“Are you so old you cannot hear?” she retorted.
His hand closed around her throat, beneath her ruff. Anne gagged, tearing at the lacy circlet as she tried to pry off his fingers. Stars flickered at her vision’s periphery.
“You cannot know how your defiance excites me,” he whispered to her, his lips moving against her cheek.
“Nay, you’ll not do her so!” Bertie shouted, drawing his dagger. Birds, startled from the treetops by his cry, cheeped in distress as they circled and fluttered.
Deyville lifted his head from Anne’s to look over her shoulder at Kit’s servant. Naught but casual disinterest filled his gaze. “Silence him,” he said to his men.
Gasping against Deyville’s grip, Anne couldn’t help but listen as Patience screamed, then began to sob. Behind Anne, steel clashed against steel. Men gasped. Feet slid and pounded against the grassy earth.
Certain that Kit and his force would leap out of hiding to save Bertie, Anne fought off encroaching blackness. No rescuers shouted to announce their arrival. Bertie cried out in pain then choked off into silence.
“Bertie,” Patience sobbed, the rustle of her skirts loud against the ensuing silence. “You mustn’t die,” she pleaded to her new husband.
As Patience cried Deyville lowered his head to lay his lips atop Anne’s. Anne bit down with all her might and brought her knee up between his legs. She tasted his blood in her mouth, but between farthingale and petticoats, her other attempt was useless.
“Bitch!” Deyville snarled, jerking back, his hand opening in reflex reaction to her attack.
Sucking in a breath, Anne stumbled back from him, turning for the gate. Deyville caught her by her caul, his fingers digging past its pearl-encrusted surface into the thickness of her hair. Yelping, Anne twisted against the pain, kicking and thrashing as he drew her back to him.
“Let me go,” she tried to cry, her voice barely a whisper, the words tearing at her aching throat.
Instead, Deyville dragged her across the grass to where Patience sat, crooning and sobbing. Anne’s heart ached. Bertie’s head lay in his wife’s lap, his eyes closed. Red stained the breast of his blue doublet.
Reaching down, Deyville removed Bertie’s dagger from the man’s limp fingers. “Shall we see who draws more blood?” he casually asked Anne as he straightened.
The knife’s tip pressed to Anne’s lower back. She gasped. There was a tearing whir as he drew its sharp blade up her bodice’s lacing. Her bodice sagged open, hanging from her arms by the ribbons that held her sleeves to it. Once again, he set the dagger to her back, this time to her corset’s lacing.
“You bastard!” Kit roared.
Deyville whirled, dragging Anne around with him as he turned. Anne’s eyes teared.
Kit raced toward them, his naked blade in his hands. His eyes were wild, his mouth pulled back into a grimace. At his heels came Master Wyatt and three more. Hissing in surprise, Deyville tossed Anne to the side as he turned to meet this threat.
Anne’s breath left her lungs as she hit the earth. Still, she kicked at one of Deyville’s men as he tripped over her. There was great satisfaction when she saw one of the Hollier men skewer him. Rolling to the side, her bodice clutched close to her chest, she crawled to Patience. As if nothing went on around her, Patience carefully combed her husband’s dark hair with her fingers, whispering a child’s lullaby as she did so.
Catching her servant close, Anne kept her gaze locked onto Kit and Lord Deyville, only a yard distant. The sun flashed on their blades as the weapons clashed. So fast did they make contact and retreat, Anne could barely keep pace. The rasp and grate became a steady beat. Her love flinched as blood darkened the sleeve of his blue doublet.
Around them all of Deyville’s men had dropped their swords. One clutched his arm, another sat holding his seeping thigh. The last was unhurt and wished to stay so.
Panting, Kit thrust again. Deyville stepped back, his blade moving to ward off the attack. He stumbled on his downed man. With a cry, he lurched to the side then fell.
The need to do more than draw blood darkened Kit’s face. Panic shot through Anne. He was no peer. If he killed a nobleman, he’d pay with his life, no matter the excuse.
“Nay,” she tried to shout, but all that left her throat was a hoarse croak.
