Despite her perilous situation, Alys’ blood boiled. She waved the dag at him. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
Her rage was her undoing. The instant the gun swayed away from him, Avery acted. He hurled the firescreen at her, and when she instinctively threw up her arms, he seized the gun and threw it across the floor. Before she could draw another breath, Alys had tumbled backwards onto her bed, with Avery’s weight pinning her down.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Alys kicked and scratched as he fumbled for her hands, but was no match for his superior strength. Her exertions served only to knock them both sideways off the bed, where they landed on the floor in a tangle of blankets. Avery gradually worked himself up into a sitting position, holding Alys in front of him, her arms pinioned behind her back.
“Now, I think we’ve wasted enough time, Madam. Sir Thomas is most keen to question you, but not here. There’s too high a risk of us being interrupted by those ill-informed supporters of our so-called Virgin Queen. I advise you not to struggle any more—my temper’s not so sweet as it used to be.”
He twisted her wrist. “Any further trouble will result in more pain. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her captor got to his feet, carrying her with him, then stilled. Dragging her around in front of him, he shoved a hand into her hair, forcing her head forward.
“What is that?” His voice bit into her ear.
She stared. There on the white sheet, presumably where Kit had rested, was a dark smear of blood.
“No, don’t answer that.” Avery’s tone was so icy it made her shiver. He wrenched her back to face him, pulling her hair cruelly. Her gaze locked with his, and she saw something ungodly in his eyes, something so cold-bloodedly evil, her knees almost gave way beneath her.
He brought one fist level with his cheek. “Slut!” He punched her so hard, she fell to the ground, head spinning. “Bawdy bitch! Harlot! Had I known you were so easy with your favors that you would take a stinking peasant to your bed… nay, it would be beneath my dignity. Pox-ridden hussy!”
She barely heard his words for the ringing in her ears and the intense pain in her face.
Lights flashed before her eyes, and she felt dizzy and sick as never before, scarcely aware of Avery heaving her upright and yanking her out of the door by the shoulder of her gown. When it ripped as he pulled her onto the landing, he grasped her belt, just managing to keep her on her feet as she staggered and stumbled in his wake.
Through the blinding pain, she was dimly aware of being taken into a chamber she recognized as Kate’s. There was someone else in there, a man. He made a scornful noise deep in his throat at the sight of her. When she felt something wet and warm slide down her cheek, she knew he had spat on her, and her misery and degradation were complete.
“Let that be a lesson to you for trying to poison me, bitch.” It was Kit’s guard. “Silence, fool. Just get the door open.”
Alys saw the paneled wall in front of her, and then, somehow, they were through it and into an enclosed space on the other side. The panel creaked back into place behind her. Avery flung her to the floor where she crawled around, disorientated. The wall-eyed man vanished. Gradually, she recovered enough to sit up, staring in horror at the man now pacing up and down the floor like a raging lion.
He had it all wrong, of course. Would he treat her any more leniently if he knew she hadn’t lain with Kit, that everything was above board? Somehow, she couldn’t find the words to plead innocence on that score—he had no right to judge her.
As she became more aware of her surroundings, she stifled a gasp. This secret room was richly decorated, with velvet drapes, and precious tapestries glistening in silver and gold. Several iron-bound chests stood open around the walls, disgorging wrappings and sheaves of paper. A few groats were scattered about the floor, even a gold angel, but as far as she could tell, the coffers were now empty. How much money had these traitors amassed, and whence had it come?
In the opposite wall was a narrow door opening onto an uninviting blackness. It was through this door that the wall-eyed man had disappeared. As she watched, the menacing frame of Sir Thomas Kirlham filled the opening. He strode across to stand over her.
“So, we have another traitor in our midst. Kate should have realized it was unwise to mistreat her poor relation. Women of breeding, when put down and scorned, become bitter and spiteful. Well, Mistress Barchard has well and truly taken her revenge, aided and abetted by her friend, the gardener.”
