Masques of Gold (57 page)

When she took a length of fabric from the chest, he bade her unfold it to the center, laid the other cloth with its fateful burden within, and refolded it on the same creases. He nodded at her, and she put it back from where she had taken it. Without being told, she wrapped the jewelry Justin had given her in a scarf and laid that in the chest, setting Peter's box atop it. The box would no longer hold anything, but its top was intact and if Oliva should open the chest, everything would look normal. Meanwhile, Justin had gathered up all the splinters of wood and had thrown them on the fire.

“There is no way I can reach the king just now,” he told Lissa, taking her in his arms, “but the archbishop will come tomorrow or the next day. I do not know what to tell him—”

“Do not think about it now,” Lissa begged. “If you can eat some of that food, eat. If not, put it aside. Come to bed, Justin. I cannot bear any more.”

Her voice was flat and careful and she helped her husband unarm with outward calm, but she wept hysterically when she was safe in his arms, a bursting of the dam that had held back terror until it was safe to let it overwhelm her. Justin stroked her hair and kissed her wet cheeks and murmured comfort as her mother might have done—except that after a while as the tears relieved her pent-up emotions, Lissa became aware of a pressure on her belly that no woman could have exerted. She had been aware of it for some time, but so gentle and tender were Justin's caresses that no association with desire had entered her mind.

Once the thought of coupling came to Lissa, it was like a ravening flame. Justin gasped with surprise as she pushed him onto his back and mounted him; he was more bewildered than excited, his reaction having been mostly physical, a warm pleasure below the surface of his thoughts, which were solely of comforting his wife because she was still crying hard. However, he certainly made no objection, letting her have her way in everything, continuing, in fact, to stroke her hair and arms and back rather than playing with her breasts or thighs. Oddly, Lissa found that peculiarly exciting at the moment and when he arched upward, whispering, “Careful, go slow. I cannot hold for long,” she replied. “Come, then. Come with me,” and let her own joy overcome her.

She slept then without even rolling off him. In the morning when Lissa woke she remembered that and wondered how Justin had managed to dismount her without waking her. The amusement slipped away as all her memories came sharp and clear. She felt queasy again too, and swallowed hard fighting it because Justin was still in bed beside her and she could not tell him now and burden him with another worry—the fate of their unborn child if they should be accused of treason. How could they prove that she had not found the seal soon after Peter's death?

Over breakfast, which Lissa managed to eat after she made an excuse to run down to the shop and dose herself with one of her own remedies for nausea, she asked Justin the question. He smiled and said, “We can tell the truth about that.” And when she riposted, “Can we? And how do I explain why I suddenly broke open Peter's box?” he shrugged and told her he would find an answer and she should dismiss “that object” from her mind.

It was unlike Justin to deny Lissa her share of any problem, and she understood at once that behind the easy smile and confident lift of shoulder there was a worry as deep and seemingly as insoluble as her own. She said no more, knowing it was stupid to nag at Justin who was doubtless already trying as hard as he could to find an answer. By midmorning she had reason to hope she could soon shed the weight that lay on her spirit because Justin was summoned to the bishop of Westminster's inn where the archbishop had taken lodging.

Lissa assumed that Justin would transfer the burden of the seal to the archbishop and waited for a message to send it or bring it herself. None came, nor did Justin, but he had taken ten armed men with him—another ten, led by Dick, guarded the house—so when he sent a message that he would not be home for dinner she did not worry. She reminded herself that the archbishop must have other business; after all, he had not known about the seal when he summoned Justin. Thus she managed to hold on to hope until Justin returned at dusk, seeming to have forgotten the matter of the seal completely in his absorption with the charter—which she had forgotten as completely, her mind going around like a millstone with worry for grain.

