Silken Threads (3 page)

“Good.” Graeham untied his purse and counted
fourteen pennies into her hand, then added another four for good
measure. He could well afford to be generous
—
or rather,
Lord Gui could, for this was the baron’s money, provided to cover
Graeham’s expenses in returning his daughter to him. “There’s a
shilling and a half. That should more than cover it. See that you
have the medicine here by compline.”

“Yes, sir. It’ll be here, sir. Good day,
sir.”

“Good day.”

After she left, a disconcerting thought
occurred to Graeham. “Your wife,” he said to le Fever, “how ill is
she? She is well enough to travel, isn’t she?”

The guildmaster gave him a look of smug
contempt. “The way I see it, that’s entirely your problem now. As
of compline, I wash my hands of her.”

* * *

The sun hung low in the sky, gilding the
thatched roofs of London, when Graeham returned to West Cheap on
the sorrel stallion he’d purchased in Dover, his saddlebags heavy
with silver for Rolf le Fever. Having given it some thought, he’d
decided not to bring along the chestnut palfrey he’d acquired for
Mistress Ada. If she was seriously ill, it would be safer for her
to ride pillion behind him. It was either that or a litter, and he
didn’t know where he’d find a proper one on such short notice.

Graeham couldn’t help wondering what Ada le
Fever would look like. The baron hadn’t described his twin
daughters except as “angelic beauties with exceedingly temperate
dispositions.” Of course, Ada’s long illness might have taken a
toll on her appear¬ance. Graeham cautioned himself not to be
dismayed if she struck him as less than comely. After all, it
wasn’t Ada he was betrothed to, but Phillipa.

Almost
betrothed to. It wouldn’t be
official until he returned Ada safely to Paris. Then would come the
reward Lord Gui had promised him
—
Lady Phillipa’s hand in
marriage and a generous holding. Best of all, an English holding,
and one of the baron’s finest estates
—
fifteen hides of
fertile farmland and rolling pastures just outside of Oxford.

Graeham had been stunned when Lord Gui had
offered such a princely reward
—
especially as regarded the
betrothal to his daughter
—
but he’d known better than to
question it lest his lordship start entertaining second thoughts.
For a man of Graeham’s modest background, it was the opportunity of
a lifetime
—
land of his own and marriage to a beautiful
woman of temperate disposition. Phillipa’s illegitimacy troubled
him not at all, for it was a curse he lived with himself. Perhaps
their shared baseborn status would even enhance their
compatibility.

What would it be like, he wondered, after a
lifetime of never really belonging anywhere, of always being alone,
to have a home and family of his own? How would it feel, after
years of forgettable couplings with serving wenches and
laundresses, to take his ease night after night in the arms of the
same woman, to see her grow great with his child, to watch her hair
gradually turn to silver as the years passed?

Soon would come his opportunity to find out.
All he had to do was return Ada le Fever to her father. The Devil
himself couldn’t stop him; Rolf le Fever hadn’t stood a chance.

Graeham turned onto Milk Street, guiding his
mount around gaps in the crumbling Roman paving stones. From his
boyhood in London, he recalled perhaps a dozen such old paved lanes
among the complex network of dirt roads that filled the square mile
within the city walls. He walked his horse gingerly across a
section that was mostly rubble, the stones having been torn up to
build the house next to le Fever’s.

Except for the Church of St. Mary Magdalene
and that house, all the dwellings and shops on Milk Street were of
thatch-roofed timber, although Rolf le Fever’s was, by far, the
most conspicuous. Of course, this part of West Cheap was the hub of
London’s silk trade, a trade overseen by le Fever as guildmaster.
He was the most important man for blocks around; why shouldn’t he
have the biggest, most ostentatious house? Still...painted in
garish red and blue, its portico supported by intricately carved
posts, the rest ornamented with fancy moldings and beams, it struck
Graeham as the home of a man who’d gotten too rich too fast.

Eyeing the window of the third-floor solar
as he rode toward the house, Graeham fancied he saw someone sitting
there, silhouetted against yellowish lamplight; Ada le Fever? He
hoped she was packed and ready, as promised, for he didn’t have
that long to get her to St. Bartholemew’s, where he’d secured a
place for her in the women’s guest quarters. Once night had fully
fallen, the churches would ring curfew and the city gates would be
locked until dawn. It was well that Lord Gui had steered Graeham to
St. Bartholemew’s. Not only did the hostelry accommodate women as
well as men, but the priory maintained a splendid
hospital
—
although he hoped Ada wouldn’t need it. The
sooner they could manage the journey to Paris, the better.