Kit lunged, the sun glinting on steel as he stabbed toward the fallen nobleman. Master Wyatt’s blade flashed to meet Kit’s. Set off balance by this surprise attack, Kit staggered back from a now sitting Deyville.
“Surround him,” Master Wyatt shouted, waving his men toward the nobleman.
A moment later and the seated nobleman was the center of a group of men, his chest yet heaving in exertion. A raging sound escaped Kit. He once more started toward the man he meant to kill.
“Nay, Kit,” Master Wyatt said, holding his sword at the ready. “You’ll have to come through me to reach him.”
Kit’s face twisted in hatred. “I am my brother’s heir,” he roared. “You have no right to interfere.”
“I do if I want to see you live to be your brother’s heir,” Master Wyatt countered, voice and face resolute.
Kit’s sword tip raised until it touched the place where Master Wyatt’s head joined with his neck. His brother’s servant dropped his weapon, the blade clattering dully onto the ground. “I am unarmed, Kit,” Master Wyatt said gently. “Slaughter me if you need something to slake your blood lust.”
For a long moment Kit stood still as stone, his sword yet pressed to the steward’s throat. Patience sobbed softly, the sound barely louder than the harsh breathing of injured men. A sigh shuddered through Kit then his hand opened. His sword dropped from his fingers, struck the ground and bounced away from him. Rather than drop his hand, his fist closed and he swung at Master Wyatt.
The sound of flesh striking flesh was loud. The steward flew off his feet to land atop Lord Deyville. The two men sprawled onto their backs.
Kit shook his hand as if it pained him. “That is for daring to stand between me and what is my right,” he snarled at his brother’s servant.
Spitting blood, Master James sat up. “I’ll not apologize, not when it got me what I needed to clear you of your idiot troubles and spare Nick more of your grief.”
Putting his back to the man, Kit strode toward Anne. He caught a step as he saw Bertie, his brow creasing then he crouched beside Anne. However, when he reached out to touch her cheek, Anne drew back from him.
“Too many watch,” she croaked in warning. “I’ll not have it charged you were forward with me whilst I was in this state.”
His need to hold and comfort her warred with the demands propriety laid upon them. Propriety won, as they both knew it must. “You are unharmed, mistress?” he asked, his voice raised for all to hear.
She smiled. “Aye, save for some bruises.”
Turning in his crouch, he looked upon his servant, his fingers descending to Bertie’s throat as he sought his servant’s pulse. Kit blinked in surprise then breathed in relief. He caught Patience’s fingers. The woman raised her head, her eyes dull, her cheeks stained with her anguish.
“Patience, your husband yet lives,” he told her. “Gather your wits, woman, and bind his wound before he loses more blood.”
Behind them, the garden’s gate groaned as it opened. The sound of running footsteps echoed into the grassy square. Anne’s grandsire, hatless and without his usual chain and coat, burst out onto this wee battlefield. Sir Amyas’s dark eyes were afire, his face pulled into lines of unholy rage. At his back was Sir William, with five of the queen’s guard behind him.
“There is the debaucher,” Amyas roared as he pointed to Kit. “Take him and cut out his heart!”
Anne sat at the end of her bed and stared at the door. Everything had gone wrong. A helpless sound escaped her as the vision of Kit being borne away between two guardsmen again filled her. No one heeded her when she’d tried to say he’d done no wrong.
Nay, no one heard her.
No one could. Anne tried again to swallow and flinched at the pain. Hidden below her ruff were the bruises Deyville laid upon her throat. Her voice was nothing but a whisper.
At least she was properly dressed again. With the help of Mary’s maid Anne now wore her tawny brown gowns, her neatened hair confined beneath the black velvet headdress. All that needed doing was for the queen to call. If that didn’t happen soon, Anne knew she’d surely die.
There was a tap then Mary opened the door. Anne leapt to her feet. Her kinswoman tried to smile, but there was too much worry in her face for that.
“She’s called for all to come. Beware, Nan. She’s fair beside herself over this.”
Mary’s warning only sent Anne’s terror spiraling. If their royal mistress raged there was no hope for her or Kit. Anne followed Mary across the maids’ chamber. Once down the stairs, they exited the building, Mary leading Anne to the royal chapel, then back from there, chamber by chamber, to the queen’s apartment.
