Love's Labyrinth

by Anne Kelleher

“Don’t know nothin’ about that. My orders was to let ye go. Now, do y’ want to leave or not?”

  “Of course I want to leave,” she said, rising to her feet and smoothing down her skirts. “But what about Lord Talcott? Where’s Nicholas? Why are you letting me leave and not him?”

  “I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout that either. Get ‘er out of here.” the jailer said over his shoulder. Two expressionless guards stepped forward and took her by the arms. They half-dragged, half-escorted her down the narrow passageway, to the tiny winding steps. She tumbled on her skirts as they hustled her down and out. Outside, they unlocked the chains that bound her wrist. They took her to the gate and nodded for her to go. Olivia stared back, at the silent, brooding towers, black against the violet summer twilight. She rubbed her wrists and looked back out at the street. Now what? She had no money, no way of getting back to Talcott Forest. What in the world was she to do?

  “Please?” she said, as they stood like a pair of robots, staring neither right nor left. “Please won’t you tell me how Lord Talcott is?”

  For a moment, she thought they intended to ignore her, and then pity flickered across the face of the older one. He glanced down at her but his lips barely moved as he spoke. “He’s still inside. They haven’t touched him yet, but they will. And may God have mercy on his soul. For surely there’s nothing you nor I can do for him.”

  “You’d best go,” the other growled.

  She stumbled away, reeling. Go? Go where? She knew nothing of London. She didn’t even know how to get to Talcott Forest from here, though by car it was less than two hours away. She walked across the street, dodging pedestrians, and leaned against the nearest wall. Think, she commanded herself. Think.

  She stared up and down the cobbled street, trying desperately to recall the London she knew so well, but nothing was the same. It was all so crowded and dark and dirty. Her stomach rumbled alarmingly and a wave of dizziness nearly overcame her. No, she commanded herself. She couldn’t faint now. Perhaps she could find a church, yes, that’s what she’d do. Look for a church—any church. Throw herself on the mercy of a priest, whatever his leanings, and beg him to send a message to Geoffrey. Pray God, perhaps they were already on their way. She squared her shoulders and started off across the street, not noticing the dark shape that eased away from the pool of shadows beside the Tower walls.

  She hesitated once more, and in that moment, she heard a rough voice say: “M’lady.”

  She turned and recognized Jack as he approached her out of the twilight. She gasped then, as a heavy hand fell across her shoulders; her legs buckled beneath her at the unexpected blow.

  “My lady!” Jack bolted behind her, leaping at the attacker with a raised blade that seemed to materialize out of the air. Olivia scurried forward on her hands and knees, seeking the shelter of the nearest wall, while the two scuffled. Knives flashed in the twilight, and suddenly her assailant ran off, limping and cursing.

  At once, Jack bent over her. Blood ran down the side of his face and he clutched his arm. “Are ye all right, m’lady?”

  She sagged against the wall, as the blond boy’s familiar face loomed out of the growing dark. “Oh, Jack. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”

  He twisted his hands uncomfortably. “Can you stand? I’m glad to see ye, too, lady. I—I didn’t quite know what to do. I know Lord Nick wanted for me to go on home and get Master Geoff, but—but I couldn’t leave you two.

  “I was afraid they might take you somewhere and I wouldn’t know where to tell Master Geoff to go. And there was you—”

  She dismissed the thought that Geoffrey wasn’t coming yet. “It’s all right, Jack. Really it is. I’m so glad to see you—I don’t know what I would’ve done right now—”

  ‘”It’s good I was here, weren’t it, lady?” He grinned down at her.

  “Are you all right? Did that—that cutthroat hurt you in any way?”

  “Me? Nah, I’m fine. These are just scratches. Come. They grabbed Lord Nick’s pack, but they let me have your trunk. I got it down the road a ways, at a tavern called the Red Lion. Will you come? I’ve got a bit o’ money, too—won it dicing this noon, I did. You can get a room, we can have some supper.” Talking nervously, as though he feared N1cholas’s wrath or another attack, Jack led her through the streets with practiced ease. The hour was growing late, and night had fallen by the time they reached the wooden door. It stood wide open as though in welcome, and through it, she could see a stone—paved room full of long tables and benches, packed with men of all ages and descriptions, who wore the same rough clothing and lifted foaming tankards with uniformly dirty hands.