The barons, mayor, and council of London had spent the day in presenting to the archbishop new articles and other changes in the articles already written. “We will be at it a day or two more,” Justin said, and Lissa could read the excitement and enthusiasm beneath his surface calm and tiredness. “But the barons have made no demand that is unreasonable, and messengers have already gone to William Marshal asking him to propose to the king a meeting on the fifteenth of this month in the field called Runnymede that lies midway between Staines and Windsor.”

“A fortnight hence,” Lissa said. “Do you think it would be better—” She was going to ask whether they should try to get rid of the seal before or after the signing of the charter, but she never got the chance.

“You need not fear for your standard of measure,” Justin interrupted, laughing and stretching, then dropping into his chair. “That is already written in, and so is an article that confirms to London all its liberties and free customs by land and water; and all towns and cities are confirmed of their rights and liberties. Merchants are protected too, guaranteed safe and secure exit and entry in England, except those with whose nation we are at war. Oh, and the court of common pleas is to be fixed, so one need not chase the king for months or years while a case is pending.”

“Was FitzWalter there?” Lissa asked, unwilling to spoil her husband's pleasure but seeking some reassurance.

Justin laughed aloud again. “Yes, he was. We were very polite to each other, and he looked at me very strangely when I pressed a point in his favor with my cousin, and when Thomas would not, seconded its presentation to the archbishop myself. Fair is fair, it was a most reasonable point.”

He proceeded to tell Lissa all about it—something about scutage—but although she kept her eyes fixed on him and nodded from time to time when his voice rose as if in question, she heard and understood little. All that was clear to her was that the charter had taken precedence over their personal need in Justin's mind. Lissa was ready to acknowledge that the charter was of paramount importance to the realm, but private necessities must also be considered.

A battle raged in her breast between blaming Justin bitterly for leaving her lonely and frightened to bear the burden of their personal problem and the satisfied feeling that being a noble martyr brings. He talked all the while they ate their evening meal, and on into the evening, and until she got his clothes off—no easy task when he kept breaking away to walk around the room and gesticulate his hope and enthusiasm—and then he fell into bed and into sleep in the same moment.

Lissa stood looking down at her husband, strongly tempted to dig the seal out of the chest and shove it in his slightly open mouth to choke him. Then she sighed and smiled. Lips parted, hard eyes closed, curls tumbled from pulling off his clothing, he looked like a little boy who had dropped asleep after a busy day's play. Then her eyes passed over him and she turned to stare at the chest. It was not only Justin whose full attention would be fixed on the rewriting of the charter for the next fortnight. Even FitzWalter would have no time for hate or revenge.

There would be more than the articles of the charter to discuss too. If the charter was to be signed at the meeting at Runnymede, there would be much ceremony—pardons and pleas would be heard or at least presented. Certainly there could be no safer time to give back the king's seal than when he had just signed a charter guaranteeing the liberties of his subjects. And Justin would listen to her once everything was agreed. Now all she needed was a believable tale to tell.

The first part came easily; she had collected some money from the small estate near Canterbury and had decided to use it to repair Peter's house, which would bring in a good rental. That much was true too. But how could it be possible that the search, which had virtually destroyed the London house, had not uncovered the hiding place of the seal?

Lissa got into bed and lay awake a long time, moving through Peter's house in her mind from the bedchamber at the top through the solar, down the stairs, into the shop, into the workroom. For each room she tried to recall whether there could be any place left in which the seal could be hidden. The searchers had been too thorough, and how to explain the wax? With the word, an image came to her mind. She dared not get out of bed for fear of waking Justin, but she prayed softly and fervently, weeping a little in her earnestness.

When Lissa woke the next morning and found Justin gone, she forgave him everything and blessed him for being out of her way. Intent on carrying out the last thought she had had before sleeping the night before, she dressed and ate, untroubled by nausea. Accompanied by Dick and eight of the other ten men, Lissa went first to mass and gave the surprised and delighted priest a most generous donation of incense and tall scented candles. He blessed her and, still puzzled, blessed her “new endeavor” at her request.

