Suzanne Robinson (20 page)

The night after Tristan escaped, Pen crouched behind a haystack in the kitchen courtyard of Ponder Cutwell’s house. Sneaking into the place had been easy because neither Cutwell nor his guest had prepared for an invasion. They had no fear of her.

Until she’d met the queen’s man, Pen had forgotten how contemptuous of women some men could be. Even after she’d discovered his treachery, Tristan had never made her feel as if he thought her stupid. Mad, mayhap, but not stupid. But the man called Morgan St. John oozed contempt from his very gaze. Clearly he’d given no thought to her reaction to his holding on to her prisoner.

His disdain was one of the reasons she was paying this little visit to Much Cutwell. The other was that she couldn’t bear to think of what might happen to Tristan in that man’s power. If he was to be anyone’s prisoner, he must be hers.

Beside her, Wheedle fingered the point of a rusty sword and kept watch. Leaping from shadow to shadow, haystack to cart, came Dibbler followed by Turnip and Sniggs. From another direction slithered Erbut. One by one they sprang for the refuge of the haystack.

“We’re ready, mistress,” said Dibbler.

“You’re certain you found the guest’s chamber?” she asked Sniggs.

“Oh, aye,” Sniggs said with a titter as he produced something from the recesses of his garb. He held up the familiar serpent dagger.

Pen eased back from the weapon and said faintly. “Excellent. Now put it away.”

“Thieving,” Dibbler muttered. “That’s what he’s done.”

Sniggs’s eyes protruded as he mustered indignation. “I did not! And if we’re speaking of thieving, what about that pistol?”

Turning to Dibbler, Pen said, “What pistol?”

With reluctant movements Dibbler rummaged inside his doublet and produced a pistol, then rushed into an explanation. “It be a wheel-lock, mistress. Look you at the workmanship. That be an ebony stock, and this here grip is ivory. And this!” Dibbler jabbed a sausagelike finger at a small vise set on top of the pistol. “This here is the striking stone in the cock. You squeeze this little tongue thing—”

“Dibbler, no!”

Pen shoved the barrel of the gun down so that it no longer pointed at her chest.

“Oh, beg pardon, mistress.” Dibbler flushed and stuffed the pistol back into his doublet.

Sniggs spat and jerked his head at Dibbler. “No better than a sotted zany. Daft old counterfeit.”

“Peace, both of you,” Pen said as she tried to quell her startled self. “No more thieving. Dibbler, that pistol is a murderous luxury his lordship will no doubt miss immediately. It’s too late to return it, so it will remain concealed. You and Sniggs must light the fires outside the stables and Margery’s pen. Where are the torches?”

Dibbler rummaged through the haystack and produced them. “Fear not, mistress. I’ll light them meself so they give off mostly smoke. The animals won’t come to no harm.”

“I get to light them too,” Sniggs said.

“Most like you’ll bump into a fairy and fall asleep in Margery’s pen,” Dibbler said.

Sniggs grabbed for one of the torches and missed. “Sod you, Dibbler.”

“I’m the captain of the guard.”

“Captain of farts, you mean.”

“Cease this caviling at once!” Pen snatched a torch from Dibbler and thrust it at Sniggs. “Away with you. And no more fighting. If you fail me, I’ll ship you back to the mainland.”

Pen and her remaining band settled down to wait. She glanced at Erbut, who even at this critical moment managed to look slack-jawed. She heard a snore. Turnip had fallen asleep against the haystack, and Wheedle woke him with a jab from her sword. Soon after, she heard a cries of warning and the ringing of an alarm bell. Scrunching low, she watched servants and men-at-arms run in all directions. A sudden light illuminated the night as flames and smoke appeared beyond the courtyard wall.

“Now!” Pen jumped up and ran for a door in the wall.

Wheedle was close behind her, followed by Erbut and Turnip. They sped across another courtyard, into the house, and into a man-at-arms on his way to the stables. Startled, Pen hurtled into the man, then ducked and bounded backward. Wheedle whacked him on the head with the flat of her blade. His knees buckled and he fell.

Pen jumped over him only to skid to a halt as they
neared a doorway. She eased it open but shrank back as Ponder Cutwell scurried down the stairs in the gallery of his great hall, screeching as if he were a sow.

“Fire, fire!”

His dark-haired guest appeared from a doorway in the hall screen. “God’s blood, Cutwell, stop howling.”

