The Accidental Bride (22 page)

“Aye,” Meg said. “Punishing superstition is no answer. We have to eradicate it.”

“What will you do now?”

“Go back,” Meg said. “Do what I always do.”

“You could bear to help those people again?” Phoebe shook her head with a shudder of disgust. “I don’t think I could bring myself to speak to any of them again. Except perhaps Granny Spruel.”

“It’s understandable.”

“But you will go on helping them?”

“If I can gain their trust again, yes. There’s more to physicking than herbs and simples, Phoebe. The mind is often as much in need of healing as the body. If I can show them the evil of superstition, then I’ll not have wasted my time.”

“You’re such a good woman,” Phoebe said fiercely. “They don’t deserve you.”

“As if that had anything to do with anything,” Meg scoffed. She closed her eyes. “I’m tired, Phoebe.”

“I’ll leave you to sleep.” Phoebe bent to kiss her. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

She went to her own deserted bedchamber and looked at the large empty bed. Then, grabbing up her nightrail, she picked up the candle and made her way to Olivia’s bedchamber.

Olivia stirred and said sleepily, “Is something the matter?”

“Do you mind if I share your bed?”

“No, not at all.” Olivia moved up accommodatingly and sat up, blinking sleep from her eyes. “I’d be glad of the c-company. Every time I c-close my eyes I see that dreadful man with his pins.”

“I know.” Phoebe threw off her clothes and scrambled into her nightgown. She slipped beneath the covers. “I wonder what’ll happen now that the king’s escaped.”

“Maybe the war’ll be over.” But Olivia didn’t sound too convinced. “I c-can’t even remember properly a time when there was peace. Can you?”

“Just,” Phoebe said. “But Cato once said that even when it’s over it won’t really be over. He said it would be a Pyrrhic victory at best.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. Just like he wouldn’t talk about what’s going on at headquarters. He started to say something and then stopped. Why won’t he tell me these things?” She leaned over to blow out the candle and lay down beside Olivia.

“It’s so maddening,” she muttered.

“I
t’s so frustrating, Meg!” Phoebe paced Meg’s bedchamber
impatiently, returning to her theme the next morning. “Why should men have this attitude? Women are just as capable as they are. Maybe we’re not such good soldiers, although Portia’s as good as any man, but there are other things we’re better at. And we can have opinions, can’t we?”

She came to a standstill beside the bed, where Meg sat up against piled pillows. Phoebe was glad to see that she was looking much more herself this morning, the light back in her shrewd eyes, the humor returned to her fine mouth. Her hair hung in long plaits over her shoulders, making her look younger than Phoebe had ever seen her. The long sleeves and high neck of Mistress Bisset’s borrowed nightgown hid the bruises and puncture wounds of her ordeal, but the striped cambric swamped her, so that she looked much frailer than usual.

“We can have opinions and give advice and good counsel. Can’t we?” Phoebe demanded.

“Without doubt,” Meg said with a serene smile. “But I doubt that husband of yours will ever accept that.”

“But he
must!”
Phoebe wailed. “I don’t want to be left out of everything that matters to him . . . kept swaddled in some cocoon, told that I mustn’t bother my pretty head with male concerns. Not that I have a pretty head,” she amended.

“What you have is a deal more attractive than mere prettiness,” Meg said, her smile broadening.

“Oh?” Phoebe’s interest was piqued. “What’s that, then?”

“Character,” Meg replied.

“Oh.” Phoebe was disappointed. Character seemed like a very dull endowment when compared with beauty and elegance.

“And brains,” Meg continued.

“Well, much good they are if no one acknowledges them or lets me put them to good use,” Phoebe said, aggrieved.

“Why would you want to be involved in your husband’s self-important absorptions, anyway?” Meg said. “In my experience, men are always attaching too much importance to trivialities.”

“But the war isn’t trivial.”

Meg shook her head. “It’s about power, Phoebe. Wars are all about power and greed. Men’s obsessions. Women deal in life and death; birth, sickness, health. Those are the warp and woof of existence, not the posturing and pronouncing and proselytizing that make men believe they’re running the world as they kill each other for their own self-interest.”

As always, Meg made sense. Phoebe frowned. “Maybe you’re right, but I can’t make miracles. I have to deal with what’s at hand. Cato has to see that I have something to offer, that he can confide in me.” She thumped down on the edge of the bed.

“Well, if you must pursue such an object, you’ll have to prove your competence to your husband in some way . . . if you could rescue him from some dire peril, for instance . . .”

