by Kruger, Mary
Harry stepped forward. “Henrietta, don’t—”
“It’s no good, father.” She looked up at him, eyes blank. “For your sake, I have to tell him where Simon is.”
Chapter Twenty
“Oh, stop!” Blythe cried suddenly.
Simon pulled on the reins of the farm cart, so that it slewed across the road. “What is it?” he asked, alarmed. They were two hours out of Maidstone, with signs neither of pursuit nor danger. Though they had passed other travelers, none had paid them much heed, which was a relief. Traveling like this, even in disguise, made Simon feel exposed. Yet it seemed that this last leg of their journey, the most perilous, might also be the dullest.
“There’s feverfew.” Blythe jumped nimbly down from the cart, belying the bulk of an advanced pregnancy, simulated by pillows. “Just let me collect some.”
“Why?”
“I need some in case either of us falls ill,” she said, breaking off the plant and stowing it carefully in the bag tied about her nonexistent waist.
“You have enough herbs there to heal all of Canterbury,” Simon grumbled.
“Not quite.” Clinging to the side of the cart, she climbed back in. “There. Now we can go.”
“This is not meant to be a pleasure jaunt.”
“I’m well aware of that.” She slanted him a look. “Why are you so downcast this morn?”
“Why are you in such high spirits?”
“Blithe spirits, you mean.”
“Oh, Lord.”
“I don’t know.” She arched her head back, gripping the side of the bench to keep her balance. Her neck was soft, white, tempting, an emblem of all he couldn’t have. “‘Tis such a fine day, and I just feel that all will be well.”
“Ha.”
“Well, I do.” She shifted to face him. “What are your plans, once we reach Canterbury?”
“We need first a place to stay.”
“Do you mean instead of a barn or a hedge?”
He deigned not to dignify that with a reply. “I know people there. Harry has passed the word along that we’re coming. So long as we’re not recognized, we should be all right.”
“Imagine. Adventure without sleeping rough or eating cold food.”
“This is still the most dangerous part,” he said, quietly.
“I realize that.” Blythe’s voice was as quiet as his. He chanced a look at her, and saw understanding and compassion in her eyes, and something else. Whatever it was, that warm gaze, it made him turn quickly away. “Believe me, Simon, I don’t take this lightly.”
“If we run into trouble, I want you to leave.”
“What?”
“Make for Rye or Dover, and leave the country. ‘Tis the best thing.”
“And leave you?”
“Aye. You’ll be arrested, else.”
“And what makes you think I won’t be, anyway?”
“I don’t know. But ‘tis me they’re after, not you.” He held out his hand, gripping hers. “Promise me, Blythe.”
“I can’t.”
“Promise me, or I’ll turn this cart around and leave you with my family.”
“Simon—”
“I want to know you’ll be safe.”
“Of course I’ll be safe.” Her hand turned, clasped his. “But if it will ease your mind, of course I promise.”
“Good.” His tight shoulders relaxed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Nor did she move hers. Her gaze met his and held, and this time he didn’t turn away from what he saw there, though it frightened him as much as anything in his life ever had. There was a future for him. For the first time, he could see beyond the trials ahead, the fight to clear his name; the possibility of flight. He could have a future.
“Simon.” Blythe tugged at his hand, making him tighten his grip. He didn’t want to let her go, not now, not ever. “Simon! There’s someone coming.”
“What?” he said, but then he heard it, hoofbeats coming from behind them. He released her hand slowly, reluctantly. She pulled hers back with startling haste, facing forward and quickly assuming the expression of a placid, content farm wife. She was a mass of contradictions, his Blythe, as adept at hiding as he was, and that only fascinated him more. She was also, regrettably, correct. Because this road was not heavily traveled, anyone using it would be remembered. It was best to look as unremarkable as possible.
The noise behind them increased, the sound of a sizable caravan. Simon glanced back to see several outriders coming toward them, followed by a large traveling coach pulled by four horses. He had barely time to pull his own slow-moving cart to the side before the outriders were upon them. The carriage followed, an elegant coach with a crest on the side. Then there was only dust, making them cover their faces and cough.
