Silken Threads (2 page)

“‘Twas to protect the delicate sensibilities
of his lady wife that the baron opted for circumspection
regarding
—
”

“He hid those girls away in Paris like the
shameful little secret they were. And still are.” Le Fever drained
his wine in one swift tilt of the goblet.

“On the contrary, after their mother died,
he delegated their upbringing to the care of his own brother, a
canon of Notre Dame. They were well provided for, educated, given
every possible advantage. He visited them frequently.”

“And all the while,” le Fever said, gripping
the stem of his goblet as if squeezing a throat, “he hoped and
prayed that no one in Beauvais would ever learn of them. Is it any
wonder he betrothed Ada to an Englishman? The farther away he could
keep her, the better. God damn that blackguard to eternal hell for
his treachery.”

“His lordship realizes he...misled you.”

“He lied to me,” le Fever spat out as a
livid flush suffused his face. “If not outright, then by
implication. He arranged my betrothal to his bastard daughter as if
there were naught amiss, laughing at me all the while. Tell
me
—
were you privy all along to his sordid little scheme to
foist one of his by-blows off on a gullible English mercer?”

“‘Twasn’t the way of it. Lord Gui was merely
trying to provide for his daughter through marriage to a man of
means.” Although his lordship had, of course, concealed his
daughter’s illegitimacy during the betrothal negotiations. By the
time le Fever discovered it, he reasoned, the marriage would be
consummated and the English mercer would be too enamored of his
lovely and sweet-tempered young bride to raise any objections. As
it turned out, he was wrong. “But no,” Graeham added, “I knew
naught of the matter until two weeks ago, when Lord Gui asked me to
come here.”

His lordship’s eyes had been damp and
red-rimmed when he’d summoned Graeham to his private chamber.
What I’m about to tell you,
he’d said unsteadily,
I’ve
never revealed to a soul
—
at least not in
Beauvais.
Nineteen years ago, while visiting friends in Paris,
he’d had a brief liaison with a woman named Jeanne, whom he’d hired
to make some new gowns for his wife. Never before had he strayed in
his fidelity to his beloved Lady Christiana, but he found himself
helpless to resist Jeanne’s seductive charms. Nine months later, he
received word that Jeanne had given birth to his twin daughters.
Four years later, the dressmaker succumbed to an outbreak of
typhoid and Lord Gui made the girls wards of his brother, Canon
Lotulf. Phillipa still lived with her uncle in Paris, where she had
several suitors vying for her hand, although her studies consumed
her complete interest. Ada was united with Rolf le Fever last year
in a marriage that Lord Gui arranged, but which he had since came
to deeply regret.

“His lordship must hold you in the highest
esteem,” le Fever said, “to have confided such a
secret
—
and to entrust his daughter into your care for the
journey back to Paris.” What might have seemed like a compliment
from another man struck Graeham as the most oily dissembling.

“I gather he was simply desperate,” Graeham
lied, ever heedful of the strategic advantage of being underrated.
In truth, Lord Gui considered Graeham by far his most trusted
serjant, as skilled in diplomacy as in the combative arts, which
was why the baron had chosen Graeham for the delicate task of
spiriting his daughter away from her husband, employing whatever
means necessary.

“Despite the circumstances of Mistress Ada’s
birth,” Graeham said, “Lord Gui loves her
—
and her
sister
—
as dearly as he loves his sons by Lady Christiana.
He only wants what’s best for them. If he erred in not revealing
the circumstances of Mistress Ada’s birth, he now deeply regrets
it.”

“He bloody well
should
regret it. He
ruined my life, the lying cur. May he die of the bloody flux and
roast in everlasting torment.” The contemptible turd actually
crossed himself.

Graeham held up the top letter from the
stack. “Apparently you flew into quite the rage when your new bride
admitted the truth of her birth.”

“I damn near pitched her over the side of
the boat. I daresay you’d have had the same reaction if you’d been
hoodwinked as I was. And do you know the most galling part of it?
There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I can’t annul the
marriage
—
there are no grounds. And naturally I can’t let
it get out that my wife is the product of some sordid tryst in the
back alleys of Paris. So I swallow my pride and carry on. Just as
Lord Gui knew I would have to.”

