The Traitor's Daughter (12 page)

Owen's hope was slipping away. When it seemed that Northumberland was coming to the end of his questions Owen knew he had to make his last move—and then pray.

He murmured urgently to Doncaster, “Tell him to search his belongings.”

“Ah!” Doncaster whispered back with zeal, then he parroted loudly to Northumberland, “My lord, you must search the man's belongings!”

Rankin flinched. His composure evaporated. He suddenly looked shifty-eyed, frightened. A fresh keenness came over Northumberland, like a hunter who smells the quarry's fear. “Where do you abide, Rankin?”

The porter swallowed.

“Above the stable,” said the man with the mutilated ear. “That's his roost.”

“Go,” Northumberland ordered him. “Search.”

The two hastened out again. Rankin stared at the floor. Men murmured, a couple waging bets. Owen heard them, and sweat chilled the back of his neck. Would this ploy save him? Or would he soon be swinging by his ankles?

It didn't take long. The two retainers ran back in. The disfigured one held a fat purse of maroon leather. The other held a paper folded like a letter.

“Here,” Northumberland ordered, thumping the flat of his hand on the table. The men set the purse and the paper in front of him. He yanked open the purse's drawstring and upended it. Silver coins spilled out. A loud murmur went up from the men. “He wouldn't earn that in ten years,” someone said.

Northumberland silently read the letter. He looked up at Rankin with a look of shock, almost of hurt. “Sell tales about me to the Lord Secretary's clerk, would you? And what next? Murder me in my bed?”

Rankin blanched. He sputtered words of denial, but Northumberland cut him off, saying, “You stink of stag gore, Rankin. A good wash is what you need.”

They took him outside. The earl stood and insisted that his guests follow him and his wife to the tower. The party trooped across the courtyard, Owen alongside Doncaster. Up the tower's five stone flights of steps they went. At the top, the party fanned out along the flat roof used for centuries as a fighting platform from which archers had fended off the enemy. In silence they looked over the stone wall and across the meadow that slanted down to the pond, watching three figures: the marshal and the man with the mangled ear who were hauling the squirming, screaming porter. They dragged him to the pond's edge, thick with reeds. Holding him, both men waded in up to their knees. Rankin's screams stopped as they thrust his head into the water and held it under. His arms thrashed. Then feebly flopped. Then went still.

Owen felt his gorge rise in shock.
They've killed him.
And revulsion at his own complicity.
I killed him.

Northumberland turned to him. The countess's stern green eyes were on Owen, too. Northumberland beckoned a retainer. “The lockup for this fellow. I have some questions yet.”

8

The Meeting

K
ate left the table in the common room of the Star Inn in Lewes as the breakfast dishes were being cleared. Impatient, she took up watch at the window that looked out on the High Street. She had arrived yesterday evening with a servant her grandmother had insisted accompany her, a sturdy fellow named Soames, and first thing this morning she had sent him to call at the home of merchant Gilbert Levett to speak to his guest, Master Robert Parry—her brother, though no one knew it. She had sent Robert a message and was waiting now for Soames to bring his answer.

The other guests who had breakfasted had gone to the stables to continue their journeying and she was alone with the landlord. A lumbering, shaggy-haired fellow, he was instructing a glazier replacing a broken windowpane, and Kate had to move to one side to keep her eye on the morning traffic outside. She was so nervous she had scarcely tasted a bite of her porridge. In coming to Lewes she was blatantly disregarding Robert's instruction to old Master Prowse to keep his whereabouts secret and let him live “in peace.” She was also breaking Prowse's trust in her. But she had to see Robert. The awful sense that she had abandoned him as a child had haunted her for so many years, and she felt that her festering sore of guilt might heal if she could help him now get resettled here at home. The question was, would he agree to see her?

Tap, tap . . . tap, tap.
The glazier's soft mallet knocked the new pane in place. Kate counted the taps—always sets of four—even as she kept her eyes on the street for Soames.
Tap, tap . . . tap, tap.

“Pardon the bother, mistress,” said the landlord, indicating the glazier, “but best have the window snugged up this morning.” His voice was a deep bass, oddly mellifluous as if it had lazily rumbled around inside his large body. He put her in mind of shaggy Swedish oxen. “Looks like rain a-coming,” he warned.

“Oh?” she said vaguely. The sky was robin's egg blue, untroubled by a single cloud. The morning was summer warm. “Surely not.”

“I was born and bred on the Downs, mistress, and I can always smell rain. Not this morning. Afternoon, more like. We'll have a wet eventide.”

