Giving her elbow a squeeze, he leapt nimbly from the wagon and, shortly thereafter, Alys heard hoofbeats amongst the trees.
Once again, she was alone, no nearer to discovering what had happened to Kit, and not knowing what to do. She pictured him in all sorts of dire situations, making herself increasingly distressed. Even now, his enemies might be torturing information out of him. He was a good man—odd, but good at heart, and she had to admit to being exceedingly fond of him, despite the turmoil he’d wrought in her life.
How long would it take Rupert to return with help? How far would he have to travel? If only she’d asked him before he left. If Kit had been captured at Selwood, only someone who knew the house well could find and rescue him, and as far as she knew, Rupert had never been there, in any guise.
But she knew the house. She was not under suspicion. If she could fulfill her avowed intention of fetching provisions, no one would think anything of her little excursion. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she crawled back into the caravan to avail herself of a knife, hoping she wouldn’t be called upon to use it. She’d buy up the stores she’d been sent for, and hasten back to Selwood to find Kit.
And just hope Rupert would have the sense to send his men thither when he found her gone.
Chapter Thirty
As Alys neared the house, she knew she would have to put on the masque of her life. She might fool the men, but it would be harder to deceive Kate, who had, apparently, been so successful in convincing the world she was vain and stupid.
Her heart sank as she trotted into the stableyard to find Kirlham pacing from one side to the other. As the groom came to help her down, she took a deep breath and prayed.
“Ah, Robin, what a time I have had of it!” She patted Pennyroyal on the nose as she handed the youth her reins. “You cannot believe how hard it has been to find victuals in the village this day. Most had been sold at market, but some few had done another batch of baking. I secured what I could.”
“You have been in the village, Mistress Barchard?” Kirlham asked as he strode across. “Knew you not I had given express orders that no one leave the premises?”
She raised a bulging sack in each hand. “But I’ve been to get the supplies Master Avery asked for. I assumed an exception had been made.”
Fury and suspicion marred his features, but she held on to her innocent, friendly smile like a mariner clinging to a spar. “Is aught amiss? You look angry. Has more damage been done by the flood than we thought?”
“Victuals? Why would Avery send you out for those? He said naught to me of this.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Pray, moderate your tone, sir. You are but a guest in this house, even if you are a distinguished one.”
Kirlham said nothing, but his face darkened, and she felt a tremor in her breast. When he nodded, she explained it would have taken much too long to get a decent batch of bread together in the present chaos, especially when some of the flour had become wet. Tilting her head to one side, she added, “I must excuse you for being ignorant of domestic matters at Selwood. I hope you will not embarrass us both by questioning my movements again.”
Sir Thomas appeared to be chewing over her answer—from the look on his face, he would doubtless go in search of Avery to check if her story was true. He bowed. “Your pardon, Mistress Barchard. The events of last night have unsettled me.”
Emboldened by her success thus far, she said, “I believe we are victims of a criminal act. Has the miscreant been caught?”
A grim smile curled his lip. “Don’t worry your head over such matters. If you could see to the domestic arrangements, I’m sure the men will relish whatever repast you have to offer them before they depart. Anon.”
As Kirlham turned his back and marched into the house, Alys let the sacks slide to the ground. His smile said everything… they’d caught someone. But was it Kit? And why did Kirlham not simply tell her? Surely he couldn’t know of her association with the gardener, or he would have acted already. Unless he was playing her.
She grabbed up the sacks and hurried into the house, terrified at what she might discover.
None of the servants was behaving as if there were a prisoner in the house, but she dared not question them, for who knew who might be in league with the conspirators. Complaining to all she met, including Kate, that the inundation had left the house smelling rotten, she found the perfect excuse to go to the garden—to fetch sweet strewing herbs.
There was no sign of Kit, nor, luckily, any trace of blood or hint of a struggle. She’d have liked to search the cellars, too, but the lower regions of the house contained too many people she didn’t know, and couldn’t trust. Suppertime came, and still there was no sign of rescue from without.
Alys was seated opposite Richard Avery, trying to make pleasant conversation, but all the while detesting him and hoping he’d choke on his manchet bread. To Hannah, and Avery’s London friends, the event of the flooding was an adventure, something to be talked about for weeks to come. They made great drama out of it, wondering how much it would all cost to amend, and whether there was any danger of it happening again.
No one lingered below for entertainment that evening—the dampness coming up through the floors and staining the walls made remaining downstairs uninviting. A few gathered in the long gallery, but Alys slipped away to a small upstairs attic, the window of which afforded a good view of the courtyard and surrounding countryside.
Still no sign of Rupert or Walsingham and his men. She felt hollow, panicked. The longer they delayed, the greater the risk to Kit. And possibly to herself. With only the knife hidden in her belt for comfort, she stared down through the dusk, willing the rescuers to arrive.
There was a bustle below—and Avery and Kirlham strode back and forth, as a small group of men left the house. She recognized them as the “constables”, but Kit was not among them. Soon, all but one had departed—the largest and most threatening of them all disappeared back into the house with the gentlemen.
