Suzanne Robinson (37 page)

He took the proffered letter and heard himself making courtly replies, ones which seemed to please Braithwaite. He offered the man wine and food, but he only desired to be conducted to his chamber, saying that his journey had been a long one. Relieved, Blade escorted his guest to his quarters and left him there.

He locked the dagger in a heavy chest in his own chamber, and knelt beside it with the key in his hand.
Finally alone, he broke the royal seal of the letter and read.

He folded the letter, reopened the chest, and placed the letter inside the gilded box with the dagger. He rose and deposited himself in the carved oak chair by the window seat and glanced around his chamber. The favor of the queen was priceless.

Men spent their lives cultivating the affection and gratitude of their sovereign, for that was the path to riches and power. He had gained that favor. How he wished he could rejoice in it. Yet somehow, the praise of Her Majesty struck no chord of pleasure within him. The idea was frightening.

Was this a portent? Would he spend the rest of his life comparing happy events to the dizzy tumult caused by one of Oriel’s smiles? He would go right mad.

Wyatt had understood. He’d been forced to give up his love. Blade rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. He should go to the Black Tower and take counsel with his clerk about the button ciphers, but his head throbbed and he kept hearing one of Wyatt’s songs in his head. He rose and knelt on the window seat, gazing down at the servants, guards, and peasants in the courtyard.

He shoved the window open and breathed in air smelling of horses and hay, and murmured to himself, “ ‘Now must I learn to live at rest/ And wean me of my will/ For I repent where I was pressed/ My fancy to fulfill.’ ”

George took over a week to ready himself for their journey to Castle La Roche, which was fortunate, for Oriel was busy making her own arrangements. She hired five new and unique servants and sent them on ahead to wait for her in a village near the castle. Once she was ready to leave London, her greatest fear was that Livia or Faith would come along. To her relief, neither wished to accompany her. After their last confrontation, they had retreated from the battlefield in defeat and wished for no further skirmishes.

Thus she set out with George and Robert as her escorts. Along the way, Oriel listened with tolerance to George’s complaining, and decided that, in spite of having a trumpet with legs for a mother, he’d taken after his Aunt Faith. For the better part of their journey north
he’d whined like a bagpipe. At this moment he was quite noisy, for his midday meal had settled and he had grown accustomed to the saddle once more. It was her misfortune that he’d chosen to ride beside her instead of Robert. Their men had slowed their pace so that she and George rode well ahead. No one cared to listen to him if he could avoid it.

“You’d think Fitzstephen would have provided an escort,” George said. “I can’t stay away from Richmond Hall forever, and I’m in mourning for Leslie.”

She hadn’t noticed any tears on his cheeks, or Robert’s. Leslie had been Livia’s favorite. She had expended her small store of love on him, and they had known it.

“And how haps it,” George continued, “that your betrothed frequents the company of such rogues as this Inigo? How haps it that we found him all comfortable and cosseted in that stew with that blond doxy? And how haps it that he and Leslie were attacked by thieving gamblers in some strange house, and how haps it that all of you ended up in France? I don’t believe your tale of abduction. Who would abduct Fitzstephen?”

“I told you. A noblewoman of the court who was enamored of him sent ruffians to bring him back to France.”

“A scurrilous falsehood.”

“George, you’ve seen for yourself what happens when he but walks into a chamber where there are women. Remember Joan and Jane?”

“Then he should stop.”

“Stop walking into chambers?”

George cast an irritated glance at her. “Stop beguiling women.”

“It happens whether by his design or not. George, must we discuss these grey-haired old troubles over and over? Content you that I’m to be married and will quit Richmond Hall.”

George reined in his horse and looked at her. “I will miss you.”

She nearly slipped off her saddle.

“In truth?”

“Yes. You’re the only one who ever routed Mother and Aunt Faith. One of my chiefest amusements was listening to her bawl your name when you hid from her. Robert and I would place wagers upon whether her head would burst open like a dropped melon with the force of her fury. I cheated by directing her to places I knew you hadn’t gone.”

She patted his arm. “You’re a good man, George”

“But not a brave one, I fear.”

They continued riding, for Castle La Roche was still some distance away, and George was anxious to reach it before sunset. Poor George, he would be disappointed, for she had no intention of entering the castle before nightfall.

Indeed, she planned to camp at least a league away upon the excuse of illness or a fever of the brain caused by anticipation of her wedding. Then, when everyone was asleep, she would go to La Roche alone. René would be waiting on the battlements to let her inside, and she would lay siege to Lord Fitzstephen in a way he’d never imagined, despite all his experience at the licentious French court.

They had topped a hill and were riding on a track down the slope that led to another forested dale. The closer they got to La Roche, the thicker the woods became. The trees boasted leaves of a bright pale green that spoke of their newness. She surveyed them as they fluttered overhead, narrowing her eyes against the brightness of the sun. They continued amicably for some time until George informed her that they were now on the road to La Roche.