Kate didn't relish riding back to London in rain, but she would have to be on the road with Soames this afternoon if she was to make it back the next day. She had to be there to await Ambassador Castelnau's signal. He had told her he would not make contact until at least Thursday, which had given her just enough time to come here to see Robert. She had told her grandmother she was making a charitable visit to her ailing former tutor in Seaford. Not too big a lie, since Master Prowse had indeed written to her and Seaford was only ten miles from Lewes.

Owen was at Petworth, not that far away, either. Thirty miles northwest. Was he already busy this morning seeing to Northumberland's correspondence? She had no doubt that by now he would have managed to infiltrate the earl's household, but his cleverness didn't lessen his danger. She longed to be with him. If she left now she could reach Petworth by supper. Impossible, of course, for a welter of reasons, none of which she could make public. What a web of secrets she had spun in her service for the Queen! Resentment jabbed her at what her life had become. If only she could live as normal people lived. Imagine—to cheerfully accompany your husband to his new post. Have a friendly chat with your father. Seek recipe advice from your mother. Share family news with your brother. But she had married a spy, her father had banished her, her mother was a traitor, and her brother was pretending to be someone else. This family was far from normal.

“Now, don't you let my talk of rain worry you, mistress,” the landlord said. “If the roads turn to bogs you're more than welcome to stay another night. Keep that pleasant room you're in, and I'll have Margery stew you a fine coney with sweet summer squash and raisins. That'll set you up. You'll sleep like a babe and be off the next day under clear skies.”

She had to smile. With the other travelers gone on she was now the only paying guest and no doubt the landlord hoped the threat of rain would make her stay. His ploy, far from irritating her, lifted her spirits. He personified the England that she and Owen and Matthew were on guard to preserve: a people clear-eyed, crafty if need be, and good-natured withal. She almost could have hugged him. “You are kind, Master Sims, and I am sure the rabbit would be delicious, but I really must be on my way today.”

He held up his hands in a gesture that said,
As you wish.

A man behind her cleared his throat. “Mistress Lyon.”

She turned to see Soames. His broad, peasant face was unreadable. “Yes?” she said, a flutter in her stomach. “Will he see me?”

“He was not there, mistress.”

Her hope plunged. Had Prowse been wrong? Was Robert not in Lewes after all? “Is he not biding with Master Levett?”

“He is, yes. But Mistress Levett said he is out visiting a sick man.”

Ah! “Did she say where?”

“Yes, mistress.”

Soames was a good soul, but not as quick as Kate could wish. “
Where,
Soames?”

“Friar's Walk. At the house across from the cobbler.”

“That'll be old Henry Hewson,” said the landlord helpfully.

“Lost his footing coming out of church and gouged his shin on the step.”

“Can you direct me to Friar's Walk?” Kate asked him. “Is it far?”

“Just a pebble's throw, mistress. Not much farther than I throw Jock Dobson when he's in his cups.” He stretched out his arm, pointing past the glazier. “Make a right turning outside my door and take the High Street to All Saints. There, another right turning puts you in Friar's Walk.”

“Thank you.” Buoyed by knowing Robert was so near, she felt she could not wait. She told Soames she would go alone.
I need no protection from my brother,
she thought, though she could not say so.

She made her way along High Street, passing a group gathered around a farrier's old dray horse that had collapsed. Despite the warm air she felt a chill tighten her skin. Nerves, of course. It had been ten years since she'd seen Robert, but the image of their parting was burned into her brain. The awful fire, Father carrying her to safety, Mother's hired man dragging Robert the opposite way. Then, a decade of silence, of not knowing if he was alive or dead. Her guilt welled up again.
Father chose me.
She and Robert had once been so close, but could he ever forgive her for being the chosen child?

All Saints was easy to spot with its square Saxon tower. At the end of the churchyard wall she turned onto Friar's Walk, a leafy lane, the trees an autumn palette of amber and ochre and gold. The brittle fallen leaves rustled under her footsteps.

Ahead, the sign of the cobbler hung over the street, its painted black boot glinting in the sunshine. Directly across the narrow lane was a timber-framed house separated from its two larger neighbors by hedges and beech trees alive with birdsong. Its front door was protected by a little round-arched roof supported by posts, beside which a mullioned window jutted. Through the window's thick green glass Kate could make out someone moving. Two people? The sun's glare on the glass made the figures indistinct. Was one of them Robert? Someone plodding past her blocked her view for a moment, a rag-and-bone man pushing his cart that rattled on the cobbles.
Clackety, clackety, clackety.

She took a deep breath and crossed the street. At the door she raised her hand to knock. But another glance at the window made her stop, her fist in midair. From here, in the shade under the arch, the two figures were clear: a frail old man sitting on a stool, his skinny leg outstretched with his hose rolled down, and a young man on his knees, winding a bandage around the invalid's calf. This had to be Robert, so gently tending his patient!

