Alysson said, “You are mad, Jenny. Mad and wicked and foolish. And whatever you suffered in the past can’t excuse your wickedness now.”
Jennine loomed over her, pointing at her in fury. “You know nothing about the misery I experienced before coming here,” she spat. “You pride yourself on being a virgin? Nineteen years, and still untouched! I was seven when I was raped the first time, and by someone far worse than Vymer.”
Alysson kept her own voice calm and spoke slowly, ensuring Jennine’s full attention. As she spoke, she kept her eyes focused and did not watch Clovis creep silently from his seat, approaching Jennine from behind. But she saw the flicker of his shadow and she saw the knife raised, the sun catching the edge of the blade.
“I’m not proud of being a virgin, Jenny,” she said. “Actually, I’m ashamed of it. I should have agreed to be Ludovic’s mistress from the start. And perhaps he was in on your plots and plans all along, and perhaps he wasn’t. I’ll never know now, so I prefer to think the best of him. I think he was always suspicious of you and I’m sure he didn’t like you, but I believe he never suspected the real truth. No one could guess how disgusting you actually are. I loved Ludovic and I’m still in love with him, and I don’t think he was capable of such wickedness, and he didn’t ever lead me on. He was always gracious and kind and understanding and he wanted to take me away from you. And I don’t think anyone is worse than Vymer. In fact, I think it was him that killed Pagan. Humphrey is odd and simple and childish. He isn’t a villain, but Vymer is. I think everything you say is a pack of lies.”
Jennine leaned over, one knee on the mattress, and slapped Alysson’s face very hard. The corner of her square ruby ring cut into the soft flesh below Alysson’s eye. Jennine’s cleavage quivered, her breasts bursting from the low neckline. She pressed her nose down to Alysson’s and hissed. “You could have had my friendship. You could have become more than the little simpleton you really are, more than just that silly boy’s discarded mistress. I’d have made you important. And it’s true Vymer can be rough. He’s a brutal man, but what he does, he does for love of Humphrey. Then my Humphrey has his own moods – and moments of – raptus.” She grabbed Alysson’s shoulder, pulling at her shift. “You’ll find out in time just what he’s capable of. Now I’ll inform the countess how mean you are. She’ll have you whipped. Then I’ll let Vymer loose.”
Clovis stabbed. The knife slipped through the pink silk and between Jennine’s ribs with barely a pause. The rush of warm blood seemed to sigh as it soaked outwards, staining the pink gown red. Jennine’s eyes rolled up and she slumped forwards, crushing Alysson beneath her. But as she fainted, she squealed once. The sound wailed, hung in the air, and stopped on a rattle.
Alysson squeezed herself from under the voluptuous squash of her gaoler’s body, and scrambled out. She stared at Clovis. Clovis stared back. He still gripped the little knife, bloody at his side. He shook his head, whispering very quietly. “If Vymer heard that, the bugger’ll think it were you. I reckon he won’t come a running.”
“But we want him in,” Alysson whispered back. “Otherwise we can’t get out. The door’s locked and he’s guarding the corridor.” She stared down briefly at Jennine. The small black hole in her back just above her waist, was still oozing blood. “Do you think she’s - dead?”
“No. The bitch is breathing, look. So we sharpened it fer nigh an hour, but a silly little blade like that ain’t gonna to do nobody in for good.” He dropped the knife with a sudden clatter. Alysson automatically raised her finger to her lips. Clovis frowned. “Thought we wants the bugger to hear and come in? Besides, the bitch’ll come round pretty soon. Only fainted she has. Knock her out quick. We can’t take ‘em both at once.”
“She’s losing a lot of blood,” whispered Alysson dubiously.
Clovis shook his head. “Not enuff. Get on wiv it.”
It had started to rain. The oppression of the waiting storm still hung heavy, the clouds darkened and the first heavy drops of rain pattered against the window panes.
Alysson used the ale pitcher. Thick glazed terracotta, the jug broke over Jennine’s head, shattering shards and crumbling red dust on the bed. Jennine grunted and her body jolted once in a sudden spasm. Her headdress had dislodged and her pale hair tumbled from its pins. Her head opened with a vicious cut and began to bleed in a thick sickly trickle. Alysson peered down. “She’s still breathing,” she said, “but she looks ghastly.”