It wound and twisted through a dense forest made dark by the long shadows cast by the setting sun. George complained of a sore backside. Overhead she spotted a merlin hurtling after some unfortunate prey. She was just about to fluster, dither, and flutter herself
into a pretended maidenly fit when something inhuman began to howl.

She turned to see men dropping from trees and springing from bushes. Without warning a smelly ruffian plummeted from above her head to land behind her on her horse. The animal reared, and she fought to stay atop it while her attacker rolled off the animal’s back.

Behind her a line of thieves separated her and George from the rest of their party. As she flayed about her with her riding crop, George attempted to draw his sword, but was felled by a rock hurled by a thief who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She screamed at George, but he was oblivious. The young thief dragged George’s horse away.

Her crop whacked the head of one of her attackers, and she glimpsed Robert as he shrieked and bolted from the fray. Those of his men left upright galloped after him.

“Robert, you worm, come back!”

Suddenly a man with silver and black hair appeared on a horse at her side. He snatched her from the saddle. She twisted in his arms and swatted him with her crop. He cried out as the weapon slapped the top of his head, and she heard several thieves laugh. He wrenched the crop from her and began to shake her so hard she was sure her head would pop off her neck. When he stopped, she was sick to her stomach and so dizzy she couldn’t see him. She could hear, though.

“Well done, my happy sots. Willie! I told you no killing. Leave the cony, or we’ll have the whole county after us, and I’m tired of being chased about the countryside.”

Oriel groaned as the man flipped her on her stomach and launched his horse into a gallop. Her head hit his knee, and she yelped. Suffering from this last blow, jounced by the gait of the horse, she had no hint of their direction. She was about to retch all over her captor’s boots when the horse slowed and then halted. She was
dumped off the horse and landed on all fours. Sick and frightened, she kept reminding herself of the leader’s injunction against killing.

The boots of her captor appeared beneath her nose, and she looked up. He was grinning down at her in the twilight. Grabbing the back of her gown, he jerked her upright and to her feet. Holding her arm as she swayed, he chuckled and addressed her at last.

“Mistress Oriel Richmond,” he said. “Such a scrawny little hen to fetch so high a price.” He bowed, still leering at her. “Jack Midnight, mistress, your host for this night.”

“Midnight.” Oriel glanced around for a way out, but his men had surrounded them, though most were busy examining their spoils. “Midnight. I think I’ve heard that name. God’s toes, Jack Midnight! You’re the one who attacked Blade Fitzstephen.”

“Yes, mistress, several times.”

He held out his hand, but she only stared at it until he took her arm and began to stroll toward a fallen tree.

“Sit you down,” he said. “My plans are going well, and if they succeed entirely, you will be in Castle La Roche before midnight.”

Somewhat calmed by his placid demeanor, she sat on the log. “What plan?”

“Ah,” he said. “A bit of fun, mistress. Revenge and spoils, all at the same time.”

One of the thieves brought a water bag, and he offered it to Oriel. While she drank, he continued.

“You see, your betrothed has cost me much of the loot I was planning to collect for my old age. I was in the city watching him, but he bolted. Now you’ve put yourself in my way, and I am grateful.”

“Loot for your old age? Sooner or later you’ll be hanged. You won’t have an old age.”

“I will on the Continent.” Midnight drank from the water bag, then grinned at her. “Your betrothed will provide the funds.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Nah. He and I are old friends, though I confess we’re also old enemies. Blade’s a clever boy, he is. He’ll see the sense of paying for you, and then I’m gone. My messenger is already on his way. Now you needn’t be frightened. I rarely kill women.”

Oriel found his protestations of little comfort. “What of George?”

“Who?”

“The man who was riding beside me.”

“He’ll wake in a few hours. Willie gave him a nasty rap on the noggin, but he’ll be fine. Your other men, now, they showed us their backsides right quick.”

“I know. They’ve more to fear from Blade than do you.”

Midnight studied her face. “You’re a bold little runagate, for all your highborn manners.”

“I’ve had to be, I’ve lived with two entire aunts and a gaggle of cousins.”

“You’ve got no family?”

“My parents died.”

Midnight faced her and straddled the log. “I could have had a daughter like you. Put off my land, I was, by a bleeding, piss-spewing nobleman.”

“But why?”

“Noblemen don’t need reasons to treat honest men like pig’s swill. Once I would have taken pleasure in running your George through, but time changes a man.”

“And why are you confessing to me?” Oriel asked.

He smiled at her and took another swig from the water bag. “Quick of wit, you are, for a gentry mort. Well, mistress, in the past year or so I’ve grown tired. I used to live on hate—fed on it like mother’s milk. But lately it’s as if the old rancor is like a shirt so old it’s only clinging to me by a thread or two. Mayhap I wore it so long because it was familiar.”

“So you will withdraw from active thievery and spend your days in comfort, living off your plunder.”

“Yes, you’re clever.” He gave her an admiring look, which faded into a frown. “My wife and her babe starved, you know, like many of us when the lords began to enclose lands. But after all these years, I can hardly remember their faces.”