Quite right,
Graeham thought,
sympathizing reluctantly
—
but only fleetingly
—
with
the bastard’s dilemma.

“Ada is provided for,” le Fever said, “and
her reputation remains intact, as does Lord Gui’s marriage to the
blessedly oblivious Lady Christiana. The only one who suffers is
me.”

“And your wife.” Choosing the second letter
in the stack and setting the others on the table, Graeham unfolded
it and read a portion aloud. “‘I despair, dearest Papa, over what
will become of me in this marriage. I can bear it when he strikes
me. Most husbands discipline their wives, do they not, and Rolf is
really rather restrained in this respect, except when he is in his
cups. It is his endless taunts and insults that wear me down.
Yesterday he said, “No wonder the great Baron Gui de Beauvais was
willing to wed his daughter into the merchant class and pack her
off to England. You’re the misbegotten spawn of some Paris whore.
He was glad to be rid of you. Oh, that I could discard you so
easily.”‘”

Graeham looked up and met le Fever’s frigid
gaze. “How often are you tempted to discard her, Master le
Fever?”

The mercer smirked. “Is that it? The old man
thinks I’m going to bring some sort of harm down on his precious
daughter?”

Graeham refolded the letter and put it with
the others. “Are you?”

“That, serjant, is none of your affair.”

“Baron Gui de Beauvais has made it my
affair. At best, your wife is miserable in this marriage. At worst,
you do, indeed, intend some harm toward her.”

Le Fever leapt to his feet, his teeth
showing. “You’ve got some stones, coming into my home and accusing
me of
—
”

“I’m accusing you of nothing. I’m merely
conveying a father’s concern for his daughter’s welfare.”

Le Fever’s gaze sharpened on Graeham.
“You’re not here to escort her home for a visit,” he said softly.
“You came to take her away for good.”

Graeham didn’t bother to deny it. “I should
think you’d be pleased to be rid of her, considering your feelings
about the marriage.”

Le Fever’s eyes lit with a white-hot fury.
“You propose to steal my wife out from under my roof, and I’m
supposed to be
pleased
about it? How in bloody hell do you
think that’s going to look, for my wife to leave and never come
back?”

“Ah, yes, appearances.” Graeham sighed. “His
lordship has authorized me to offer you fifty marks if you let her
leave with me.”

“He could offer me a thousand marks. Ten
thousand. I’m not letting the bitch go. She knew what she was doing
when she married me. Let her reap what she’s sown.”

“Master Rolf?” came a tenuous voice from the
service stairwell.

Le Fever wheeled around to face the girl who
stood there, a milky-skinned redhead of about sixteen or so,
dressed in a dark green, hooded mantle and homely gray tunic, her
brow furrowed. She might have been pretty had she not looked so
cowed.

“Olive!” le Fever exclaimed. “What do you
mean, sneaking in here this way?”

“I
—
I knocked at the back door,”
Olive said, looking back and forth between Graeham and the mercer,
“but no one heard me. Your man is out back, currying the horses,
and he said I could go on in.” She shrugged helplessly and held up
a phial of thick blue glass that contained a dark liquid. “I’ve
brought today’s tonic for Mistress Ada.”

“Very well.” Le Fever waved her upstairs.
“Bring it up to her.” He turned back to Graeham, still seated, as
the young woman darted up the stairs. “Go back to that conniving
whoreson who sent you here and tell him he’s not getting his
daughter back. He’ll never see her again. She’s mine now. He gave
her to me. Now, get the hell out of here.”

With lazy movements, as if he had all the
time in the world, Graeham slid the fourth letter from the pile and
unfolded it.

“Did you hear me?” le Fever sputtered, his
beringed hands fisting at his sides. “Get out
—
or I’ll have
my manservant throw you out. Byram’s quite the strapping beast, and
good with his fists
—
I guarantee you’ll come away from the
experience bloodied.”“‘My husband makes no attempt to hide his
numerous assigna¬tions with other women,’” Graeham said, reading
from the letter. “‘Indeed, he boasts of his conquests to his man,
Byram, within my hearing.’”

Le Fever crossed to a large window
overlooking the stable yard. “Byram!”

“Yes, sire,” came a man’s deep-pitched voice
from outside.

“Put Ebony back in his stall and come up
here, will you? I need your help with something.”

“Right away, sire.”