“Not just friend, lover.” Avery’s voice was spiked with distaste.
“Indeed?” Kirlham raised an eyebrow. “Who would have thought it? Poor, overlooked little virgin, frustrated ambition. This was the fatal flaw in our plans, Avery, that we underestimated the venom of a woman scorned.”
“It’s not like that at all—” Before she could finish, a kick in the ribs sent her reeling and retching on the floor again. Tears squeezed from her eyes, though she hated that they should see her weakness. Still, they knew not that Walsingham was on his way. If she could find any way to delay their escape, she must take it.
“So, what are we to do with her?” Kirlham scowled down at her.
“I had thought to question her, but she seems a little confused at present. We could take her with us and interrogate her when she has recovered.”
“Nay. She might slow us down or give us away. Best kill her quickly, leave the body here and be on our way. By the time anyone finds her, we’ll be well on the road to freedom.”
Alys struggled to find her voice. “Murderers!”
“Oh, no. What we do is no crime.” Avery’s jaw was set.
“You sin against God. You plan to kill Queen Elizabeth. And who knows how many others?”
He prodded at her with the toe of his boot. “It is no sin to destroy the daughter of so unnatural a mother as Anne Boleyn. Our Lord upholds justice—it is unjust of a usurper queen to steal the freedom of a legitimate one.”
“That does not give you leave to slay the innocent.”
Kirlham snorted. “Pah! I am tired of this complaining. Dispatch her now, Richard, and come away. Once you have set the trap.”
Bending his head, Kirlham disappeared through the little door.
What trap? For whom?
Too miserable to move, too exhausted from her struggles to take breath and scream, Alys watched Avery’s movements, trying to understand his intent. He was bundling papers and cloths together in the center of the room. Then he breached what must be a small keg of gunpowder. He spread the explosive liberally about the room, piling it thickly around the papers. This done, he stood and looked about him, hands on hips.
He was going to destroy all remaining evidence by blowing up the room, setting fire to the house and very likely destroying everything. Surely Kate could not have condoned this? She must have been forced to agree—she’d never sacrifice her only home. Perhaps she’d been pressured from the very beginning, by her husband, or by his friends after his death.
Alys was given no further time to speculate. Avery’s eyes, glittering with cruelty, were focused on her. Very deliberately, he took his knife from its sheath and cut away a length of twisted gold cord from a tapestry. He wrapped it around both fists, snapping it tight between them. Was this to be her end then, to have the life choked out of her? Her hands flew protectively to her throat. For Kit’s sake, as well as her own, she would fight Avery to her last breath.
He threw himself down, pressing her back with his weight, the cord stretched painfully across her throat. She kicked and struggled, gouging at his body, yanking on his hair, biting his hands, anything she could think of.
She was no match for him. As her strength began to fail, the pressure at her neck grew greater, and her lungs cried out for air. Half-conscious, she heard a loud thud coming from the direction of Kate’s chamber, followed by a splintering noise.
Avery, intent on his murderous task, seemed oblivious. Through the blood and panic pumping in her ears, Alys h
eard the splintering sound again, louder still. This was followed by a crash, and the next instant, an axe sailed through the air and buried itself in the planking a yard from her head.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When Kit burst into the room and saw Avery on top of Alys, he tore him off her. No sooner had the man found his feet, than Kit drew back his fist and dealt him a blow that knocked him to the floor.
“Death is too good for you, you despicable worm. I’ll tear you apart, piece by piece, and feed you to your hounds. Not to my own, lest your vile flesh stick in their craws.”
He stood over his fallen foe, the blood roaring so loud in his ears, he was barely aware of the other men charging into the room in his wake. Someone brushed past him and headed through the small doorway opposite, while others threw water onto the gunpowder scattered about the room.
A swift glance having satisfied him Alys was safe, Kit dragged Avery to his feet and gave him another cuff to the jaw that sent him staggering across the room. “Running away so soon, spawn of Satan?” he spat. “Come back here, and I’ll give you your due.”
