“Aren’t ghosts always strange? Or messengers from Hell?” Alysson sniffed and tried not to let wisps of sable tickle her nose. She had forgotten her kerchief. “I’ve missed Pagan so much. And I was still grieving for Gamel when Pagan went missing. But it would be a great kindness to find his body, so he could be given a proper Christian burial. Perhaps that’s why he isn’t at rest.”
Ludovic watched her tears, small silver smears descending to his mahogany velvet. He smiled and put his arm around her, holding her face to his shoulder. “Don’t cry, little one. The world is full of sadness and we must all die eventually. In the meantime, I shall do my best.” He curled his fingers to the back of her head, where her net caul failed to contain the coiled weight of her hair. A pale sunshine was exploring the apple trees but a chilly wind blew directly in from the sea and the echoes of the gulls blew with it. “But he’s your brother and I know nothing of him,” Ludovic continued gently, “so I believed you should know what I intend doing, and why. And I wanted to ask if you have any further knowledge, or guess where he might lie.”
She was crying properly now, though squashed to his chest and trying to stifle the sound. “I know nothing,” she mumbled. “Nothing at all.”
His fingers curled further into the thick coils of her hair, detaching the caul and its pins. His other hand held her close. “Don’t cry, little one,” he murmured, “or I shall be impelled to do something you would probably not like.”
She stopped crying at once and looked up, wet lashed in surprise. “Why? You’ve been very kind. But I haven’t got a kerchief and the Lady Jennine will slap me if I wipe my nose on the sleeve of this dress. So why would you do what I wouldn’t like?”
He pulled his own kerchief from the depths of his doublet and handed it to her. “Wipe your face,” he commanded, “and salvage both your sleeves and my coat.” He watched as she blew her nose with defiance.
“I shouldn’t cry. I know it’s silly after all this time.” She handed the damp linen back to him. “It’s a very pretty kerchief,” she said with a sniff. “Thank you.”
“The Sumerford arms,” Ludovic smiled, regarding the damply crumpled remains. “You had better keep it.”
She blew her nose a second time and tucked the embroidered kerchief carefully inside her cuff. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I loved Pagan and Gamel so very much. So I don’t see why you feel - impelled to do something - horrid.”
Ludovic’s smile widened. “Not precisely horrid, child, though perhaps unwise.” He looked down on her face muffled by his own furs, her cheeks and his sable both bright with her tears. Then he bent his head to the damp softness and kissed her long and hard.
He felt her gasp, inhaling, surprised, drawing in the breath from his own mouth. She wriggled, suddenly nervous and then taut beneath the pressure of his hand, but neither pressing closer nor pulling away. His fingers gently caressed the knots of her spine, his other hand tight in her hair. He explored the fullness of her lips, watching her wet lashes flicker and her eyes close. Then he felt her breath against his tongue, sweet and warm and unhurried. When finally he released her, straightening reluctantly, he still held her cradled to his chest. Her own hands remained trapped within the great swathes of his coat, but her face nestled willingly against him and she sighed.
“And was it – so horrid, little one?” he murmured.
She swallowed, paused a moment, then shook her head.
He chuckled. “Bereft of argument? How unlike you. But you’re quite safe. I won’t attack you further. I was simply – as explained – impelled.”
Since she still found no words, he eventually turned and began to walk with her slowly back towards the castle. His arm remained around her shoulders, cuddled a little beneath his surcoat and guiding her, and though they came within sight of Sumerford scrutiny and the castle’s many hundred gazing windows, he removed neither his arm nor his velvets. He brought her across the drawbridge and to the doors of the great hall, swung wide to the courtyard air. Then he reclaimed his coat, taking it back and folding it casually over his arm. He stood a moment looking at her, rearranged her light wrap around her and the caul about her hair, reattaching its loosened pins. “There now,” he said with a grin, “you look adequately respectable again.” He nodded to a page standing by the outer doorway. “Take Mistress Alysson back to the Lady Jennine’s quarters,” he said. Then leaned forwards, and kissed her very lightly on the tip of her still damp nose. “I shall keep you informed,” he promised, “of what I do, and whether I discover your brother.” Then he turned again and strode back into the pale sunshine.
