night. Susanna had long since realized she had no hope of dispelling Jennet's belief in witchcraft. Even Nick, for all his practical nature, was convinced such beings existed and could do harm.

Resigned, she turned to Jennet. “Where is the gaol?"

"You cannot mean to go there, madam."

"Mistress Crane is accused of witchcraft, Susanna.” By his tone of voice, Nick's disapproval had not decreased, but now it did seem to be overshadowed by concern for her safety.

"Madam, you must not involve yourself!” Jennet's impassioned protest startled Susanna. “Think, madam, of the danger! If you attempt to help someone accused of witchcraft, you may be suspected of being a witch yourself."

"Nonsense."

"Is it worth the risk?” Nick asked. “Given your well-known expertise with herbs, the business has vast potential for disaster. Ignorant men might leap to all manner of dangerous conclusions."

Susanna could not deny the wisdom of their admonitions. Still, she could not in good conscience let Constance, or any other gentlewoman, be tried on such a charge without at least inquiring into the circumstances.

"I only mean to visit the gaol. What harm in that?"

"What do you think you can accomplish?” Nick sounded disgruntled. “Maidstone Assizes convene ten days hence. That is not enough time to do more than commiserate with the accused."

Little time indeed, Susanna thought, but if she did nothing, then less than a fortnight from now Constance would be beyond human help. The judges sat but two days. Convicted felons were customarily hanged the day after court adjourned.

Susanna went up to Nick and brushed her lips against his cheek. “Do not worry before there is need. For the nonce I am naught but a charitable gentlewoman taking alms to poor prisoners."

"Faith,” Jennet whispered as she stepped from bright daylight into the darkness of the gaol cell.

Just ahead of her, Lady Appleton lifted a lantern and called out Constance's name. The candle behind the thick horn panes did little to illuminate the small room. Although the gaol was located in the center row of the High Street, between the corn cross and the butter market, the noise and bustle outside barely penetrated its thick stone walls.

It was too much to hope, Jennet supposed, that this would turn out to be a different Constance Crane. And that meant it was all her fault that Lady Appleton intended to involve herself in the case. She'd been too hasty, Jennet admitted. Too anxious to interfere. She'd seized on the first excuse to interrupt her mistress and Master Baldwin. Far better to have let them continue what they were doing!