Cutwell’s mouth popped shut for only a moment, then he put thick fists on his hips and snarled at the man. “A pox on you! You won’t bestir yourself for my house or my animals. Mayhap you’ll take notice now that your own chamber is afire.”

Without a word his guest burst into a run and sped upstairs. Ponder began to screech again and rushed out of the hall. Pen glanced over her shoulder at Wheedle.

“Which archway?”

“To the left, mistress.”

They ran across the hall to the pointed arch beside the lord’s dais. Pausing to gather her courage, Pen stepped beneath the arch while the others waited. She found herself in a paneled alcove guarded by a man-at-arms. When she appeared, he gaped at her, then drew his sword.

“What are you doing here?”

Pen whirled and raced back through the archway. The man gave chase, but as he crossed the threshold, Turnip clubbed him on the head with the broken end of a plow handle. The man swayed dizzily, then crumpled when Erbut whacked him across the neck with the staff of his pike. At Pen’s direction, they dragged the man into the alcove with them.

There was only one other exit from the alcove, a door set in the paneling. It had a lock, but the key was in it. Another sign of her enemy’s contempt for her abilities. Pen felt a jab of irritation that a person
couldn’t possess a merry nature without people thinking her negligible of wit. She turned the key and opened the door while her companions flattened themselves against the wall on either side of it.

Opening the door quickly, she sprang back. No one emerged. She approached the threshold and poked her head into the darkness beyond the alcove. She edged inside, searching with her feet for the first step down. Once she’d taken several steps, she perceived a faint light. She beckoned to Wheedle, and they all crept down until they reached the last stair. Ahead she could see a cellar filled with ale barrels, wine casks, wheels of cheese, and other foodstuffs.

To her astonishment, one of the largest wheels of cheese appeared to be singing a bawdy song.

Pen followed the voice, which sounded hollow in the vastness of the cellar, rounded the bulk of the cheese, and found Tristan. He was sitting on the floor with his back propped against the cheese wheel. His clothing and hair were in disarray. He held a silver goblet in one hand and waved it in time as he caroled. When Pen appeared, he finished his verse and beamed at her.

“Pen, me own true love, I’ve missed you.”

Erbut joined her along with the others, and they all stared at Tristan. He staggered to his feet, only to sit on the cheese abruptly and blow a lock of his hair from in front of his eyes.

“Tristan, you’re besotted.”

She felt her jaw unhinge in imitation of Erbut when she heard Tristan giggle. She turned to exchange horrified glances with Wheedle.

“He’s giggling,” Pen said.

Wheedle swallowed and gaped at Tristan. “Right marvelous.”

Pen twisted her hands. “What does this signify?”

Tristan began to sing again. Pen lost patience, darted at him, and snatched the goblet. Sniffing its contents, she wrinkled her nose.

“Some foul potion. Tristan, quiet you and come with me.”

Tristan shook a finger at her. “My name is Morgan.”

Snagging his wrist, Pen tugged on his arm. He was too heavy for her and dug in his heels.

“My name is Morgan. The priest admitted it.” He paused to chortle. “I was too clever for him. He confessed his evil. And you, Mistress Fairfax, must beg my forgiveness for being so foolish as to doubt my honor and my affection. I will hear your apology anon.”

He yanked his wrist free and folded his arms over his chest as if settling down to listen to a soliloquy from her.

Pen uttered a strangled gasp of frustration. “Not now, Trist—”

“Morgan! Morgan, Morgan, Morgan, Morgan, Morgan.”

Wheedle had been watching at the stairs.

“Mistress, I hear noises. We should fly.”

Looking like a belligerent colt, Morgan scooted around on his cheese and turned his back to her.

“Very well. Morgan. Do you hear me? Morgan. Now will you come?”

“Shall I hit him on the head?” Turnip asked.

“We don’t want to carry him,” Pen said. “He’s too heavy.”

“I am waiting,” Tristan said after turning around, “for you to beg me to forgive you.”

Pen closed her eyes and prayed for forbearance. “Tris—Morgan. Morgan, my dear sweet lord, may I beg after we go home?”

“Home!” Tristan jumped off the cheese, swayed, and clamped a hand on her shoulder. “Will you feed me?”

“A dozen roast geese and two dozen apple tarts.”

“Then I’ll come.”