“Kill the bitch,” insisted Clovis. “Wot will she do later, when she wakes up if’n she ain’t dead? Come and get us an’ pissing flay us alive, she will.”
“She won’t,” said Alysson. “Because we’ll be far away.” She leaned over, both arms beneath her past mistress’s prone body. The weight was greater than she expected. She heaved, and the body rolled face up across the bed. Jennine’s mouth was open and gulping for air, but the eyes were tight closed, the beautiful blonde lashes thick over her cheeks like small dead spiders. Alysson looked down and saw she now had the woman’s blood on her hands and shift. She wiped her palms on the old counterpane.
“You looks a bit of a mess,” Clovis conceded. “Better put summit proper on before we runs away, or we’ll have the sheriff after us for improper undress. Then we’ll be back in the pokey afore we’ve even had a chance to taste freedom, and then they’ll find out wot we done, and that’ll mean the swing.”
Alysson nodded. She hurried to the pile of clothes Jennine had brought with her. On top was her blue silk gown, worn only for Ludovic in the past. She struggled to put it on, and had to ask for help with the hooks and laces. Clovis, ham fingered, was embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” Alysson whispered. “But we must look as respectable as possible. Should I brush my hair, do you think?”
They stood in the middle of the room, staring at each other. There had been no sound from outside, and no sign of the door unlocking. Clovis shook his head again. “You’ll do,” he whispered. “Now, we knocks for the bugger. I stands behind the door. When it opens, then I runs in and stabs the bastard. You gotta be ready wiv the jug.”
“It’s broken,” Alysson indicated the handle, which was all that remained intact. “I’ll find something else.”
“So this is it.” Clovis shrugged. “Kill or get killed. One last chance.”
Alysson took a deep breath. “It’s worth all the risks. Or we’ll be here forever.”
“Is you scared?” Clovis had grabbed up the knife again, wiped its blade on the rug, and taken a good hold of the bone hilt. “You ain’t, is you? I reckon yous too much a battler to muck it up now.”
She had no clear idea of whether she was afraid. The anger and the desperation were too great. But the terror of failing at the final stage made her ice cold. “I’m all right,” she muttered. She held both hands behind her, hidden carefully by the folds of her skirts. One hand gripped the cracked wooden wash bowl, the other held her little mirror, not heavy but with glass that would break and prove sharper than a knife. “Go on. I’m ready. Get behind the door, don’t breathe loudly - and knock.”
Alysson stood very still. She felt her legs tremble and shook her head, forbidding fear. Then, with a flooding determination, she thought of Ludovic. She thought of his own pain from months in a prison far more terrible than her own, without warmth or comfort, company or decent food. She thought of his cell door grinding open and the gaoler informing him of his death warrant. She thought of his slow steps across the stone slabs in the Tower’s great shadow, shackled and led to the block, the priest murmuring at his side. She thought of him kneeling in the sawdust and straw, and laying his head on the stained wood. She heard the swing of the axe slicing air, and she began silently to cry. She was no longer afraid.
Clovis knocked on the inside of the door. Three sharp taps, as Jennine had always done. Alysson looked over at the bed where Jennine still lay unmoving. Her blood was drying in the heat and turning black, pin points of ruby catching the muted light from the window. Alysson’s stomach heaved
. It had been a thoughtless mistake to leave the woman so visible. She should have been hidden, covered by blankets and pillows. It was now too late. The key was turning and the door was opening.
Vymer slammed the door hard open. Hidden behind, Clovis took the force against his chest and nose, and wheezed. Vymer hearing nothing, marched in, staring only at Alysson. The door remained wide at his back, gaping its shadows. “Well, trollop? Where’s my lady?”
Alysson smiled. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes blurred. “In the garderobe. She’ll be out in a minute.”
Vymer did not look towards the bed, which was across the chamber and partially behind him. He did not see Clovis. Through the coarse linen of his shirt and the thick hide of his skin, the blade hardly penetrated. He barely felt the stabbing knife, but he realised what had happened. Vymer turned in a fury and grabbed Clovis by the arm, wrenching it behind him, almost cracking his elbow. “Wot the fuck, little varmint?”