They were alone again. Simon did not, however, reach for Blythe. Instead, not looking at her, he picked up the reins and set their horse to a slow, jouncing walk. Canterbury lay ahead, with all its perils and promise, the very thought of it making him tense. He had lost that elusive sense of a bright future, brought back to reality and to his fears. He could not let Blythe become important to him, not when so much was uncertain. For he did not yet know whether he would live, or hang.
“Henrietta!” Harry stared at his daughter in blank horror. “Be quiet, girl—”
“Let her speak.” Quentin’s horse daintily picked its way forward, stopping at the low stone wall edging the bakeshop’s garden. From the other side the girl, tall, disheveled, defiant, glared at him, though she was held back by soldiers. A game one, even in defeat, he thought with some admiration. Terrible clothes, of course, and the coiffure was beyond repair, but there was something there. He wasn’t surprised that she, the weak link, had broken. “Where is he, then?”
“Gone,” she said, and sagged, so that the soldiers had to grab at her to keep her from falling.
“So he was here, then.” And Quentin had missed him, yet again. No matter. He would catch Woodley sooner or later. In the meantime, he had the bait for a trap. “Where is he?”
“Oh, please, don’t arrest us, sir!” The girl fell to her knees, her parents watching in slack-jawed shock, confirming her words. “We didn’t ask him to come, and we didn’t let him stay. ‘Twas just for a while.”
“When?” Quentin said again.
“Yesterday, sir.” The girl dropped her head. “He was here, and then gone.”
Quentin dropped the reins over his horse’s head and dismounted, leisurely. “Which does not help me now, does it?” He lifted the girl’s chin with his fingers, and saw something flash briefly in her eyes. So she had some spirit left. That would not last. “Where is he? I am growing impatient,” he went on, as she pulled back from him. “Tell me what I wish to know, or it will go ill with you.”
“Oh, please, sir—”
“Tell me.”
“The coast!” she burst out, and behind her her mother gave a cry of dismay. “He’s making for the coast.”
“Is he, then. Where? Rye? Dover?”
“Neither.” It was a whisper. “Margate.”
“Margate.” He stepped back, waited until he saw her shoulders loosen, and then pushed her face up again. Her eyes flared wide. “I don’t believe you.”
“‘Tis the truth.” Her face was flat, her eyes dull and yet defiant. “I am not going to risk my neck for him.”
“Oh, Henrietta,” Mrs. Woodley moaned.
“We can’t, Mama.” Henrietta tried to twist around to face her parents, though the soldiers still held her. “You and Papa both told him to leave, him and that woman—”
“She is still with him?”
Henrietta blinked. “She went with him, sir.”
“Ah. Go on. Why did your parents tell him to go?”
“Because of the danger.” She sighed, her eyes closing briefly. “He thought we’d take him in. ‘Tis why he came so far out of his way.”
“And chose to go north, rather than south, to throw us off the scent,” Quentin rum
inated, and pulled back, releasing the girl’s chin. Sullen rebellion mingled with defeat in her posture, while her parents looked dazed, bewildered. “Did you hear that, lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.” The officer nodded. “The garrison there must be alerted.”
“Indeed. You have done well, Miss Woodley. Such forthrightness deserves a reward.”
She looked up at him at that. His gaze rested on hers, swept over to her parents, and then returned. “Indeed, it does. Arrest them,” he barked to the lieutenant, and swung up onto his horse, ignoring the cries and protests behind him. His work here was done. He was needed now in Margate. And if Woodley refused to give up...Quentin grinned. If that happened, Quentin had a tool he would use well. Hostages. Woodley would pay, at last.
Midmorning, and the city of Canterbury was bustling. Blythe stood just outside the door of the old, timber-framed house, taking in the view of small houses clustered together, along with the remarkable sight of a large, ancient building straddling the River Stour. So much of Canterbury was medieval that she almost felt as if she belonged in one of the tales. The Actor’s Tale, she thought, and smiled. Last evening she and Simon had entered the city through the West Gate, which he hadn’t told her until afterwards served as the city gaol, and had immediately gone to the home of a friend, a former actor. He had put them up with few questions asked. The long pilgrimage from London was nearly over.