Her next stop was Justin's house, where she thanked God for Halsig, who asked no questions and handed over the keys to Peter's house, which were stored in a chest with evidence of finished cases. There was a row of similar chests in the lower chamber of Justin's house, and Lissa's thoughts were momentarily diverted from the hope and worry that gnawed at her. The chests had been left with Justin after he resigned his place not only by Roger FitzAdam but by the new mayor also. Why? Because there was nowhere else to store them? Nonsense. Far more likely they had been left because both the old mayor and the new one and aldermen expected that Justin would soon be in office again. Another mingled hope and pain. Lissa was proud of the need and trust the great men of the city all felt for Justin and she knew how much he missed his work, but it was dangerous work and she feared for him also.

Even that idea could not divert Lissa long, however, and she hurried on to Peter's house. In the workroom, she stood frozen, hardly breathing with relief at finding scattered over the floor the large blocks of wax that had been used in making molds. Her memory had not failed her. Calm now, she picked her way through the debris into the shop.

Having looked around carefully, with no haste, she remarked to Dick that the roof and walls were sound and the house well worth repair. Then she bade him find men to clear the debris, explaining blandly that it was stupid to leave a fine London property an empty ruin. She spent some hours giving the workmen instructions and remained to watch them begin their work, choosing this and that undamaged item to take home with her—including, from the workroom, some pots, a large kettle, and several sacks filled with the blocks of wax.

At home, she told Oliva to place the wax and kettle somewhere handy. “Tomorrow or the next day, according as I have the time, we will make scented candles. There is no reason why all that good wax should go to waste.”

“Such big blocks will take a long time to melt,” Witta said, removing his curious nose from one of the sacks.

“We will break them up, silly,” Lissa replied, grinning at him. “And since you are so wise, you can begin now. You will enjoy it. You can destroy something without a word of blame for once. Fill the kettle almost to the rim. The wax will shrink as it melts.”

For the next week, she attended to her business and acted as if she had forgotten about the wax. No one reminded her. June was not the best time to make candles. In winter there was some compensation in the warmth for being burned with hot wax and having to breathe the stink. One or two scented candles alight gave a delightful savor to a chamber; a kettle full of the stuff could knock one flat on one's back.

Lissa hardly saw Justin; he was always gone before she woke in the morning and not home until after dark, but she was not really sorry. She found herself extraordinarily sleepy, dropping off if she sat down for a few minutes in the middle of the day. That had driven her to pay a visit to Adela, although between the seal in the chest and the wax waiting for the moment she felt would be right to make her “discovery,” she hated to leave the house. Sleepiness was normal, Adela said, having embraced her with joy; in later months she would make up for her present lazy moments by being too eager to work and play.

On the evening of 9 June, Lissa had still not “found” the seal, but Justin had come home early. She had been reluctant at first to tell him what she planned—he was so accursedly honest—but she realized the device was unworkable without him. A tiny lingering reluctance made her hesitate when she first accompanied him up from the shop to their chamber, and as he changed into a more comfortable gown, Justin began to talk about the charter.

He said he was now certain it would be signed, and that hopeful news fixed Lissa's attention enough to let her put off what she had to say. There had been doubts at first, she knew. Messengers had come from the king with objections and caveats, but most, to the surprise of all, had been reasonable and compromises had been found. Now Justin told her the document returned to John for consideration had come back again with complaints, but fewer and milder. Those were being worked over and would not be sticking points for anyone.

“Then we will have peace?” Lissa asked.

“No,” Justin said, and sighed. “The king will sign, and there are safeguards that should force him to keep his promises—but he is cleverer at slipping out of an oath than any other man alive. Worse yet, FitzWalter says much too little and his close friends, de Quincy and Vesci, are also too quiet. Mostly it is the neutral men, those who were never part of the rebellion at all, who are forming this charter. The real rebels are only waiting until the king sends away his mercenaries—that is a principal part of the agreement, and John will have to do that much or the moderates will desert him—to break out into war again.”