Anne stopped before the door, her terror truly high now. “She sees us in private?”
Again, Mary tried to smile. “This she does for your protection. If there’s no blame to be placed on you, she wants no stain on your name.”
Even as Anne tried to take hope from this, it died. It wasn’t every day Sir William had the guard dragging a courtier into the palace walls. There’d be no stopping the tongues or the speculation.
Mary opened the door, standing aside to allow Anne to enter first. Tapestries covered every inch of this chamber’s walls, their blues, reds, and golds brilliant. A great arched window looked out over the river. Through the glass Anne could see the water’s surface gleam with the setting sun, as bright as any diamond.
A desk stood near the window, lighter of design than a man’s and decorated with pretty woodwork. Papers were strewn across its surface, but its chair was missing, having been moved to the room’s center, where England’s monarch sat. Elizabeth’s face was rigid, her eyes narrowed.
Anne glanced to the queen’s hands. A touch of relief woke. The royal fingers were yet relaxed against the chair’s arms. Wroth her royal mistress might be, but Elizabeth was still prepared to listen before she spewed what boiled in her.
Kit knelt close to the queen’s chair, dressed in his green doublet with its gold spangles. Master Wyatt was nearby, again wearing his rust-colored attire. The skin along his swollen jaw was purple. Lord Deyville, again in mourning black, was on his knees to their far side. Anne’s grandsire knelt still farther back, closer to the door. At Amyas’s side stood Sir William.
Wondering what clues she should take from their arrangement in the room, Anne stepped within and dropped into a curtsy. So deeply did she bend that her head nearly reached her skirts. Mary did the same alongside her.
“Bring in your kinswoman, Mistress Mary,” the queen called, her voice hard and cold.
“Madame,” Mary said, not yet raising her head, “she must kneel close to you. I fear she is without voice.”
Anne heard the queen’s sharp intake of breath at this. “Then bring her near.” There was no change to the royal tone.
Rising, her head yet bowed, Anne strode across the room, choosing a spot where she might be within Kit’s line of vision. This meant she could see the others as well, all save for her grandfather. As Anne knelt, her head again bent over folded hands, Mary went to stand behind her royal mistress’s chair.
“We would hear from your lips who it was that did the attacking, Mistress Anne.” This was a regal command.
“Lord Deyville, Madame,” Anne managed in her croak.
“God’s eyelid,” the queen swore softly. “Lift your head, lass then open your collar so We may see it all.”
Anne did as she was bid. When her ruff was removed and her collar open, anger blazed in Elizabeth’s dark eyes. “You say Lord Deyville did this to you? A nod is good enough.”
Anne nodded.
Confusion flickered through Elizabeth’s gaze. “If he is the attacker, then what explanation have you for the note Sir Amyas bears?”
“What note?” Anne asked, startled.
The queen lifted a scrap of paper from her lap and read aloud. “Greetings to you, my good and kind employer. You must come this afternoon at three of the clock. I fear Mistress Anne is set on a private meeting with the one you so despise, the appointment to be at Duke Humphrey’s tower above Greenwich.”
Elizabeth peered at her maid from over the note’s top. “It’s unsigned, however we can but assume from its contents this was written by your governess.”
If Anne hadn’t just learned how much it hurt, she’d have throttled Patience. Why couldn’t the stupid chit have let well enough alone? Patience’s determination to protect Sir Amyas from Lord Deyville had only made more problems for them all.
“Madame,” Anne brought out in her croak, “might I let Master Hollier speak for me? He knows the whole of it.”
The flare of the royal nostrils said that this request pleased the queen naught at all, but she nodded. “Tell your tale, Master Hollier,” she commanded.
Kit didn’t raise his head as he spoke. “The note, Madame, was but Mistress Watkins attempt to protect her mistress. She knew Sir Amyas had settled on Lord Deyville as Mistress Blanchemain’s husband. She also believed Sir Amyas deaf to any complaint against the nobleman. Thus she formed her note in such a way that her employer would be certain to come and witness with his own eyes that Lord Deyville is not a decent man.”