Alysson watched him disappear into the haze, sighed deep, and began to follow the small red haired page up the main stairs.
Each step was striped in light with the slanting shade from the balustrade and huge carved banisters, no dust beams but a dithering sheen. The rows of tall windows were well polished, the afternoon sun only slightly diffused by the thick glass. The hall and stairs were bathed bright but at the top of the staircase in the long upper corridor, windowless with its wide locked doors on either side, the shadows leapt suddenly huge. The page reached up and took a small torch from one of the sconces. The air was still, the flames did not flare, though flickered as they walked. It was darker still as they reached the curve turning into the next steps upwards, a chilly dank black.
Then, with a burst of draught into total darkness, the torch was blown out. The page squeaked as if struck and then silenced. Alysson stood quite still and heard only her heart thump. Then she felt the damp hand around her neck.
The fingers were thick and soft, the palm wide, the flesh sweaty. More fingers crept with eager determination into the neat neckline of her gown. They forced quickly deeper and over the hoarse panting breath of her assailant, she heard the gauze tear. But she was already screaming louder than all other sounds. Then the other hand, fisted, swung to her jaw, and she was silenced too.
Pain jarred, ramming against all her senses, and from two directions. Her jaw throbbed with an incessant, reeling insistence. And into her cleavage and around one nipple, was the pain of scratched, oozing flesh. Alysson struggled, searching for the breath to scream again, but the hand around her neck tightened and her throat was squeezed shut.
Then a sudden rush, someone hurtling past her, grabbing at the creature’s hands, forcing them, finger by finger, away from her. She discovered breath again, and with the points of her new shoes, kicked first at the shin, then knee up to the groin. She remembered Gamel’s voice. “This is where, Alysson. If some bastard ever tries to hurt you, you kick them here. Right here. Understood?” And she did what he had told her, and aimed right there. She heard the answering grunt.
She had defended herself once before, and now she tried to scratch and bite as she had then. But it had been sunny in the dairies, and now everything was hidden, and strange, and terrifying. There seemed to be two shadows struggling together, one large and one small. A strangled voice, guttural and very faint, “Not now. Not yet. Take me instead. Take me.” She turned from them and ran into blackness.
She fell onto the lower stone of the narrow winding steps leading to her own quarters, felt with both hands and scrambled up. Then a torch in a high alcove, a timid light growing, brought back her sight. Alysson found her breath. She stood shaking on the landing, gripping her shawl, forcing herself to think. Eventually, with both hands clenched and a heave of deeper breath, she turned and ran back the way she had come, clattering down the stone steps. “Get away,” she shouted, as loudly as her sore throat permitted. “Let the child go and get away whoever you are.”
The silence rebounded in echoes. Where she had been attacked and had then left two shadows merged and struggling, there was no one now. She leaned back gasping against the wall. It was wet with condensation. It felt like tears. Finally, shoulders hunched, she remounted the stairs, pushed open the door and hurried into the warmth and comfort of the Lady Jennine’s solar.
; The lady was dozing in her bedchamber, the bed curtains drawn shut and the windows tight shuttered against insidious draughts. Alysson crept in, feeling the gloom increasingly morbid. The other two maids had been sent away and Jennine was alone. Alysson did not wish to wake her, the lady had been persistently kind but she could be sharp when irritated, and besides, her rest and afternoon sleeps had been advised by the doctor. The pregnancy was growing large. Its pressure on the lady’s lungs was constant. Alysson heard her Sertorius breathing behind the curtains, like a little child’s snores.
She tiptoed into the garderobe and sat in the dark on the latrine, eyes closed, forehead in her hands. She felt sick.
“And what,” demanded the voice, “is this all about?” Alysson looked up and gulped. Jennine was peering at her. “I need the jakes, silly girl. What’s the matter with you?”