As he approached the house, Graeham noticed
a burly, bald-headed man in a russet tunic leaning against the tall
stone wall that enclosed the front part of Rolf le Fever’s
property, absently whittling a chunk of wood with a large knife.
When he looked up and saw Graeham, he tossed the wood aside.
“Graeham Fox?”

“Aye.” Graeham reined in his mount.

“I been waitin’ for ye. Master le Fever, he
said as how you were to come round back for his wife. Says he don’t
want the whole neighborhood to see her leavin’ with the likes of
you.” He shrugged apologetically.

“Are you Byram?”

The fellow shoved his knife back in its
sheath. “That’s right. This way, then.” Pushing off the wall, Byram
motioned for Graeham to follow him into an alley adjacent to le
Fever’s house. “You might want to dismount. It gets a might tight
in there before you get to the back of the house.”

Graeham got down off his horse, his
soldierly suspicion of anything irregular raising his hackles.
Alert and wary, he led his mount into the alley, a dirt path about
a yard and a half wide that connected Milk Street to the street
just west of it
—
Wood Street, as Graeham recalled. Cast
into shadow by the buildings to either side, the passage¬way was
dim and littered with debris. The sorrel stallion snorted
anxiously.

About halfway down, the right-hand side of
the alley opened up into what looked to be a common rear croft of
packed earth shared by the houses on Wood Street, and from which
access could be gained to Rolf le Fever’s stable yard via a gate in
the low stone wall surrounding it. The croft was deserted for the
supper hour, save for a few chickens and pigs in scattered pens.
The alley, shaded by dwellings whose upper levels were built out
awkwardly over the lower, grew even darker and narrower as it
ap-proached Wood Street.

“Where are you going?” Graeham asked as
Byram walked past the gate to le Fever’s stable yard.

Byram turned around, his gaze shifting from
Graeham to something out of sight behind le Fever’s stable.

Graeham spun around, unsheathing his dagger
as two men
—
one of them gigantic
—
emerged from
behind the stable. The smaller one seized the horse’s reins, while
the giant swung a long-handled sledge-hammer at Graeham’s head.
Graeham ducked beneath the sledge, rolled, leapt up. He grabbed his
attacker’s tangled black beard to hold him still and drove the
dagger deep into his belly. The bastard grunted. Without so much as
a pause to catch his breath, he jerked away and whipped the sledge
around, smacking Graeham in the ribs and sending him sprawling onto
the hard-packed dirt.

“Shit, Dougal,” Byram gasped at his
companion. “Are ye all right?”

Dougal looked down at the horn handle of
Graeham’s dagger protruding from his belly, and shrugged.

As Graeham struggled to sit up, his teeth
clenched against the dull pain in his side, he saw his horse being
led swiftly down the alley toward Wood Street.
“No!”
He
reached into his boot for his spare weapon, a little razor-sharp
dirk
—
for all the good it would do. He was outnumbered, and
by brutes who could clearly take a bit of punishment.

As Graeham braced himself to rise, Byram
knelt over him, knife in hand. Grabbing a fistful of Graeham’s
hair, Byram yanked his head back and pressed the giant blade to his
neck. “Say hello to the Devil for me, Fox.”

“Say it yourself.” Graeham aimed his dirk at
Byram’s throat, but the bastard saw it coming and recoiled; the
blade opened a bloody gash across his cheek and chin instead. Byram
dropped the knife, swearing rawly.

Keeping a firm grip on the dirk, Graeham
reached for the knife, but Dougal stepped on his hand, immobilizing
him and all but crushing his fingers. Graeham drew back his foot,
encased in a wooden-soled riding boot, and kicked the giant in the
groin.

Bellowing like a bear, Dougal slammed the
sledge with a jolting crunch on Graeham’s left shin. Pain ignited
in a searing explosion, racing like Greek fire along his nerves. A
roar that must have come from his own throat reverberated in the
alley.

From a window somewhere, a man yelled, “Pipe
down out there! I’m tryin’ to eat me supper!”

Graeham uncurled himself, sucking air, and
tried once again to get up, but his lower leg had been smashed; it
wouldn’t support him.