“Kit, he has a knife!” Alys croaked out a warning, but Kit had seen the movement, and twisted Avery’s wrist until he dropped the weapon. With a kick, Kit sent it scudding across the floor.
Avery yowled with the fury of a madman. Kit bared his teeth at his adversary—he must show no weakness, despite being injured and weary. Avery knew he was fighting for his life, and like a rat in a trap, would battle on until his last gasp.
Sucking in a few deep breaths, Avery appeared to take control of himself. “Shall we settle this like gentlemen?” he inquired, inclining his head towards a sword lying close to the narrow doorway.
“How could we do that, when there is only one gentleman present?” Kit needed their fight ended quickly, so he could attend to Alys.
Avery hissed at the insult and made a lunge for his blade. Without betraying a flicker of concern, Kit called out, “A weapon, someone, that I may spit this pig.” His eyes never left his adversary’s as one of Walsingham’s men thrust a sword into his grip. He made Avery a sarcastic bow.
With a blade in his hand, Kit felt lighter, more alert, and tense in every muscle. At court, he was renowned for his skill at swordsmanship—every move he made was calculated, and swift, and his concentration could not be broken. Avery, he soon discovered, was a bit of a clod-hopper, swinging his blade wildly, and trying to use weight and force rather than speed and agility.
Avery made a feint which he parried instantly, pushing the man’s blade upwards so he could strike under his arm. The traitor reeled backwards, a dribble of blood flowing through the cut in his doublet.
“You fight well for a gardener,” he sneered, before resuming his attack with renewed fury.
Kit held his temper in check. Slowly, patiently, he wore his enemy down until the man was dizzy and panting—but still, Avery stood up to him.
“I have tasted your whore, but she wasn’t worth the trouble. No more than that doxy’s daughter who has the gall to call herself queen.”
Kit’s jaw clenched. He mustn’t lose his head—Avery was bound to be lying. And if he wasn’t, he’d regret the day he was born. He smote at Avery’s arm, again leaving a trail of blood welling up through the torn cloth, and permitted himself a triumphant smile. The man would be distracted now, by the pain and blood.
“Cease, Ludlow!” came a new voice. “Take the traitor, men. We want him alive for questioning.”
Two men flung themselves at Avery, disarmed him, and held his hands behind his back.
Kit took a step forward and held his blade to the man’s chest, staring deep into his eyes, foretelling, without words, his future. Avery blinked and looked away.
The room seemed to hold its breath. Then with a great sigh, Kit flung his sword to the floor and turned his back. Pushing Avery from his thoughts, he turned to Alys, who was now standing. She looked pale and shaken, a great red mark and swelling on one side of her face.
“He hit you?” His voice was hoarse with disgust.
“I’ll recover, I’m sure. What about your arm? You were fighting as if there was nothing wrong with it.”
Sweet lady, to think of him when she’d been in such danger. She’d kept her head—she had more courage than some men he’d met, and he loved her all the more for it.
“I swear I was so angry, I’d forgotten I was hurt. The wound will probably need mopping up and bandaging again, but there’s time aplenty for that.”
He held her gaze and watched the color flow back into her cheeks. He held out his arms, and she sank into them, filling his being with joy. He held her, lightly to avoid hurting her, and felt the moisture of silent tears soak into his shirt.
It was too much. He held her away from him then and kissed the tears from her cheeks, wondering how he would ever be able to let her go. Eventually, someone coughing brought him back to his senses, and he eased away from Alys, still holding tight to her hand.
Richard Avery was no longer there. In fact, all the men had gone, save one.
“Alys.” Kit led her forward. “May I introduce you to Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary to the queen.”
Walsingham bowed and took her hand, then assessed her with his astute gaze. She blushed under his scrutiny, and Kit understood she must feel at a disadvantage with her torn gown, bruised face and disheveled hair. Walsingham must have sensed this, for he immediately called for one of his men.
