Silken Threads (9 page)

“Is he married?” Graeham asked
carefully.

“Aye. Pretty young thing.”

Graeham bit his tongue to avoid asking
How pretty? What does she look like?
His impending betrothal
to Ada’s twin sister was, of course, tied into the rest of it, so
he must needs conceal that, as well. “You’ve met her?” he
asked.

“Nay, but I’ve seen her
—
from a
distance, when he first brought her back from Paris last year. She
did a little gardening out back last summer. I understand she’s
been suffering with a rheum of the head since Christmastide,
though. The apothecary’s daughter brings her a tonic every day, but
it doesn’t seem to help. Some people are like that
—
they
nurse head colds all winter and get better once spring comes.”

“It’s spring now,” he said. “It’s mild.”

She shrugged. “Mayhap she’ll show herself
soon. It’s time to plant her garden.”

From the window that faced the alley,
Graeham heard a steady clacking that grew louder as the source of
it
—
a leper, undoubtedly
—
approached. The sorry
creature, wearing a black, hooded cloak and tattered straw hat that
disguised both disease and gender, shuffled into sight with a
walking staff in one hand and the required wooden castanets in the
other. A shabby pouch, which probably held all his worldly
possessions, was slung over the poor soul’s back.

“Good morrow, Thomas.” Joanna approached the
window.

The leper paused and looked in, smiling.
“Good morrow, mistress.” The gruff, thick-tongued voice was the
only indication that this was a man, for his face had been so
ravaged by thickened skin and discolored nodules as to nearly
obliterate its distinguishing features. One eye was clouded and
clearly blind and his ear lobes drooped with ulcerous flesh, but
strangely, it was his complete lack of eyebrows that Graeham found
most unsettling. He’d seen many victims of disfiguring maladies,
yet still it took an effort of will to regard this man impassively
when his instinct was to look away in horror.

“I looked for you when I passed by the
stall,” Thomas told Joanna. “I got worried when I saw the front
window still shuttered.” That he spoke like a gentleman, despite
his affliction, surprised Graeham.

“I’m just a bit late getting set up this
morning,” she said.

The leper’s one-eyed gaze fell on Graeham,
lighting on his bandaged ribs and splinted leg. “You’ve graduated
to taking in human strays, I see.”

Joanna’s chuckle had a pleasantly rusty
sound. “This is Graeham Fox, who stumbled upon a bit of bad luck
yesterday. Serjant, I’d like you to meet Thomas Harper.”

“Who no longer plays the harp
—
”
Thomas raised the scaly hand that held the clacker to display his
curled-up fingers “
—
having stumbled upon a bit of bad luck
himself.” He laughed wheezily at his jest. Graeham found himself
yet again at a loss for words.

“I’ve got some porridge in the kitchen,”
Joanna told Thomas, “if it hasn’t burned to the pot by now. The
serjant has refused my offer of it, and the cats won’t touch it.
‘Twill only go to waste if you won’t have a bowl.”

Grinning and shaking his head, the leper
dropped his clacker, which was tied to one end of the rope knotted
around his waist, and lifted a battered tin bowl, which was tied to
the other. To Graeham he said, “She has a way of making it seem as
if I’m doing her some great boon by accepting her charity.”

“You are,” she said. “I can ill afford to be
throwing food away. I’ll meet you at the kitchen.”

“Many thanks, mistress. Good day to you,
serjant.”

“Good day,” Graeham said as Thomas walked
away, his steps slow and laborious. His toes were undoubtedly as
misshapen as his fingers.

“How old do you think he is?” Joanna asked
him.

“Sixty?”

“He’s six-and-thirty.”

“Poor bastard. Do you feed him every
morning?”

“Aye. And sometimes he’ll come back later,
if his begging hasn’t gone well
—
or if he just can’t
stomach the humiliation any longer. He’s a proud man, Thomas. He
was a renowned harpist once
—
he used to play at the Tower
of London for King Henry. He’ll never play the harp again.”

“Not with those fingers.”

“‘Tisn’t just that they’re deformed. He’s
got no feeling left in them
—
nor in his feet.”