“Oh, now you’re making fun,” Phoebe accused. “Cato’s never in dire peril, anyway, except perhaps on the battlefield. And I can’t do much to help him there . . .. Now, who could that be?” She slid off the bed at the sound of a knock at the door. “Come in.”

Brian Morse entered the chamber, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Forgive the intrusion, but I’ve been looking all over for you, Phoebe. I wished to give you these.” He behaved as if the woman in the bed didn’t exist.

“Ah, my savior,” declared Meg. “The scourge of witch finders the length and breadth of the country.”

A flash of anger crossed Brian’s little brown eyes at this cool irony, but he ignored Meg and continued to speak directly to Phoebe. “Mistress Bisset told me where to find you. I’ve brought you the patterns for those gowns I promised you.” He held out the papers. “I need to show them to you and discuss the right fabrics to choose.”

“My, my. Is there no end to your talents, young man?” murmured Meg. “The nemesis of witch finders is also a couturier.”

Phoebe tried to hide her smile. She was well aware that Brian’s arrogant attitude had annoyed Meg. And she could quite understand why. He was treating her as if she was utterly beneath his notice.

“Let us look at them here. Meg will be interested to see them too. And I should be glad of her opinion.” Phoebe hitched herself onto the bed again and offered Brian a sunny smile that nonetheless held a grit of determination. She extended her hand for the drawings.

Brian looked comically astounded, as if the ground had been cut from beneath his feet when he wasn’t looking. He remembered that she’d snubbed him once before. Her spirit had intrigued rather than annoyed him then, but to be finessed by her in front of an insolent, disreputable village woman . . . for her to imply that this
peasant’s
opinion on
his
sketches would be of value to her . . . It was insupportable!

He held on to the drawings, saying coldly, “When you’re not so busy, perhaps.” He spun on his heel and left the bedchamber, closing the door gently, but not before a smothered chuckle reached him, making his ears burn.

“Oh dear,” Phoebe said, her eyes alight with laughter. “He’s so pompous, but he
did
rescue you. We must give him some credit.”

“A man of an overweening conceit,” Meg pronounced.
Then her expression sobered. “I wouldn’t trust him an inch, Phoebe.”

“Why not? What do you know of him?” She was immediately intrigued.

“I know nothing of him, but I assure you he’s not trustworthy.”

Phoebe had great respect for Meg’s intuitions. “That seems to be everyone else’s opinion also,” she conceded. “But I had thought maybe to use him . . . to pick his brains, perhaps, to find out more about the politics and the tactics of the war . . . all the things Cato won’t tell me. Then I could surprise Cato with what I know. What do you think?”

“I think,” Meg said consideringly, “that if you play with fire, you’ll burn your fingers.”

“I’ll be careful,” Phoebe assured her, sliding off the bed. “I’d better go and placate him. I’m sure he knew we were laughing at him.”

“Have a care,” Meg said somberly. “He’ll be a bad enemy.”

“I’ll bring you an infusion when I come back,” Phoebe promised cheerfully as she left the room.

In the corridor she hesitated, wondering where Brian might have gone. She decided to try the library and hurried towards the stairs. But she didn’t have to go very far. Brian Morse was coming up the stairs as she reached the head.

“Dare I hope you could spare me a few minutes?” he inquired, his face still dark, his eyes hooded. “I worked many hours on those drawings.”

“I ask your pardon if I offended you,” Phoebe said frankly. “But Meg is my friend and you insulted her by ignoring her.”

“It is not my custom to engage in social intercourse with villagers,” he stated. “But I have some things I wish to discuss with you, so we’ll put it behind us.”

Pompous was hardly an adequate description, Phoebe decided. But she merely offered a vague smile as she said, “Please do show me the drawings. I’m most eager to see them.”

Brian handed them to her, saying as he did so, “There is another matter . . . one of great delicacy. I fear all is not well with your husband.”

“What do you mean?” Phoebe demanded sharply, looking up from her perusal of Brian’s sketches. All interest in playing games with the man had vanished. “What has happened? Has he returned from headquarters?”

“No, not as yet.” Brian laid a hand on her arm. “But I’ve heard some disturbing information.”

“What?” Phoebe looked at him in alarm.

Brian looked around, up and down the passage. “As I said, it’s a matter of great delicacy. Where can we talk in strict privacy?”

“I was going to the stillroom to mix an infusion for Meg. No one will disturb us there.” Phoebe hurried down the corridor, Brian on her heels.

In the aromatic quiet of the stillroom, where the late morning sun fell in a great golden swath from a round window high up in the wall over the orderly shelves of lavender-strewn linens, Phoebe said without preamble, “So, what is it? What have you to tell me?”