“Mistress Barchard needs the attention of a maid. See if anyone can be found to attend to her. Madam, you and I will meet anon.” Walsingham bowed, nodded to Kit, then strode briskly from the room.
Alys reached for Kit’s hand. As he clasped her fingers in his, she gazed up at him with a weak smile. “What shall I do now? Is there aught I can do to help?”
His mouth hitched up a fraction. “I rather think no more will be expected of you. Not by Walsingham, certainly. I, on the other hand, might still make some demands on your time.” He gazed around at the dripping walls and heaps of damp gunpowder. “I regret the damage done to your home. I fear it will fall to you to put the place in order. Seek help from Cheyneham—regrettably, all your present servants will need to be questioned before they are restored to you.”
“They’re being held? What of Kate, Hannah?”
“They were captured on the road heading north. They will be questioned, too.”
She tucked her hair behind her ears and gazed at the splintered paneling and the overturned furniture in Kate’s chamber beyond. “Aye, I shall amend the damage if I am at liberty to do so. But—” She hesitated, and he felt a tremor in her fingers. “What is still expected of you?”
“The danger is not yet passed. We still believe the plotters have an influential friend at court—while that person lives, none of us is safe. But as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done my duty and am a free man again.”
He grinned and took her in his arms again. Aye, he was free of his debt to the queen. Life could begin anew, and he’d make damn sure he made the most of it. With Alys.
“Be assured that I shall be by your side, my sweet, so long as you have need of me.”
And he prayed she’d have need of him for a very long time.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Kit’s promise was to cause Alys several nights of troubled rest. Part of the reason for her sleeplessness, she had to admit, was the knowledge that he’d taken the chamber right next door to hers. The place where she slept, the one space in Selwood Manor she could really call her own, had been constructed cheaply, intended only for the personal servants of important visitors. The walls were very thin.
Try as she might, she couldn’t help but listen to Kit’s movements as he prepared for bed.
Even when she retired well before him, she still couldn’t resist the temptation to lie awake until she heard the sound of his door closing, the soft thud of his boots on the wooden floor, the creak of the bed boards as he lay upon them.
In his o
wn house, Kit would have a body servant—someone to shave him and see to all his needs. Yet he’d lived as a gardener long enough to forget that a gentleman needed such assistance, and made shift for himself. She felt oddly proud of this fact; a lazy, effete gentleman—who did nothing but ensure his toilet and his manners were always correct—would have irritated her intensely. Perhaps it was because she herself had been forced to manage without personal servants that she saw this as a virtue in somebody else.
Though Kit was the main object of her thoughts, the problem of Kate still invaded her mind. Kate, who had despised her, treated her like a servant, insulted her and ruined her prospects, was still causing damage, even from afar, by tearing Alys apart.
She finished patting the butter she’d been making and rinsed her hands in the bowl of rosewater by her side. Had it been right to help Kit? How far had she done this from her sense of justice, and how far was it due to the latent feelings she had for him? Would she ever be able to hold her head up again, knowing that she had betrayed her cousin for a man of whom she really knew very little?
She wiped her hands on her apron and paced slowly along the passageway towards the kitchen. While her heart yearned for Kit, her mind and her conscience were at war. Over and over again, she revisited all the moments they’d shared, every touch, every word of conversation, trying to convince herself that he’d been honest in his dealings with her, that he hadn’t merely used her to help him bring down the conspiracy.
There was no easy answer. The only conclusion she came to was that she had to speak to Kate. It would be wrong to encourage any further attentions from Kit until she had done so. She’d need his help to do it, though. Now that Kate was guarded in the Tower, only someone with Kit’s standing and connections could gain access.
She must explain to him how she felt—and he must be patient and wait.
No sooner had she come to this decision, than the front door slammed shut and she heard a jingle of spurs in the hall. It must be Kit, returned from his expedition to Ipswich where he’d gone, so he said, to take delivery of some items he’d had sent up from London.
Lord of Deception (Trysts and Treachery Book 1) Page 14