A man stepped out beside Blythe, an older man, his hair graying at the temples, his figure ample without being stout. His coat was of good, if not excellent, cloth and cut. So obviously was he a prosperous tradesman that it took Blythe a second to recognize him. “The sun shows up the powder in your hair,” she commented. “Maybe you’d better keep your hat on.”
Simon grimaced. “‘Tis too hot to be dressed with all this padding. And I can’t wear a hat inside, not for politeness. I’ll be glad when this escapade is done.”
Something shot through Blythe, something akin to pain. She decided not to think about it. “We may find what we need today. Come.” She slipped her arm through his, leading him out onto the lane. She still wore padding, though not so much as she had, and she kept her pace measured, serene, as befitted the wife of a prosperous merchant. “Lay on, MacDuff.”
Simon scowled. “I think I’ll regret ever introducing you to the theater,” he said, but continued walking, all too aware of her light touch on his arm. He would need help to clear his name. That was indisputable. That he’d rather the help came from anyone but her was also fact. Lord help him, what if he didn’t succeed? For himself he didn’t care so much as he had; he knew who he was and what he was capable of. Blythe, however, did not. Without incontrovertible proof that he had not killed Miller, she would never believe him innocent. It was a depressing thought.
From the High Street they turned onto a narrow lane he’d once known all too well, its high, timbered houses overhanging the street. In spite of himself, his muscles stiffened, his steps slowed. Here was where everything had come apart, in that house just along there. There was where he had found Miller’s body.
“Simon?” Blythe’s voice was soft. “If we stand here like this we’ll be noticed.”
“I know.”
She squeezed his arm. “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to.”
“Yes, I do,” he said grimly, and surged forward. “If ‘twere done, ‘twere best done quickly.”
“Another quote from the Scottish play? Surely an evil omen.”
“There’s more to fear in this world than superstition,” he said, and pushed at the door handle of the shop next to what had once been Miller’s home.
Bells jingled on the door overhead as it opened. A pewtersmith’s shop, Simon realized, seeing all about him on display shiny tankards and various dishes, and some cutlery. “Good morrow,” a cheery voice came through a back room, and from bustled a man, short, tubby, his red face surmounted by an absurd fringe of white hair. “And what might I do for you?”
“You are Mr. West?”
“Aye, as it says on the sign. And you, sir?”
“Benjamin Bowles.” Simon bowed briefly, hoping he gave the impression of a busy, businesslike man. “And a right pleasure it is to make your acquaintance.”
“And yours, sir.” West frowned. “Have we met?”
“I do not believe so, no.”
“I did not think so. May I assist you in your purchase?”
Simon relaxed. One hurdle passed; West didn’t recognize him, though he had been at Simon’s trial. “Mayhaps you could.”
“Some tableware, perhaps? Those forks are particularly fine,” West went on, and Simon realized that Blythe was fingering some of the merchandise. “Three tines, very handy, yes.”
Blythe turned huge eyes up at him. “Oh, may we buy some, please, Mr. Bowles?” she breathed, very much the character they had decided upon for her. No one, they agreed, would pay much heed to a seemingly silly, younger wife, which meant that Blythe could probably ask what she wished, without anyone wondering why. Her speech was careful, precise, with only the slightest hint of Yorkshire, in contrast to his own broad accent. She was really quite good at this. “Please?”
“We are here on business, wife.” Patting her hand, he turned back to West. “Has summat happened to Fred Miller? His shop’s locked right and tight.”
“Upon my soul. Haven’t you heard?” West stared at him. “Miller is dead.”
Simon stepped back a pace. “Dead? Well, I’m flummoxed! When?”
“This six months and more. And a terrible deed it was, him stabbed through the throat in his own house. I beg your pardon, ma’am.” This as Blythe sagged against Simon, who put his arm around her.
