Out of the Dark

by JoAnn Smith Ainsworth

  “I had no idea Lynnet’s parents dealt so harshly with her,” he said.

  “She talked a little about it. Until you listen to them, it’s hard to comprehend. My parents were always so loving towards me.”

  She smiled contentedly as Geoff brushed back unruly, red-blond tresses and planted warm kisses on her forehead.

  “As we will be towards our children.”

  Geoff pushed the shawl away to gain access to the swell of her breast.

  “She needs a friend,” Matilda said as excited tingles ran through her body. Warmth developed in her loins. “She’s very close to her companion, but Evelyn can’t protect her from her parents.”

  “Understandable,” Geoff said as he cuddled and nuzzled her neck. “She’s hired help.”

  “I’m going to keep my eye on Lynnet. May I invite her to our manor early next year?”

  “Certainly. We’ll help her any way we can.” His hand slipped down to caress between her legs.

  Matilda lifted her head and put her arms around his neck. She kissed his bearded face.

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  The next day, Lynnet rested her fingers lightly on Matilda’s linen-clad arm as they made their way to the Great Hall for midday meal. She hoped to identify the men in the cellar or her kidnappers by their voices.

  “The noise in a castle this size always surprises me,” she said. “At home, we’re as quiet as church mice compared to this place.”

  “I know. Besides the king’s guests, there’s a whole garrison of soldiers quartered here.”

  “Not to speak of the tradesmen daily in and out.”

  “And the retainers whose families live within the walls. I don’t envy Basil his task of finding thieves and kidnappers among this crowd.”

  Footsteps approached and Matilda was saying, “Good day, sirs.”

  Two male voices answered. When they were out of range, Matilda asked, “What about them?”

  Lynnet shook her head. “They aren’t the ones.”

  “They were soldiers. Here comes the cloth merchant. Some gentlewoman must want a new gown for the holidays.”

  The process again was unfruitful.

  “I’m open to adventures,” Matilda said quietly, “but what we’re trying is risky. Dangerous even.”

  Lynnet’s face still carried the bruises.

  “I won’t be safe until I can identify those men and take their names to the king. It’s just as dangerous to sit twiddling my thumbs, waiting on a sheriff who’s dragging his feet because he’s been told by my parents it’s all my imagination.”

  “Basil’s not so easily swayed.”

  “You may bow out if you wish.”

  “Never.”

  They met no one on the spiral staircase, but as they drew near to the crowded Hall, the level of noise increased dramatically.

  “Most of the seats above the salt have already been claimed.”

  Since Matilda was wife to a Norman baron pledged to the king, she had high status in seating at the table. Lynnet was her equal. Only her family’s Anglo-Saxon heritage detracted from her worthiness.

  And my blindness, of course.

  “The king’s not here. We can’t be seated yet,” Matilda said. “Suppose we put our cloaks on the bench to reserve two spaces. Then, we’ll walk around so you can listen to voices.”

  “Fine.”

  Lynnet allowed Matilda to lead her to the table. The Great Hall was lit by many candles, torches and fireplaces so she could make out shapes of guests and furnishings.

  Lynnet unclasped the lightweight cloak used to keep away the chill of drafty corridors and draped it over a bench that Matilda said was as close to the head table as they could get today because of their late arrival.

  That done, Lynnet allowed Matilda to lead her around the Hall. Sliding her soft-soled slippers across cold pavement stones disturbed the rushes and released their aroma.

  “The rushes must be fresh. The air is less foul today.”

  “Wait until tonight after the king’s hounds leave droppings all day.”

  Lynnet noticed they were pausing near groups of men. Matilda’s hands were flying about her face as she supposedly described tapestries and metal work on armor and battle instruments. Should anyone overhear, the low-voiced recitation about color and design masked their real purpose.

  “Pretending to be knowledgeable about Norman art, are you?”

  Lynnet cringed at the icy disdain directed towards Matilda in the woman’s voice.

  “No pretending. Your brother instructed me on the origin of the hangings.”

  “And who is this?”

  “My friend, Lady Lynnet of Osfrith.”

  “Another Saxon,” she said with disgust. Lynnet heard the woman turn and walk away.

  “Who was that? She’s awful.”

  “That’s my arrogant sister-in-law.”

  “How unfortunate for you.”

  “Lady Rosamund is estranged from her brother because of our marriage. She never approaches when Geoff’s around, but delights in hurting my feelings when I’m on my own.”

  “It would be a blessing if she stayed away altogether.”

  “No chance. Her status-seeking husband comes around trying to wheedle his way back into Geoff’s good graces.”

  “It must be difficult for you.”

  “It is. She believes Normans are superior and is furious with her brother for marrying me.”

  I wonder if Basil has any such arrogant relatives.

  Lynnet strained to pick out and analyze each male voice in the vicinity, searching for those she heard discussing conspiracy.

  “So many men’s voices, but none I can identify.”

  Despite the number of men in attendance from all walks of life, Lynnet matched not a one of them to the voices she heard in the basement nor to yesterday’s kidnappers.

  “The king’s arriving with his daughter,” Matilda said. “We have to sit down or become conspicuous.”