Byram, using his tunic sleeve to blot his
bleeding face, kicked Graeham in his broken ribs. To Dougal he
said, “Finish him off and let’s get out of here.”

Dougal, the dagger still sticking out of his
belly, stood over Graeham. His gaze narrowed on Graeham’s head as
he took aim. He raised the sledge-hammer high.

Gripping his little dirk by its ivory
handle, Graeham flicked it toward Dougal’s massive neck. It stuck
there, quivering. Dougal blinked and slowly lowered the sledge.

“Jesus, Dougal,” Byram murmured, gaping as
the big man patted the dirk’s ivory handle curiously. “Give me
that.” Byram yanked the sledge out of Dougal’s grip and took aim at
Graeham’s skull. Graeham rolled aside as the sledge descended,
imbedding harmlessly in the dirt.

The big knife was once again close at hand,
and Graeham grabbed it. Groaning in pain, he bolstered himself on
the wall behind him and pulled himself to his feet as Byram yanked
the sledge free and wheeled on him.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Graeham and his
two assailants turned to find a man
—
flaxen-haired, lean
and long-limbed
—
striding toward them from the direction of
Wood Street. From the tooled scabbard on his belt, he withdrew a
gleaming steel sword. “Mind if I play?”

Byram and Dougal looked at each other.

“Because it strikes me you haven’t really
got enough competitors.” He spoke like a nobleman, and there was
that handsome sword
—
although his leather tunic and woollen
chausses were worn and dirt-smudged. A wineskin and satchel hung
across his chest. “Two against one
—
that hardly seems
sporting, does it? What do you say I even things up?”

“Bugger yourself,” Dougal growled, even as
he stumbled back against the wall, nudged by the stranger’s
sword.

“If I could figure out how, I’d probably
give it a go.” With a nod toward the horn handle emerging from
Dougal’s stomach, he said, “That smarts, I’ll wager. But I’ve seen
men take a knife in the stomach, pull it out, and snap back good as
new within days.”

“Hunh.” Dougal regarded the dagger with an
expression of relief.

“The one in your throat’s a bit trickier,
though. If you take that one out, blood will start pumping from you
like a fountain, and it won’t stop till you’re dead as a stone.
Just thought you should know.”

Dougal looked at him with slack-jawed
dismay.

“On the positive side, it’s a very quick
death. And not too painful, as these things go.”

“He’s lying,” Byram said.

Dougal turned and started lumbering back up
the alley toward Milk Street, crossing himself and muttering softly
under his breath.

“Come back here!” Byram screamed. “Damn your
eyes, Dougal, he’s making it all up! Come back here!” He shook the
sledge menacingly. “Get away from here before I smash your brains
in.”

Ignoring the threat, the stranger tilted
Byram’s chin up with the tip of his sword and inspected the
laceration on his face. “I hope you’re already married, because no
wench wants a man with a scar like that.” To Graeham, he said,
“Your handiwork?”

Graeham nodded, shaking all over as he
strained to stay on his feet. “I was going for his throat.”

“Were you? I’ve found the best way to cut a
man’s throat is to plant the blade firmly, right about
here
—
” he pressed the edge of his sword against Byram’s
throat “
—
and then just sweep it across, like so.” He made
an abrupt slashing movement.

Byram yelped and dropped the sledge. The
stranger kicked it toward Graeham, who made no attempt to lean down
and pick it up, suspecting he would pass out if he did so. “Hands
in the air, then.”

Byram spat out a few ripe Anglo-Saxon
curses, but complied.

“I’m going to send for one of the sheriffs
and have your miserable arse hauled off to gaol,” the stranger
said.

“Let him go.” Graeham said.

“What? Why?”

Because Graeham had sworn to Lord Gui that
he would proceed with the utmost discretion, revealing to no
one
—
save le Fever himself
—
his true reason for
being in London, lest it become known that the baron was Ada le
Fever’s father. Getting the constabulary involved would open a
Pandora’s box of inquiry that could expose the secret his lordship
had striven for so many years to protect. Besides, any
investigation into the “robbery” was pointless. Graeham had a
fairly good notion that Rolf le Fever was behind the attack, the
point of which had been to relieve him not just of his silver, but
of his life. Le Fever, fearful for his precious reputation, most
likely never had any intention of relinquishing his wife to
Graeham. But he wanted those fifty marks.