“None at all?”

Joanna shook her head. “He showed up here
once with blood pouring from his foot. He’d stepped on something
sharp and not even known it. And last winter, a candle set his
shirt on fire in back, but he had no idea until he smelled the
linen burning. His back ended up blistered.”

Graeham winced. “Is there no lazar-house
where that poor wretch can live?”

“There’s St. Giles, and I’m told it’s a fine
hospital, regardless that it’s for lepers. But Thomas likes his
independence, and I can certainly understand that.” She sighed.
“He’s waiting for me. I must go. Is there anything you need before
I open up the shop?”

Graeham rubbed the sharp stubble on his jaw.
“A razor, if it’s not too much trouble. That is, if you’ve got
one.”

“There should be one upstairs, with my
husband’s things. I’ll fetch it as soon as Thomas has had his
porridge.”

After she closed the leather curtain behind
her, Graeham struggled awkwardly to his feet, got out of his
drawers, lathered up the wash rag, and set about scrubbing himself
from head to toe. Movement in the croft caught his eye: Joanna
Chapman crossing to the kitchen, in front of which Thomas Harper
sat on a barrel with his tin bowl, waiting for his breakfast. His
feet, Graeham saw, were bound in rags.

Joanna went into the kitchen and came out a
few moments later, carrying a big ladle full of porridge, which she
poured into his bowl. Evidently she didn’t notice Graeham watching
her. This was a small, deep window; he’d be hard to see from
outside.

Beyond the croft, le Fever’s stable yard was
deserted. In his kitchen, the wench continued to stir and chop,
happy as a plump house sparrow. The sitting room and bedchamber
were empty, the solar windows still shuttered.

So...the bald-headed man had lied about
being Byram. Still, it was possible he and his cohorts had been
hired by le Fever
—
likely, even. He’d known Graeham’s name,
and had been lying in wait for him; how could that be if le Fever
hadn’t put him up to the attack? The greedy mercer had wanted those
fifty marks
—
he had pretensions to keep up, after
all
—
but without the indignity of having his wife snatched
away from him and returned to her father.

Had those rapacious thugs actually handed
the stolen silver over to le Fever? Fifty marks was a great deal of
money, especially now that so little of it was being minted.
Coinage was scarce of late; folks who had it hoarded it, and the
rest relied on barter to get by. Fifty marks might have been just
enough of a temptation to make double-crossing le Fever worth the
risk. In that event, Graeham’s attackers
—
those who
survived
—
would most likely simply disappear, and le Fever
would never find out that Graeham had escaped death at their hands.
Even if they dutifully turned the money over to le Fever and
admitted having left Graeham alive, the mercer might reasonably
assume that they’d at least succeeded in driving him away.

Assuming he stayed out of sight.

Graeham heard a soft thump and turned to
find the black and white tom cat on the deep sill of the alley
window. The animal had a black nose on a mostly white face, making
him look rather like a jester Graeham had once seen who’d painted
his face like that for comic effect. He began to squeeze his bulky
body between the iron bars, then noticed Graeham. Startled, he
backed up, leapt down from the sill and sprinted away.

Graeham took stock of his situation as he
dried himself off. Fate, it seemed, had landed him in the perfect
vantage point from which to carry out his mission, or at least
prepare for it, injuries or no. From the rear storeroom window, he
had an unobstructed view of the backs of the surrounding houses and
shops, as well as their yards, gardens and outbuildings. He could
see into the windows of Rolf le Fever’s house, the stone house next
to it, and nearly every house on the west side of Milk Street,
without moving from his bed.

The prudent thing would be to recuperate
right where he was. At St. Bartholemew’s he’d be isolated outside
the city walls, but here he could keep his nose to the ground. If
he was clever, perhaps he could ascertain the status of Ada le
Fever
—
possibly even arrange for her to return to
Paris
—
despite his shattered leg.

Sitting on the edge of the little cot and
leaning over the wash bowl, Graeham poured water from the bucket
over his hair and reached for the soap.