  “It’s so discouraging.”

  “Maybe it’s better that you stop trying.”

  It was near midnight as Basil wended his way through dark and dingy London streets. He wore a dirty, ripped, brown tunic to blend in with his surroundings. Baggy workman’s pants, tied at the waist by cord, held weapons, not tools, in the pockets. His hand rested on the hilt of a highly sharpened throwing knife. His ears stayed alert for sounds that would give away the stealth of a mugger as he strode towards the lighted doorway of Hanged Man Tavern.

  He was meeting Nicolas, the leader of his band of London spies. Their discussions tonight would start the investigation of his second commission from the king—discovering if there was truth to what Lady Lynnet overheard.

  Basil stepped over the tavern’s high, wide, wooden doorsill, built to keep out rainwater rushing through the street from higher elevations to the Thames only blocks away. Only a few tallow candles pushed away the darkness of the common room. Snores rose from travelers paying to sleep within the safety of tavern walls. The ancient wood reeked of a hundred years of unwashed bodies and smoky fires.

  The landlord saw him enter and gestured for Basil to follow him up the creaky stairs to a small, dark room at the end of the corridor. The single candle on the table revealed that the informant had already arrived.

  Money exchanged hands and the landlord bowed his way out of the room, closing the heavy door securely behind him. Theirs was an association both found beneficial.

  “Good e’en, Sheriff,” the spy said.

  Nicolas wore faded clothing and a hang-dog look. Small of stature and of wiry build, the nondescript informant blended easily into crowds. Anyone passing him on the street would take him for an indentured apprentice, brow beaten, insignificant.

  Basil knew better. The man was quick witted, a survivor of rough-and-tumble streets and wise enough to know how and when to blend in instead of standing out. He knew the man was hired by nobility and must have accumulated a hoard of money for his services. E
ven the funds disbursed during the short time Basil was sheriff would give this informant a comfortable living. Still, he looked like he’d lived most of the time on the streets.

  “Good eventide to you, my friend.”

  Basil slapped the man on his back in hearty greeting before pulling up a stool to sit down. Since Basil’s own roots were in the rough dock areas of Ipswich, he was comfortable sitting down with the ragtag Nicolas. He placed his throwing knife on the scarred and wobbly table.

  “I was surprised to get your summons,” the informant said. “I’ve not yet gleaned news on the thefts.”

  Nicolas took a gulp of the ale the landlord provided for their meeting. Basil lifted the cracked pitcher and poured a mug full for himself. He stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable.

  “There’s a new problem. A possible plot against the king. I need to know who’s behind it.”

  “By my troth, I’ll find them if I have to sniff through every gutter in London.”

  “We may not find what we need in the gutters,” Basil said. “The men wore armor.”

  The sheriff related Lynnet’s story.

  “Those are the words she believes she overheard,” Basil said. “There’s doubt because her parents claim that she sometimes hears voices that no one else hears.”

  Basil had felt Lady Lynnet’s pain at her parents’ dismissal of her words. Yet, he had to let his chief spy know there was a possibility all this had no more substance than a puff of smoke.

  “Better to keep the king safe,” Nicolas said. “Our informants won’t mind a wild goose chase as long as they get paid.”

  The sheriff removed a moderate-size, leather bag of coins from his pocket and placed it with a clunk between them on the table.

  “You’ll all be paid. The usual up front. The rest when the information can be validated.”

  “We’ll need to infiltrate the barracks.”

  “Agreed.” Basil leaned forward, intense.

  “Overlook no one. Question servants and merchants of the wealthy. Find out what messages are being carried between them, what conversations overheard.”

  “You can trust me to protect the king.”

  Basil leaned back to give his final order.

  “Investigate Saxon and Norman alike.”

  Chapter Four

  Two mornings later, Lynnet was on her way to visit Matilda. For protection, she brought Evelyn, her personal servant, companion and reader.

  Lynnet knew each step by heart and could have walked it alone, but today she had something on her mind. Not wanting injury from a distracted step, she placed her hand lightly on Evelyn’s shoulder.

  “The bruising on your face has gone down, my lady. Does your chin still hurt?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “I’ll be glad when we can leave this evil place,” Evelyn said in a wistful tone.

  “I long for the sweet smell of meadow grasses myself. I long to get the stink of town garbage out of my nostrils.”

  Evelyn clucked her tongue. “Your parents should get you out of London. They should speak to the king and explain the circumstances of an early journey home.”

  “They won’t. They don’t want to embroil themselves in controversy. They want to maintain the status quo.”

  Their selfishness worked in Lynnet’s favor. Leaving the court early created a different problem. Her parents would force her that much sooner into marriage with a man who wanted her money and family status, not her.

  Yet, finding a husband to love in London seemed increasingly dismal. Evil doers lurking in corridors made looking for a husband well nigh impossible.

  Too bad Basil is unsuitable.

  Evelyn knocked on Matilda’s door. When it swung open, Lynnet saw the grayed outline of her friend, silhouetted by the winter sun streaming through the windows.

  “Lynnet! What a wonderful surprise.”

  “Good morning, Matilda. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. Geoff’s gone to an assembly and won’t be back for hours. I’m in the mood for company.”