Alysson hit him first with the bowl. She used all the force she had, reaching up and bringing the base down heavily on top of his skull. Vymer turned from Clovis, shaking his head in puzzlement. His brilliant red hair fell shaggy and matted into his eyes. Through the hair a wide graze oozed beads of blood. He swore, and rushed at Alysson. Clovis immediately stabbed him again, first in the shoulder and then in the hand. Vymer never felt the small wound to his shoulder muscle, but the cut to the back of his hand was long and deep. Immediately he swung backwards, catching Clovis above the ear. Clovis crumpled.
Vymer came at Alysson again. She smashed the mirror against her own raised knee, dropped the frame and grabbed one long splinter of silvered glass. She held it up high before her and stuck it straight into Vymer’s chest.
He stared in amazement. His mouth dropped open. Blood pumped up from his throat and collected around the stumps of his teeth. His eyes were wide and red veined. His words stuck against his tongue and became growls. “Filthy bitch. I’ll tear you limb from fucking limb. I’ll rape you ragged and toss you in the moat.” He lunged.
“The bugger ain’t dead,” Clovis wailed, scrambling up from the ground and rubbing his head. “Hit him again.”
Alysson darted sideways, still clutching the broken splinter of mirror. She felt the sting of her own blood as the edges ripped into her palm. She tried to dodge Vymer’s grappling fury. His huge hands were reaching wild and erratic, his eyes half blinded. Alysson struck again. The point of glass caught the man’s wrist and dragged upwards, tearing all along his forearm. He staggered back, nursing the sudden pain.
Clovis came again from behind. He had time to aim, and stuck the tiny knife hard to the hilt in the back of Vymer’s neck. Vymer dropped to his knees, toppled forwards, and crashed face down to the floor. He lay shuddering a moment. Beneath him was the fading stain where the mess of Pagan’s remains had sunk into the floorboards. Now there was Vymer’s blood.
Alysson stared a moment, then knelt and rummaged inside the man’s shirt, pulling it open. The iron key to the door was strung around his neck. Alysson used the shard of glass to cut the string, took the key and beckoned Clovis. They both crept to the door. One look behind. Jennine was stirring. She moved slightly with a guttural sigh, rolling to her side, her eyelids flickering.
Vymer lay still, the blood soaking his clothes, his hair and the ground beside him. “He’s dead,” muttered Clovis.
Alysson shook her head. “No. His fingers are twitching. We have to get out quick. I’ll lock the door behind us.”
“Fort my aim were better,” Clovis sighed. “But reckon the knife were too little. I musta struck too low.” He gazed accusingly at the small stained blade still clutched in his fist.
The door stood wide as Vymer had left it, the hot gloom silent beyond. Clovis ran out, still holding tight to the knife. Alysson dropped the piece of shattered mirror, her blood soaked fingers now clutching the key. As she hauled the great door shut behind them, it swung on rusted hinges and clanged fast. Shaking and barely able to push the key in, she heard it turn with the harsh iron grating she had heard a hundred times over the past three months. She grabbed Clovis’s hand and together they ran at once down the little winding stairs.
It was very dark. They could hear the desperation of their own breathless panic, and the patter of their feet echoing on the stone. As they circled downwards, the first halo of light from the landing window loomed up through the shadows. Clovis had Vymer’s blood on the soles of his shoes and his feet slid on the worn treads. Alysson’s hold on his hand kept him upright.
They were near the bottom. Then the shape of the shadows abruptly changed and something large blocked the incoming light. A body swayed, filling the gap. Then, bending slightly, perplexed at something, the man twisted his head and peered up into the gloom.
Alysson stopped with a gasp, one foot poised in the air. Clovis clutched at her. She stepped back, feeling her way, both hands now to the cold curved wall enclosing the steps at either side. Clovis wriggled in front, ready with the knife. Alysson had left her own small weapon behind, and held nothing but the key to her prison door.
“Who’s that? What’s going on?”
A voice she knew, but muffled by sudden thunder. The summer storm had burst at last. Beyond the castle turrets, the lightning broke and a torrent of rain slammed against the windows.
Alysson stood very still and did not answer. The peering head bent a little lower, and lit from behind, the face suddenly shone clear white. The casement window on the lower landing became luminous just before the thunder exploded. It lit the man and the long shining sword he carried unsheathed. For one hideous moment, Alysson thought it was somehow Vymer.