Graeham resumed his reading of the letter.
“‘Rolf seems proudest of his liaisons with the wives of the
high-ranking men whose influence he so avidly courts. Perhaps
seducing their wives makes him feel more like one of them. Recently
I overheard him bragging to Byram that he had slept with the wives
of four of London’s aldermen, including that of our own ward,
Fori.’” Graeham looked up from the letter. “That would be Alderman
John Huxley, would it not? Lord Gui met Master John when he was
studying in Paris
—
did you know that?”

Two spots of pink bloomed on Rolf le Fever’s
cheeks.

Returning his attention to the letter,
Graeham read, “‘From what I can gather, Rolf has grown so bold as
to set his sights on the wife of the king’s justiciar. Cool though
my feelings toward my husband have grown, I dread to think what
will come of him should it become known that he has made cuckolds
of so many important men.’” Graeham refolded the letter and
replaced it on the stack. “I’d say she makes an excellent point,
wouldn’t you? ‘Twould go badly for you should your wife’s
correspondence happen to fall into the wrong hands.”

Le Fever leaned out the window. “Byram,
I...I don’t need you after all.”

There came a pause. “Are you sure,
Master
—
”

“Yes, damn it, I’m sure. Go back to your
work.” Le Fever’s expression when he turned back to Graeham was
murderous. “You blackmailing bastard. Let me see those
letters.”

“You’ve got the ‘bastard’ part right,”
Graeham replied as he handed le Fever the bundle of letters. “As
for blackmail, it needn’t come to that.”

“I daresay it needn’t.” With an expression
of triumph, the mercer flung the sheets of parchment into the fire.
“It seems they really do call you ‘Fox’ for your hair and not your
cleverness. So glad to find I misjudged you.”

“Ah, but you didn’t,” Graeham admitted with
a mild smile. “Those were copies. I penned them myself before
leaving Beauvais. The originals are locked up safely in his
lordship’s private chamber.”

Le Fever sank into his chair, his face as
white as bleached bone. “The fox has set quite a cunning little
trap of his own, it seems. That’s it, then. If I don’t let Ada go,
you ruin me.”

“Will it ease the sting any,” Graeham said,
“to know that Lord Gui instructed me to give you the fifty marks
regardless of your cooperation? I told him he was too generous by
far.”

“I’ve been in trade long enough to know that
such generosity doesn’t come without conditions.”

“You’re to refrain from discussing Mistress
Ada with anyone, ever, especially in ways that may reflect badly on
her. In particular, you are to keep your counsel as regards the
circumstances of her birth.”

“I’m hardly eager to advertise those
circumstances, I assure you. But fifty marks isn’t enough. I want
more.”

“It’s all I brought with me, and it’s fifty
marks more than you deserve. Take it or leave it.”

A muscle spasmed in le Fever’s jaw. “Give it
to me, then.”

“The prior of St. Bartholemew’s is
safeguarding it for me. You’ll get it when I come back to collect
Mistress Ada.” Graeham stood. “I’ll return this evening at
compline.”

“She’ll be packed and ready.” As le Fever
rose, he squinted at something in the corner. Graeham turned to
find the young woman who’d brought the tonic, Olive, lurking in the
service stairwell. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I just...I’m sorry, sire. But Mum, she’ll
light into me something awful if I come back to the shop again
without the tuppence for the tonic.”

Glowering, le Fever dug two silver pennies
out of the purse on his belt and hurled them at the girl. She
squealed and covered her face; the coins bounced on the clay floor
and rolled away.

“Jesu!” le Fever bit out.

“I’m sorry,” Olive muttered, dropping to her
hands and knees to scramble after the money. “I’m sorry, Master
Rolf. I’m so clumsy.”

She found one of the pennies under a chair.
Graeham picked up the other, which had come to rest near his feet,
and handed it to her. She accepted it with murmured thanks,
blushing when he took her hand and helped her to her feet.

“Do you work for the apothecary?” Graeham
asked her.

The girl nodded. “I’m her apprentice. She’s
me mum.”

“If she was to make up a week’s worth of
tonic for Mistress Ada, would it keep that long?”

“Aye. We brew it up in four-pinte batches
that last longer than that. Just mind you don’t let it get too
warm, and it’ll keep just fine.”