  Lynnet dismissed Evelyn as Matilda ushered her into the chamber. After the door swung closed, she heard a bar fall into place, locking the door.

  “Make yourself at home. There’s a stool by the fireplace if that’s all right.”

  “A stool will do nicely.”

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No food, but I would accept ale.”

  Lynnet made her way carefully towards the light of the fireplace. Her foot touched the wooden leg of a stool before she realized she was so close. She bent, her hands gliding over the wooden surface, determining its size and height, then sat down. When she heard Matilda coming, she reached out and her friend slipped a wooden goblet into her hand. She sat, sipping the sweet ale.

  “So tell me, what brought you to see me at such an early hour.”

  “I haven’t heard from the sheriff for two days. I don’t think he’s doing anything about my kidnapping.”

  “He may not have anything to report,” Matilda said soothingly.

  “At least, he could let me know he’s trying.”

  “He’s probably too busy.”

  “I think he’s dragging his feet.”

  “I’m sure Basil’s not dragging his feet.”

  Defense of her friend resonated in Matilda’s voice.

  Lynnet shrugged her shoulders.

  “What Norman sheriff is going to put Normans in jail to protect an Anglo-Saxon, especially three rich enough to own armor?”

  “Basil would.”

  Lynnet winced at the vigor behind her friend’s defense of the Norman sheriff. She had nothing against Basil personally. In point of fact, he’d been pleasantly on her mind fairly continuously these past two days.

  “I’m just saying he has a commission from the king. Why should he take time to bother about my kidnapping?”

  “Because he said he would. I’m married to a Norman. They are men of honor too.”

  Matilda sounded angry.

  “I don’t mean to offend. It’s just that I understand how things work, and they don’t necessarily work in favor of Anglo-Saxons.”

  “So you’re not against Basil himself?”

  “Definitely not. Actually, I’ve been wondering about him. I wonder what he looks like.”

  “Basil? A rugged brute.”

  Matilda’s voice carried admiration despite the derogatory description.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Basil’s not a polished courtier. He’s a man of action. Even violence.”

  Lynnet remembered the pressure on her arm when he grabbed it in the cellars.

  “He has ebony black hair, a long, straight, dominant nose, a wide mustache, and a beard he keeps closely cropped. With thick, black eyebrows, he constantly looks dark and stormy.”

  Lynnet pictured Basil’s face. If the opportunity arose, she would trace that bearded jaw.

  “His eyes remind me of King Henry’s, dark and piercing, the kind of eyes that make scoundrels shake in their boots.”

  “You make him sound terrifying.”

  Lynnet set her goblet on the floor under the stool so that she wouldn’t accidentally spill it.

  Matilda laughed.

  “To his enemies, yes.”

  All her life Lynnet had been around a dominant mother and a docile father. While she picked up much of her independence from her fierce mother, she had no example for an aggressive male.

  “You’d love his hands,” Matilda said. “They’re broad and angular. Very capable. A lot like Geoff’s. And, oh, the things Geoff can do with his hands.”

  Lynnet imagined Basil’s hands on her and a heated flush rose.

  Matilda laughed.

  “Look at you. You’re blushing. I’ll have to dust off my matchmaking skills and get you two hitched up.”

  Count Courbet de Shereborne sprawled on a massive, carved, wooden chair in his bedchamber, his leg draped over one arm of the cha
ir, a goblet of wine lazily held in his right hand. Count Maximilian de Selsey sat in an opposite chair, nibbling from a plate of precisely lined up chunks of cheese. Sir André de Chester slouched against the wall near the fireplace, his wine goblet resting on the mantel, his facial expression reflecting the consternation evident in his voice.

  “I’d feel safer if I knew she wasn’t ever going to open her lying Saxon mouth.”

  “She already has,” Maximilian said. “My wife is sister to Lady Matilda’s husband. I bribed a castle servant for gossip. Although Lady Lynnet talked, no one believes her. Her parents told the sheriff she’s always seeing things and hearing voices that aren’t there.”

  André threw his head back and laughed heartily. “God’s mercy. Providence is on our side!”

  “I don’t know. Someone might believe her,” Courbet said.

  “I do know,” Maximilian continued, “that my wretched Anglo-Saxon sister-in-law is accompanying that woman everywhere to make sure she’s not attacked again. She thinks it was a kidnapping for ransom.”

  André moaned.

  “If you keep your mouth shut when she’s near,” Maximilian said, “we’ll have nothing to fear. She may be able to identify our voices, but she certainly can’t identify us by sight.”

  Courbet slammed the silver wine goblet onto the floor beside his chair and started to pace the room, running his fingers through his blond hair. “We need to be certain she’s no risk,” he said, his temper flaring.

  “How?” Andre asked. “Our last plan failed. She has more protection now.”

  Maximilian turned to André.

  “Her parents say she sees ghosts. We’ll make everyone think she’s gone mad. They won’t know if what she hears is real or imagined.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll make sure her personal servant turns ill,” Maximilian said. “I’ll substitute my own servant, one generously compensated to make the lady think she’s touched in the head. We’ll have her soon believing that we were part of an overwrought imagination.”