Chapter Fifty-One
“And you’ve kept this from me, sir?” Ludovic demanded. “For more than two months?”
“Since St. Edmund’s Day, my son. I had no option. You may think what you wish.”
Ludovic sighed. “Was I so feeble, you couldn’t tell me about my own brother?”
“You had watched one brother die,” his father said. “You were nigh dead yourself. Knowing would have hindered, not helped you. There was nothing you could do. And I am not inept, Ludovic. I did everything I considered necessary.”
“And before he left the country, he told you about us? The attack at sea? Gerald and I held captive on his own property?”
His lordship nodded. “He told me. And I did not tell you, my son, for a father has a duty to protect all his sons. Your anger might have inspired retaliation. Were it not for the attack at sea, your original escape from the country would likely have proved successful. You would now both have been comfortably settled in Flanders. Gerald would not have died, and you would have been saved many months in prison and never experienced the torture that has almost maimed you. Some desire for vengeance against Brice would therefore have been excusable.” He sighed, standing abruptly and walking to the window. He stood, his back to Ludovic, and stared out to the sun dappled river. “There was another consideration that inspired my silence,” he continued at last. “Brice was also – let us say – considering a revenge of sorts – after his unexpected arrest at the Tower. Hearing of Gerald’s execution, he came at once. But he was recognised, as should not have been, and taken almost immediately by the guards. He believes you laid information against him, accusing him of piracy. He saw no other motive for his arrest, and no other manner in which the Constable would have known of him except by your laying a personal complaint before the authorities.” The earl turned suddenly and regarded his son. “Did you do so, Ludovic?”
Ludovic stared up at his father. “No. How could I have? I thought him still in Kent or at sea. I was with you. You never left me. You know I could not have done so.”
“You might have,” sighed the earl. “While held captive in the Tower, you might have informed the guards, perhaps gaining some credence for yourself by giving information against another. You had every reason for righteous anger.”
“I was furious,” glowered Ludovic. “But I
would have killed him myself, had I wanted him dead. And after Gerald, I did want him dead. But not to give him over to the authorities. Good God, Father, how can you ask?”
The earl shook his head. “I thought not, but could not be sure. For a long time I believed it possible that Brice spied for the crown. Treachery, my son, is inherent in times such as these, and the crown pays well.”
“But has never paid me, which should be clear enough. Nor, it now appears, paid Brice. But is a pirate a better man than a traitor?”
“You forget,” sighed the earl. “We now live in a land ruled by an anointed Tudor king, and loyalty means different things to different people. In truth, it is Gerald who was the traitor.” Ludovic glared and the earl waved a hand vaguely to the ceiling. “Yes, yes, I know. But let us not pretend innocence, my boy. We both support the Plantagenets in our hearts, though only Gerald was prepared to act on his beliefs. So we are all traitors. But a king, however you may dislike him and despise his claims, still represents the land of our birth. We have a duty to king and country. We would not be alone in believing one way, and acting another.”
“Though innocence seems no barrier to the rack,” Ludovic said, turning away. “Perhaps hypocrisy merits its own punishments. But I hate to think too long on the past. Now I only need know about Brice. He’s gone then? To Italy?”
“Officially banished,” said his lordship. “And has chosen Venice I believe. La Serenissima has much in common with your brother’s ambitions. There his talents will be appreciated. No doubt he will spy both for and against the Doge, and become wealthy. One day he may return here. But he will not return as my son.”
“Then he’ll have sailed with that filth Naseby,” Ludovic snapped. “I hope the damned Cock’s Crest sinks, with all onboard lost at sea.”
“My dear boy,” said the earl, once again taking a seat across from the window, “you assume too much as usual. Your brother and his companion were arrested and taken to the Marshalsea. After some weeks Brice stood his trial and was found guilty of piracy. But because of his birth and title he was freed, to be banished by the king for the term of twenty years. However, the other man, being a commoner and miscreant, did not receive such a lenient sentence. He was found to be the more guilty, and now rots in gaol awaiting death. He will be hanged as a pirate at low tide, as is usual. There is some delay however, while the remainder of his crew is discovered, rounded up, and sentenced to hang with their captain. Naseby is to be kept alive until he can be forced to identify his principal men. He remains in the Marshalsea.”
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