Alysson jumped up in a hurry. “Nothing.” Then thought better of it. “I was attacked. There’s a monster in the castle,” she gasped in a rush. “A creature, some dreadful thing that leapt on me and tried to strangle me.”
Jennine laughed. “What absurd nonsense is this? I’m not interested in your ridiculous imagination, girl. Go and make up my bed, I shall be out in a moment.” Alysson had straightened the bedcover but was sitting on it when the lady reappeared, holding her belly in discomfort. “Damned infant. This wretched business certainly proves our good Lord is a man. In the past I always managed – but never mind about that. Dammit, don’t just sit there, Alysson. Help me lie down, and rub my back. And now tell me about Ludovic. What did he want, this patient lover of yours?”
Alysson shook her head, bending to massage her mistress’s shoulders. “He – he was kind. He’s going to look for my little brother again. You remember, don’t you? Pagan, who disappeared. Ludovic is going to search for Pagan’s body, so he can be properly buried.” She paused, and sighed. “That’s all. Then he sent a page to bring me back here but at the bottom of the top steps, something attacked me. It’s not a silly story. Look at the marks on my neck.”
Jennine gazed up with a giggle. “So Ludovic decided to take you at last, did he? Don’t tell me you pushed him off and made him angry?”
Alysson glared. She could feel the bruises, the pressure of fingertips like huge burns around her throat. She tugged down the neck of her dress where the little gauze fichu had been torn. Peering down at herself she could see three long scratches, dark with dried blood across her breast, and another bruise turning dark around the nipple. “Of course not. And I’m not making it up. Why would I? Look.”
“I see,” the lady still smiled. “Some men like it rough, of course. You’ll have to accept it my dear. And to tell the truth I’m hardly surprised, for it’s those that pretend to play the gentleman who turn nasty when they’re aroused. Don’t be ashamed. Look, I’ll help you wash and put a little salve on the scratches. I think it best not to involve the doctor, my dear, but I shall look after you, don’t worry. At least we know Ludovic is finally a fish to the hook as we’ve wanted for so long.” Jennine struggled to sit up again against the bolster, and patted the bed beside her, indicating Alysson to sit. “Now we can take our plans further.”
Alysson held her breath. “I don’t lie. It wasn’t him.”
The lady frowned. “Don’t be tiresome, Alysson. And don’t make me cross. You know how exhausted I get these days. If Ludovic enjoys rough rutting, then we shall think of new ways to excite him.”
“It was dark. I couldn’t see who it was. But it wasn’t him. His hands are quite different – slim and long fingered. These hands were – sweaty – and podgy.”
“And mine,” said the Lady Jennine, cold eyed, “are surprisingly hard when I find someone odiously annoying. So be quiet, Alysson, and stop making a fuss about a few tiny scratches. Now I shall tell you what you need to practise for a man who likes to mix sweetness with pain.”
Chapter Twenty
On the 9th day of June the royal kitchens at Westminster Palace were in turmoil. Every cook, assistant cook, pastry maker, baker, clerk of the spicery and carver of subtleties was shouting at every scullion, and every pot boy was whimpering. The turnspits were burning their fingers, the Marshall of the great hall was in a fury and the brewsters were sliding across wet floors, for there was the Trinity Sunday feast to prepare for his majesty and the entire court in residence. The over laden tables were creaking and even the ceilings were steaming and dripping condensation. Meanwhile Sir Gerald Sumerford, his squire following close, linked his arm through that of his friend Lord William Grey, Earl of Berkhamstead, and wandered the palace grounds as if he had every right to be there, while casually watching the flocking of the swallows in the bright blue sky above, and bending to smell the new planted roses amongst the hedges at his side. Although he was not in fact at present a member of court, no guard assumed reason to object or question his identity. The Earl of Berkhamstead at least was certainly well known. There was nothing suspicious, the weather was sumptuous, and the holy day was nearing its midday.