Was Kit dead? Did the plotters think their danger over and done with? Suddenly, his face swam before her. Surely a man so full of zest and sheer masculine energy could not be snuffed out like a mere candle. He must be still alive somewhere—he was the kind of man who would battle on until the very end.
Nothing further happened. Kit, or his body, were either secreted at Selwood or somewhere on the way to London by now, being conveyed to the ringleader of the conspiracy. Alys pressed her face against the glass panes of the window, striving to hold back tears. How could she live with herself if Kit were still near at hand, and she did not take every opportunity to help him?
The only place she had not been able to search was the cellars. Kate had decreed that no one was permitted to go down there, because the waters had not fully subsided, and the floors were slippery and dangerous. Making up her mind, Alys crept down the stairs unseen, then headed for the steps leading down into the undercroft. A foul smell rose from below, and with it came a faint sound, like somebody moving through the floodwaters.
Her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears, and she froze. “Who’s there? What are you doing? Mistress Aspinall forbids access to the cellars.” She hoped she sounded authoritative.
The splashing stopped. She repeated her question, and the archway below disgorged a large figure she had seen before. By the lantern held in his great fist, she could see it was the wall-eyed man. He nodded at her in recognition.
“Mistress Barchard, Sir Thomas bade me stay here and keep watch. He fears for the foundations.”
She swallowed as she observed the huge shoulders pushing at the seams of the man’s doublet, below which were chest muscles protruding almost as far as his stomach. There was no hope of getting past him by force to examine the undercroft—but she had to do something. He was surely not down here for the reason he had given—any one of Selwood’s servants could have taken on such a task, and with better knowledge of the place to serve them. No, there was a more sinister
explanation for his presence. He was guarding something. Or hiding it.
“Why, thank you. It must be a miserable task in all that chill and wet. Would a draught of mulled ale make it more pleasant?”
The fellow grinned, revealing his crooked and broken teeth. He looked as if he’d been in many fights, the brunt of which had been borne by his face.
“’Twould be welcome, Mistress.”
With a flickering smile, Alys sped into the kitchen, her mind awhirl. She could think of nothing that would make the man leave his post, at least, nothing that would not instantly cast suspicion upon herself. Then it came to her. She must knock him out or put him to sleep.
What would induce sleep? She could mull his ale with soporific herbs and spices—and was there not some aqua vitae in the buttery to give the potion extra bite?
While the poker heated in the embers, she hunted for what she needed. Mercifully, the servants had all departed for the attics, including those who normally slept in the service rooms, so none would witness the preparation of the drugging concoction.
She sniffed at the liquid as she heated it, hoping the man wouldn’t notice the acrid scent of the poppy juice she’d added, and poured it into a costrel. She decided to give him a tansy cake as well, bitter enough to disguise the ale’s peculiar taste. As she worked, she brightened, certain that everything she did brought her one step closer to rescuing Kit.
Her eyes wandered around the pantry and alighted on a salver full of Bess’ mushroom patties. The woman invariably put too much salt in these, with the result that a great deal of liquid was required when eating one. Alys smiled to herself as she added several to the platter.
What a revelation it was to discover how cunning she could be when she tried. Despite the danger of her situation, she’d never felt more alive than she did now. Kit would be proud of her.
When she carried the steaming brew down the cellar steps, the man thudded up to meet her, as if to prevent her coming down any further.
“The ale is not of the best—it’s some of that which had to be moved up from the cellar last night. It has not quite settled again. So, I have mulled it with spices to make it more pleasing.”
“You are very good.” He took the platter and costrel before disappearing back into the murky depths.
Now followed a period of agony. She had no idea how long the potion she’d made up would take to work. She could not linger around in the kitchen without exciting suspicion, and it was far too late at night to pretend to be doing any domestic tasks.
From the sounds coming from above, the household was preparing itself for bed.
Eventually, she decided to do the same. She could come back later to see if her drugs had been successful—if anyone crossed her path, she’d make some excuse.
She was taking an incredible risk. But a world without Kit Ludlow in it would be like a lifetime without seeing the sun.
Chapter Thirty-One
It seemed like hours later before the sound of footfalls in the passageway ceased. Finally, Alys deemed it safe to throw a wrap about her shoulders, don her belt with the knife attached to it, and tiptoe down the stairs to the kitchen. Her single candle did little to dispel her fears—traitors lurked in every corner; each moving shadow was Kirlham waiting to jump out on her. Nonetheless, she told herself, she had come this far. It was too late to turn back now, and the darkness of the night might yet prove to be as much a friend as an enemy.
As she passed by the pantry, she picked up a manchet roll and took a bite of it to support her story that she’d come down in search of food. Then she crept down the cellar steps.
“Are you there, fellow?”
No response. She tried again, a little louder. “I hope the ale was not bad. It had been somewhat shaken, as I did say. Is there aught else you would have?”
Still not a sound met her ears. Gingerly, prepared for flight at any moment, she continued down the steps, knife at the ready, though she prayed she’d not have to use it. When she reached the main room of the undercroft, her light revealed the massive guard, slumped awkwardly on a stool.