True to his word, Tristan gave them no more trouble. Pen grasped his hand and led him up to the hall, down the gallery, and outside. They shrank into the shadows as servants bearing water buckets rushed by. Racing from tree to shadow to alcove, they made their way to the rear of the grounds. Dibbler signaled to them from the shelter of a hay cart sitting near to the back wall. Pen heard shouts in the next courtyard. Discovery!

Hauling on Tristan’s arm, she raced across the courtyard with her companions close on their heels. At the cart she shoved Tristan from behind. He climbed onto the cart and up the pile of hay in it with her prodding him.

A rope had been secured from the cart and draped over the wall. Sniggs waited on the other side with their horses. Tristan stood on top of the wall and swayed. Pen grabbed him before he fell and he giggled at her again.

At her urging, he climbed down the rope, and soon they were all mounted. Pen snapped at Tristan to hold on to the saddle. She took the reins of his mount, kicked her own horse, and they rode away. She glanced back at Much Cutwell, but the wall and courtyard seemed deserted.

Grinning to herself, she wished she could see her enemies’ response when they discovered the true cause of tonight’s havoc. She looked at Tristan, who seemed to be enjoying himself. His legs hugged the saddle,
and he clutched at his horse’s mane. Leaning over the animal, he moved easily with the pace of the gallop.

Mayhap the effect of the potion they’d fed him was fading. Still, he was in no state to make the journey to England. No doubt the trip would have to be delayed a bit.

She considered the bemused expression on his face. Part baseless merriment, part evil relish, he seemed to embody the tales of black sorcerers Nany used to tell her. She hoped he wouldn’t recover his wits too quickly—not until she’d gotten him clapped in a tower. Despite his traitorous nature and his evil toward her, she really didn’t want to bash him on the head just to get him locked up.

Pen put Tristan in the tallest tower at Highcliffe, the Watch Tower. Situated at the rear of the keep, it was the farthest tower from the drawbridge. It contained another of those beautiful rooms created by her mother’s ancestors and left neglected when the family moved to the mainland.

Called the Painting Chamber, the room lay at the top of the tower. Its walls were covered with oak panels. Painters from Italy had been employed over fifty years before to illustrate the four elements—earth, air, fire, and water, as well as the seasons, the laws of nature, and the mysteries of alchemy. Even the ceiling bore paintings of fantastical animals—griffins, dragons, and leopards. Tristan belonged in such a room, for he was as magical and brilliant as the chamber itself. Besides, he couldn’t get out of it.

The next afternoon, when Wheedle informed her that he’d awakened and recovered from the potion, Pen went to visit Tristan. She took Dibbler with her.
Dibbler took his pike. She unlocked the door and gave Dibbler her ring of keys, then slipped inside. Tristan was sitting in the deep-set window embrasure, gazing out at the sea.

“My preparations for our journey are progressing well now that I don’t have to chase you all over this island. So many instructions to give before I leave, so many problems to anticipate. Good morrow to you, Tristan.”

His head darted around and he glared at her. “Morgan. You may as well accustom yourself to my real name.”

She lost her breath for a moment. “You remembered?”

“No, but the priest admitted who I was. I told you that.”

“You said many things last night. Nonsensical things.”

“So,” he said. “You still disbelieve me.”

“I weary of this game.”

“And I weary of being locked in chambers and cellars and dungeons. I warn you, Penelope Fairfax. You won’t find me so tolerant or temperate if you don’t begin to see reason. I’ve been careful of your safety and sparing of your pride, but no longer. There is great danger here, and not just to me. This man plots against England, and I must find out how.”

“You said you remembered naught.”

“I remember something of last evening—not all. But I’ve just spent a night and a day conversing with a French priest who’s hatching evil against the queen’s chief minister. I hope I dreamt it, but I think he said he’d sent for a French assassin to kill Cecil.”

Pen bent her head and studied the patterns of wood grain on the floor, then she lifted her gaze to him.

“Marry, sirrah, you must think me simple indeed.
You spin tales and expect me to believe them because I fell under your spell and loved you once. Contrary to what you and most men think, love doesn’t rob a woman of all sense. I can still reason, and my reason tells me you’d contrive any outlandish fable that would convince me to release you.”

Tristan uttered a curse and thrust himself out of the window embrasure. He stalked toward her, but halted when she held up her hand.