The nearby Abbey bells chimed for the twelve o’clock None service, but the three men did not enter the great hall of Westminster for dinner, instead continuing to wander the gardens, sauntering down towards the river and its summer sparkle, where they happened to encounter three other young men, plainer dressed, but still of quality. No one was stopped.
It was much later and nearing a star-glistened midnight when the captive known as Perkin Warbeck escaped. Eluding his two permanent guards, the young man somehow climbed from an upper window and was immediately gone into the shadows.
His absence was discovered within the hour.
Panic ensued, messengers sent galloping to every port, troops of guards scrambling down along the river banks, others marching up river and into the great forests of St. James, up the Westbyrne Brook to the monastery grounds of the Hyde park, and out to the surrounding villages and the gravel pits of Kensington before doubling back towards the jousting grounds at Smithfields. The city gates were locked and guarded, so no one had entered London’s alleys through the Ludgate, but the summertime river could be swum, and in the night’s shadows nobody could trace the passage taken.
The king, it was said, was quite unperturbed. When finally given the news, he called it a minor matter and of less significance than the bellyache sustained from dinnertime’s plentiful smoked trout and lobster in creamed garlic. “This pathetic feigned lad,” his majesty yawned, “is little more than a lowly simpleton, and not worth the loss of my well-deserved rest. No doubt Warbeck will be found again one day, God willing.”
Yet strangely, in spite of the king’s casual disinterest displayed in public, the massive rush of armed guards sent on the business of recapture was immediate, well prepared and well disciplined, and told at all costs not to return without the prisoner.
The court, cheerfully sensing renewed scandal, gossip and conjecture, was delighted to be disturbed. It was generally decided that the creature Warbeck had shown great ingratitude since his treatment had been merciful to the extreme. Not only allowed to live, but given warmth, food and even the occasional glimpse of his wife, he had thrown away such gracious generosity for stubborn wilfulness and a foolhardy risk. It simply proved how ignoble and uncourtly the man really was.
Those who felt differently chose to say little, and the opinions of the Lady Katherine his wife, her majesty the queen, and far away the busy courts in Burgundy and Flanders, were never sought.
On a muddy bank between great clumps of rushes, three men sat close together, their black clothes merging into the darkness, weaving them virtually invisible amongst the reeds. The frogs were calling and star shine reflected tiny pools of silver within the marsh, but the men avoided the light.
One, although the smallest of the three, was clearly the more respected. “Thank you, but you must leave me now,” he said quietly. “You’ve done enough, and the rest is up to me. I refuse to cause the death of more of my friends.”
“Your grace,” sa
id another, voice no louder than the gentle swirl of the water beside them, “we will see you at least as far as sanctuary.”
“No my dear Gerald,” said the first man, “it’s become too dangerous. Tudor is notoriously tricky and I feel his hand in this, more perhaps than our own.”
The third man nodded. “I’m suspicious too, your grace. It should never have been so easy. Half our plans weren’t even needed, as if every step was already expected, and paths opened for us before we even looked for them. You know what they say.”
“They say as William said,” murmured the Duke of York. “That Tudor has been too long trapped by his own need to appear merciful, and by his fear to execute someone he knows should be sitting on the throne he stole. At first, keeping me a menial at court served to belittle my claims, as if of so little importance that even my death was irrelevant. But it has gone on too long, and foreign powers still rattle Tudor’s insecurities. Now he can’t send me to the Tower and be finally rid of me without some obvious cause to keep his reputation clean. Flanders would grumble, Burgundy would petition. Even the Pope would complain. Meantime Spain wants her daughter safe. An England while I still live and breathe is not considered safe. So Tudor needed me to escape. And I obliged.”
“Then we’ve done you a great disservice, my lord,” Gerald sighed, “and have led you not to freedom, but to death.”
The man the king called Perkin Warbeck smiled. He was sitting thigh deep in mud, but his good temper remained. “Our plans were excellent and your loyalty’s helped bring me sanity these long months. But this wretched false king of yours is no fool. Did we underestimate him?”
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