“I heard nowt of it. He and I were in the way of doing business.”
“Oh, a terrible scandal it was,” West said with relish. “You’re better off without him, too, thought I don’t like to speak ill of the dead. Not an honest man.”
“I always found him to be.”
West frowned. “Yet you dealt with him?”
“I bought from him, aye. I’ve t’shop in Leeds.”
“Then likely you paid too much. No, we all knew to steer clear of Master Miller. Where did you say you met him?”
Simon shook his head. “My wife needs a place to sit, she’s that pale. T’news has upset her.”
“Of course, of course. Come through here.” West led them through a doorway, into what was obviously a kitchen. Pewter plates, not so well burnished as those in the shop, were arranged on a rail, while the fire in the wide stone hearth made the room very warm. “Martha? Where are you, woman?”
“Cease your racket, sir,” a woman scolded, stepping into the room from the outside, her arms filled with vegetables. “Can a body not step out to the garden for a moment?”
“We’ve guests. Here.” West pulled a chair forward. “Sit you down, Mrs. Bowles.”
“Thank you,” Blythe said, sinking into the chair as if she were, indeed, feeling faint. They had planned this, of course, to give them each a chance to talk with both people. It was her idea, and she was rather proud of it. “I’m that sorry to discombobble—that is, to inconvenience you, ma’am.”
“My wife is breeding,” Simon said bluntly.
“Mr. Bowles!”
“And the tale of what happened to Miller upset her,” West put in.
“It would. Sit you, then.” She nodded at Blythe and dumped the greens onto a table already laden with a slab of beef, and a huge turnip. “And if you plan to speak more of it, do so in the shop.”
“Yes, dear,” West said, surprisingly meekly, and turned led Simon back into the shop. Blythe, momentarily distracted, watched him go, until a loud thwack from behind her made her turn, startled.
“So you’re breeding,” Mrs. West said, bringing the cleaver down again, cutting chunks of beef.
“Yes.” It wasn’t hard to sound breathless. If she hadn’t been ill before, she certainly was queasy now. The way
Mrs. West wielded the cleaver, along with the bloody beef, was cause enough. “But such a tragedy as you have suffered.”
“A tragedy? Him?” She jerked her head in the general direction of Miller’s shop, and brought the cleaver down again. “No loss there. Seems I’m not the only one who thinks so, neither.”
Blythe perked up. Despite her sour appearance, Mrs. West apparently enjoyed a gossip as much as anyone. “No?”
“No. Didn’t take his widow long to find herself another man. Not that I thought it would.” She shoved the cubed beef aside with a careless push, and went to work on the turnip. “Miller should have known what she was doing, that, he should have.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Don’t you?” Mrs. West fixed her with small, shrewd eyes. “I thought you knew him.”
Blythe shook her head. “No, I never had t’pleasure.”
“Pleasure. Ha. Well, let me tell you, no man deserves to die as he did, not even him. And she didn’t even have the courtesy to wait till his body was cold, either.”
Blythe leaned forward, intrigued. “My husband said Mrs. Miller is a beautiful woman.”
The cleaver came down again. “Mrs. Selley, she is now, and aye, she’s well enough. If you like the type. Miller was a fool to marry her.”
“Oh, but surely ye’re too hard on ‘er.”
“Am I?” Mrs. West stared at her. “Would you like it, then, if she came in here and flirted with your husband?”
Blythe didn’t have to feign indignation. “I should say not!”
“Didn’t think so.” She nodded. “Well, she did, and with anything else in breeches. Many’s the fight they had over it, too.”
“Did she kill ‘im?”
“Her? No. Wouldn’t get her hands dirty. No, ‘twas some actor fellow.”
“An actor! Was he her lover, too?”
“Are you well?”
Blythe coughed. That had been a difficult question to ask. “Yes, nowt wrong, just went down the wrong pipe. Was the actor her lover, too, then?”
“Him? No. Least I never saw him around here. No, he had some kind of business with Miller. Borrowed money, I heard, and couldn’t pay it back. And he was found with the knife in his hand.”