She took a stiff step away, her back to the wall so he would not see her.
He will not be so gentle with me.
After all, she must be the last person he would want to see. She imagined his accusing stare:
Why did you leave me behind?

What to do? An impulse seized her to turn around and ride back to London and let Robert be. That's what he wanted. That's what he had asked for. She yearned to see him, to win his forgiveness, but that suddenly seemed a horribly selfish whim.
I want absolution. He wants peace.
The two could not be reconciled.

A dog trotted by. The church bell clanged. The rag-and-bone man and his cart disappeared down a lane.
Clackety, clackety, clackety.

Kate made up her mind, unbearable though her decision was.
Let him be.

She was stepping away to return to the inn when the door opened. She whirled around.

He stood before her. Tall. Gangly. A physician's black bag in his hand.

Later, she would remember this moment as one in which time seemed to stop. The house, the street, the city—the whole world faded away. She was aware of nothing but the wide-eyed man looking back at her—a man she did not know, but in whose face hid the ghost of a boy she had never forgotten.
Brother.

He had frozen as though caught in a spell. He stared at her—a woman he did not know, but Kate knew in a heartbeat he was seeing the girl he had never forgotten.
Sister.
Emotions chased across his face. Shock? Disbelief? Anger? She could not read him as she once could.

She finally found her voice, but it was no more than a whisper. “Robin.” Her childhood name for him. Saying it, her throat tightened with a hot threat of tears.

Abruptly, his face changed. A shadow darkened his eyes. The bony ridge of his brows tensed. “Pardon me,” he said, head down, and brushed past her as though past a stranger.

She came after him. “Robin!”

He stopped and twisted back, alarmed at her raised voice. Kate winced, knowing she should not have said his name in public.

“Madam,” he said, “you have mistaken me for someone else.” He looked both ways to see if anyone had heard.

She saw his chin jut in and out, in and out—a small movement, but one she knew so well. He had always had this tic, even as a small child. Whenever he was nervous, back and forth his chin would go. The nuns had slapped him to break him of it. Kate would hold his hand with fierce protectiveness as he'd tried not to cry.

“No mistake,” she whispered. “It's Kate.”

“I know no one by that name. Now please, forgive me, I am in a hurry.”

“Stop. Please. You know me. As I know you. I'm here because of Master Prowse. He told me where to find you.”

His face changed again as suddenly as before, his mask crumbling. At this claim of hers he could no longer maintain the pretense. His voice when it came was faint and shaky. She could barely hear it. “This is not . . . what I wanted . . .”

His struggle broke her heart. “Please,” she begged. “Just let me look at you.”

They stared at each other. She searched for signs of the boy she remembered. It was as though an artist, taking the soft face of the child, had enlarged and hardened it with cartilage and bone. His hazel eyes held a childish openness, but the bony eyebrow ridge was a man's. His skin was smooth, but not like a boy's for it had been shaved of beard. His mouth still boyishly quirked to one side, but the narrow lips had the determination of a man. But all the foreignness about him dissolved when he touched her face in wonder, saying, “Kate . . . dear Kate . . .”

Joy coursed through her! She raised her arms to embrace him.

He flinched. “Not here.”

She froze. “No, of course. I'm sorry.”

“Come, walk with me.”

He took her elbow and guided her. She scarcely saw her surroundings as they walked—a blur of houses, shops, people. A hundred questions tumbled in her mind as Robert marched her on in silence. Clearly, he wanted first to get away from the eyes of the town. The street they were on sloped down to the river.

“This is not what I wanted,” he said again, speaking quietly though no one they passed was close enough to hear. “Curse the old man!” His voice rose despite his caution. “I made him promise to tell no one!”

“I know. He told me that, too. Please don't blame him. He thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Well, he was wrong! Your connection with me can only hurt you. Kate, I wanted to spare you.”

“I know. I understand. But you must forgive Master Prowse. He did not act from malice.”

He looked flustered, though not appeased. “My own fault. I trusted him to keep things to himself. I should never have visited him.”

“I'm glad you did. So glad!”

“No, it was a blunder. But oh, Kate, I so wanted some link to our old life. Just to feel again a touch of the way we were before—”

He did not finish, but she knew what he'd left unsaid:
Before Mother betrayed her country and took us away.
That rocked her. And the tender yearning in his voice moved her.

They had reached the bridge at the center of town and now crossed over the River Ouse, a slender waterway to the sea. They turned onto a grassy path that skirted the river. No one was on it except a stooped woman cutting bulrushes and, up ahead, a couple of children fishing. On the water two small fishing boats passed each other, moving in opposite directions. The breeze nudged the riverbank's tall grasses against Kate's knee. Now that she and Robert were alone she didn't know where to begin. The same confusion seemed to inhibit him.

“Robin, where have you been all these years?” she finally said. “We never heard a word.”