Brian looked concerned. “I’ve heard that Lord Granville is facing difficulties among the high command . . . there are serious questions of his loyalty.”

“Oh, what nonsense!” Phoebe exclaimed, her eyes flaring with indignation. “Who could have told you such a thing?”

“I have many sources of information,” Brian told her gravely. “Believe me, I know much that goes on in both headquarters.”

“You mean spying?” Phoebe’s nose wrinkled unconsciously. “How could you possibly have spies in Parliament’s camp? You’re a Royalist.”

“Was,” Brian reminded her gently. “But believe me, Phoebe, my work has always been one of digging for information. Distasteful, you may think it, but it’s a vital part of warfare. But then, a woman couldn’t possibly be expected to
understand,” he added with a smile that was meant to be kind but that appeared as flagrantly patronizing.

“Oh, pah!” Phoebe said. “You sound just like Cato. I fail to see the male mystery involved in killing and being killed.”

“Well, perhaps we men like to think of it as our preserve,” Brian said pacifically. “Historically it always has been.”

Phoebe’s expression seemed to indicate that she was unimpressed with historical precedent.

He continued. “But in truth, Phoebe, Cato is in difficulties and I would like to help him, to prove my loyalty to him.”

“Why don’t you talk to him about it, then?”

“Because he won’t listen to me! God knows, I’ve tried, but he’s as stubborn as a mule. And he still doesn’t trust me, I’m certain of it, despite all the information I’ve given him.”

“What is it exactly that you’ve heard?” Phoebe turned from him and began to select jars from the shelf behind her. She was trying to hide the keenness of her interest. Perhaps this was her opportunity to prove herself to Cato.

“I know that Cato has come under suspicion by his party’s high command. Cromwell has questioned his commitment. It’s a very dangerous situation and the king’s escape yesterday has only made it worse. It looks as if he might have allowed him to slip away.”

“How do you know this?” Phoebe realized she was holding her breath.

“There was a skirmish several weeks ago and the king’s men took several prisoners. They became quite voluble . . .” Brian shrugged and left Phoebe to come to her own conclusions as to the means by which they became so.

“It’s also been reliably said that Lord Granville has questioned Cromwell’s motives in waging this war. That’s not an accusation to make lightly.”

That was a master stroke, Brian reckoned. He’d heard two troopers discussing the rumor the previous evening,
when tongues were running loose over jugs of ale around the brazier in the stable yard. It might or might not be true, but it was still powerful fuel to the fire he was building here.

Phoebe measured herbs into the mortar and took up the pestle. She said nothing as she worked, and the rich aroma of crushed juniper, thyme, and lovage filled the stillroom. Brian’s words had the ring of truth, but she was mindful of Meg’s warning and determined to tread lightly.

“Do you think your husband would listen to you?” Brian asked into the fragrant silence.

“No. He considers his affairs to be solely his preserve.”

Brian nodded in silent satisfaction as he heard the disgruntled note. He was on the right track. “Perhaps there’s a way around that,” he mused, watching her profile from beneath lowered lids.

“What way?”

“Well, if Lord Granville refuses to see any need to convince his own party of his loyalty, perhaps his true friends should convince them for him.”

Phoebe turned slowly, the pestle still in her hand. “What do you mean?”

Brian appeared to ponder the question for a minute, then he said consideringly, “I’m thinking that if someone sent a document to Parliament under the Granville seal . . . something that proves Cato’s loyalty conclusively. That would be one way. But one would need access to his seal, of course . . .”

Phoebe frowned. “What kind of a document?”

“A piece of information from the king’s camp,” Brian said promptly.

“And where would we get that?”

“I would supply it.” Brian pursed his lips. “The king is going to seek help from the Scots. But to get it, he must make certain promises. I have conclusive proof that he’ll not keep those promises. If the Scots knew that, then they’d hand the king over to Parliament. If Cato provides Parliament
with that information, his loyalty and commitment would go unquestioned.”

Phoebe shook her head. This was too much to take in. She felt utterly out of her depth. She knew that Brian had been supplying Parliament with information from the king’s camp, but how could he know so much about Parliament’s affairs? But then, he was right. What did she know of the devious workings of a spy?

One issue, however, seemed simple enough. “But why don’t you give this information to Cato yourself? Then he can put to rest any suspicions himself.”

“You really aren’t much of a conspirator, are you?” Brian’s smile was almost pitying. He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Let us be a little more devious here, Phoebe. I had thought to kill two birds with one stone. You feel excluded from his life, don’t you?” His little eyes gazed intently into her own.