Lord Deyville shifted and glared at Kit. “I’ll not stay still and listen to these insults,” he snarled, trading on his rank to look boldly upon his queen.
“You’ll stay where We command you,” Elizabeth snapped, then her gaze shifted between Anne and Kit. “God’s teeth, but we find it galling that this mere servant dares to decide to whom her employer may or may not marry his heiress.”
Anne raised her head. “Madame,” she said, straining to make her words clear, “you must understand that Mistress Watkins witnessed the nobleman’s first attack against me at the Maying.”
Elizabeth rocked back in her chair, surprise chasing all else from her expression. “He did what?!”
“He did what?” Sir Amyas echoed from the back of the room.
Anne glanced over her shoulder to her grandsire. He almost sounded concerned. Perhaps she wronged him in thinking he intended to allow Lord Deyville free rein over her.
Leaning forward, her elbow braced upon the chair’s arm, Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed in suspicion once again. “If this is true, mistress, why did you say nothing to us of it?”
“It was but my third day at court, Madame,” Anne said, offering her queen a helpless look as she stopped to clear her throat. “I feared Your Grace might send me away for the shame of it, or worse that I’d not be believed. Lord Deyville is a man placed far above me and can say what he will while I am but a maid with no defense to offer, save my word.”
“It’s none of your shame when another assaults you,” her royal mistress declared.
“No harm was done, Madame,” Kit continued on her behalf, “for by coincidence Your Grace sent me to find Mistress Blanchemain at that same instant, wishing her returned to your presence. When confronted, Lord Deyville retreated. If I did wrong when I bowed to Mistress Blanchemain’s request to remain silent on what I’d seen I humbly beg pardon.”
“Hold your pleas for mercy until all is said and done,” Elizabeth retorted stiffly. “This does not fully explain the note. Why should this servant know the exact hour of the attack?”
“Madame,” Anne tried again, “only last night Lord Deyville again made his threat of rape against me. His intent—” Her voice would go no further. She stopped and looked in frustration at Kit.
He was waiting for her signal. If he dared give no other sign to her, his green eyes were soft with his affection. Once again, he took up where she’d stopped.
“He intended, Majesty, to spoil Mistress Blanchemain for all other men, thus forcing Your Grace�
��s hand in his petition for her hand in marriage. To that charge, Madame, both I and Master Wyatt can testify, for we heard him utter it again at the tower.”
“He said that?” Amyas’s sharp cry rang against the dark beams that crossed the chamber’s ceiling. Anne turned her head to look at her grandsire. He glared at the nobleman.
“Not now, Amyas,” Sir William hissed in warning.
As usual, the warning to her grandsire was wasted breath. Amyas leaned forward on his knees, his gaze locked on the man he’d meant for his granddaughter to wed. “You’d have used her with no guarantee that you could wed her? What if our contract didn’t stand? You’d have left me with a spoiled maid as an heir, that’s what.”
Lord Deyville raised his head and sent icy rage in Amyas’s direction. “You’ll not speak so to me, not when your idiocy left us with no other option.”
“Be still!” Elizabeth’s command rattled the panes in the window. Both men bowed their heads and held their tongues.
“Why,” her voice was yet raised near a shout, “should the governess know the exact hour of the attack?”
Anne cringed, her head lowering once more. She sent a sidelong glance at Kit. He offered a brief and crooked grin. From this point on explanations became a mite more difficult.
“Madame,” Kit said, “given the nobleman’s previous attack, his new threat left Mistress Blanchemain fearful of being surprised whilst alone and unprotected. Thus, we arranged the meeting, thinking to expose him.”
Elizabeth’s gaze shifted to her maid. “Prove to us you are as intelligent as We believe you to be by saying you sent no note to Lord Deyville to lure him to this trap of yours.”
“I sent no note,” Anne replied without lifting her head, her voice as strong as possible. “I have no idea how Lord Deyville knew of my location.” That was true. She knew Lady Montmercy had carried the message, but not how the lady had come into possession of that knowledge.
“Thus we move our attention to you, my lord.” There was a new sneer in the royal voice. “As our maid-of-honor says you had no note from her, how is it you knew she was to be at the tower at the appointed time?”
The Lady Series Page 29