Her plan had worked! Proud of her quick thinking, she made a quick circuit of the wine cellars, but there was no sign of Kit. She stood in the middle of the room, her light reflecting dully off the slimy brick floor. Her heart, just now so full of excitement and bravado, felt heavy in her breast. Surely, she could not be wrong? The wall-eyed man must be down here for a reason.
Then she noticed something. One of the racks of shelving had been moved aside from the wall, revealing an unfamiliar dark shape beyond. She seized up the guard’s lantern and held it aloft, revealing a stout wooden door she had never seen before. Could this be the entrance to the tunnel Kit had spoken of? She battled with the latch but, to her despair, the door failed to open.
If there was a key, and surely there must be, who had it? If it was with Kirlham, or Avery, or even Kate, there was naught she could do. Not even her newfound bravery would take her into the chambers of Kit’s enemies while they lay at their rest. But she might just find the courage to search the sleeping guard.
Steeling her nerves, she set the lantern down where it wouldn’t shine into his eyes, and knelt by the man’s slumbering form. This close, she could see the rise and fall of his breathing, and smell the acrid scent of her potion on his breath. Well, at least she hadn’t murdered him, although she couldn’t help wonder if it wouldn’t have been more prudent to do so, for when he awoke, her guilt would soon be discovered. How ruthless she had become in so short a space of time.
The key was attached to the guard’s belt. Knowing speed was of the essence, she hacked at its tie with her knife until it came free. She was at the door within seconds, unlocking it and almost falling into the pitch-black room beyond.
“Kit—are you here?”
“Hmmph?” came a muffled voice from within.
She rushed out again to fetch the lantern. When she came back and held it aloft, her jaw dropped in amazement.
The light bounced off the walls of a room she had never known existed. All around the sides were shelving and racks on which a veritable arsenal of weaponry was stacked. The flood had clearly wrought some violence here, for there was a tide mark along the walls, and the kegs looked stained. But everything was ordered, with some items raised on pallets, and a pile of cloths lay in the middle of the floor, presumably having been used for cleaning.
She stared open-mouthed—she’d understood that Kirlham and Kate were traitors, but hadn’t quite envisaged the full extent of their treachery. Why, this arsenal could destroy the lives of hundreds. Did any cause, religious, political or otherwise, warrant such carnage?
But where was Kit? Lifting the light high, she spotted something moving in a corner. It was a man, cruelly bound both hand and foot, lying on the damp floor of the inner chamber. She threw herself down, fingers trembling as she removed the gag. This was followed by a colorful series of curses from his bruised mouth. God be praised—he was alive! But his sleeve was black with blood, and there were injuries to his face and fists, too—evidently, he had not been taken without a fight.
“Alys, begone from here. You endanger yourself.”
Not after all she’d risked already. Shaking her head, she wrestled with his bonds, employing the knife where she could safely do so.
“Nay, Alys. They will kill you, too. Get away from here—there is no time to lose!”
“I’m not going without you. Walsingham will be here soon. Rupert has gone to fetch him.”
He gaped at her. “Rupert? What could you know of Rupert?”
“Explanation can wait.” The last severed piece of rope fell to the floor. “Can you walk?”
“There’ll be a guard.”
She smiled. “I’ve dealt with him.” She’d collect the costrel on the way out, so no one would know the guard had been drugged.
“How?”
“You’ll see. Come, don’t waste your breath in talking. I must tend to your injuries
.”
“Ah, Alys, my dear, sweet angel.” Kit staggered to his feet, wincing as they took his weight. “I don’t deserve this sacrifice you make.”
“I intend to make no sacrifice. I’ll see us both free of this, and the perpetrators punished.”
“You’re putting on a brave face for me, I know.” He accepted her help, leaning on her shoulder. “But there is more danger here than you know. Go back to bed, and pretend you have never been here. I’ll make my way out in a moment.”
“Never. And I have eyes to see exactly how much danger I am in. Should I take a weapon, do you think?”
“Foolish girl. They are more likely to harm you if you threaten them. Besides, all the powder is soaked.”
“I daresay it can be dried out. I’ll help myself to this thing.” She paused in front of the firearms in the rack.
“It’s an arquebus. But you would do better to take a dag. It is smaller and can be concealed amongst your skirts. I’ll take the arquebus—it will serve as a walking staff. And we’ll need powder and shot as well.”
She knew the agony Kit must be feeling as the blood rushed back into his wrists and ankles, but he forced himself onwards, trying not to lean too heavily on her. As his cramped body became used to movement, he was able to exert himself more. By the time they arrived at the cellar steps, he seemed to have recovered some of his strength.
He pulled her to a halt. “No, wait, Alys. We are going back into danger instead of away from it. Go back to the tunnel—it leads from the room where you found me and out towards the highway.”
She shivered. “I’ll not get far in my nightgown and bare feet. We need not flee—they may not discover you are gone until daylight. And where will they look for you then, do you think, in the house, or on the road?”
Lord of Loyalty (Trysts and Treachery Book 2) Page 12