He could write to Lord Gui and let him know
that there were complications, but not so grievous as to jeopardize
his assignment. He supposed he could write to Phillipa, as well,
assuring her that, although the wedding would be delayed, he was
still eager to claim her for his wife. But given that he’d never
met the woman, nor communicated with her at all except through her
father, perhaps it would be best to let the baron deliver the
message for him.

Above all, he must reassure Lord Gui that he
had every intention of bringing Ada home at the earliest possible
opportunity
—
and then he must do so. Failing at his mission
was not an option; he had far too much at stake.

* * *

Kneeling in the rushes in front of the big,
iron-banded trunk at the foot of her bed, Joanna twisted the key in
its lock. This had been Prewitt’s trunk, where he’d kept his
valuables even after she’d banished him to the storeroom. All
during their marriage, she’d never seen the inside of it; she’d
never had the key until the Genoese official had returned her
husband’s effects to her upon his death. When the shock wore off,
she’d gathered up his clothes and belongings from the storeroom,
washed what needed washing, and unlocked the trunk to store them
away with his other things.

Raising the trunk’s heavy lid, she felt the
same mixture of grief and anger that had assaulted her the first
time she’d done this, eight months ago. Just as it had then, the
scent of her husband
—
or rather, of the herbs in which he’d
bathed
—
rose from within the trunk to sting her eyes and
clutch at her throat.

She’d loved that scent when she first met
him. It had captivated her; everything about him had. His sleek
black hair and long-fingered hands, his dark and yearning gaze when
he looked upon her, his easy laughter...the charm, the attention,
the breathless need, the kisses and promises...He’d cast a spell on
her.

It hadn’t mattered that he was of the
mercantile class and she was Lady Joanna of Wexford. Nothing had
mattered but that they should marry and be together always.

Always.

Joanna smoothed her hand over the mantle
lying folded on top of everything else in the
trunk
—
silky-smooth purple wool trimmed with black
lambskin. Prewitt had been wearing this the first time she’d ever
laid eyes on him; he’d been so devastatingly handsome she could
barely stand to look at him. Someone had complimented the mantle,
and he mentioned that he’d gotten it on his last trip to
Montpelier, where he went twice a year to buy Sicilian and
Byzantine silks
—
although he’d also been to Sicily several
times and Constantinople once. Oriental silks came through
Alexandria, and these he purchased at the Italian ports. Joanna,
who’d never been farther from Wexford than London, had been
astonished at all the places he’d been. Never had she known a man
more well traveled, more sophisticated, more strikingly
beautiful.

And he wanted her for his wife.

Her. Many times she’d thanked God in her
prayers for bringing Prewitt Chapman into her life.

In the beginning.

Joanna removed the mantle and placed it on
her bed. Beneath it in the trunk were two silk tunics, a sleeveless
wool overtunic and a felt cap, which she withdrew and set on top of
the mantle. Next came four pairs of silk chausses
—
the
connected pairs he’d favored, which were like snug trousers, coming
all the way up to the waist. She set these on the bed, then pulled
out two pairs of russet braies, which she’d made for him right
after their wedding, but which he’d never worn; a man who made his
living importing silk, he’d declared, ought not to dress in baggy
homespun trousers like a water carrier.

She added the braies to the stack on the
bed, thought about it for a moment, and set a pair aside. Shirts
and underdrawers came next. She chose her favorite shirt, of India
muslin
—
Prewitt had bought it in Rome
—
and put it
and a pair of drawers with the braies.

At the bottom of the trunk, she sorted
through belts, shoes, mantle pins, gloves and sundry other odds and
ends until she found what she’d been seeking: Prewitt’s little
steel looking glass in its leather case, his knifelike razor, his
whetstone and his oxhorn comb. She put these with the clothing
she’d set aside for Graeham, and then she turned back to the trunk,
contemplating the carved wooden box at the very bottom.

Joanna had never seen this box until eight
months ago. The first time she’s opened it, she’d felt as if she’d
been punched in the stomach. She’d contemplated pitching it into
the Thames, but in the end she’d kept it. It was, after all, her
most meaningful memento of her marriage, and its presence at the
foot of her bed would serve as a constant reminder not to let
herself be used again as Prewitt had used her.