  The thought of Nicholas spending a night in that hellish Tower twitted her heart. She was tired and dirty and hungry. A wave of dizziness came over her, and she stumbled again in the street, nearly falling. Jack turned and caught her arm. “Lady? Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes, her head spinning. “Let’s go in?”

  “At once, m’lady. Forgive me.”

  Gently, he guided her into the crowded tavern. Raucous laughter greeted them, and the smoke stung her eyes. The odor of roasting meat filled her nostrils, and saliva exploded in her mouth. Her head spun again, as the noise and smoke and smells made her dizzy. She swayed.

  “Ho! Easy there, lad—looks as if your lass is done in before the night’s a’gun.” Good-natured laughter greeted them from the closest table.

  “This is not my lass!” said Jack, trying to hold her up. “This lady is cousin to Lord Nicholas Talcott—she’s been fallen upon by a robber and needs help!”

  “Lord?”

  “Aye, Lord Talcott of Talcott Forest—will you help her?”

  A burly arm reached out to catch her as she fell, and as the room slowly righted itself, a mug full of foaming ale was pressed into her hands. Nausea rose in her throat, and she shook her head weakly against the shouts of the men to swallow.

  “Now, now, let me through, y’ oafs! Let me through!”

  The shrill voice cut through the masculine rumble with shrill efficiency. The crowd parted, although Olivia was aware that Jack hovered, anxious as a mother hen, at her back. A plump woman of middle age, her round rosy face framed by a spotless white coif, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and her gray, homespun apron spotted with faded grease stains, pushed her way to the fore. She raised Olivia’s face to hers with one work-worn hand and shook her head. “Back off, all of ye. Let the lady breathe, for the sake of Christ. Oh, ye poor, poor lamb. What’s been done to ye? Such fine clothes, so abused—well, you her squire? Have you been brawling in the streets?” This was said to Jack, who, startled, nodded violently.

  “I’m Lord Talcott’s squire, aye—” He began, patting his pouch of money at his waist.

  “Good, help me bring ‘er upstairs, then. And you, Watt, carry that trunk. Meg! A pot of water, now! And a clean towel!” Fussing and bustling like a goose with one gosling, the woman forced a path through the gaping crowd. Somehow, with both her and Jack’s help, Olivia got up the steps. She found herself in a small bedroom where a wide bed took up most of the space. A rough table was the room’s only other furnishing. The woman pushed her gently down on the bed and set a candle on the small table, where it cast a wan yellow light on the whitewashed walls. The room was stuffy, for the one small window was shut.

  “Now, are you faint, lady? No? Good. Meg, put that water down here and open that window so’s she can breathe. You, and you,” she pointed at Jack and Watt, “back downstairs. Now.” She turned back to Olivia, and put her hands on her hips. “Let’s see what we can do wi’ ye.”

  In a matter of mere minutes, it seemed, Olivia had been peeled out of her clothes, washed, and put into a clean smock. A clay bowl, filled with a steaming liquid strongly scented with spices, was pressed into her hands.

  “Have a swallow, m’dear. ‘Tis not so fine as what ye’re used to, but ‘tis strengthening—will put the flesh back on yer bones. Don’t they feed
you?” She looked at Olivia critically.

  Olivia nodded mutely. She sipped at the contents of the bowl, and found it to be red wine, well spiced with cloves and ginger. “Your name, good mistress?”

  “I’m Deb Althorpe, mistress of the Red Lion tavern. ‘Twas my man’s till he passed, and there being no one else, it’s mine. Finest run tavern in all of London, you’ll see. And you?”

  Olivia hesitated. She’d heard herself introduced as a cousin of Lord Talcott’s—what did it matter who she said she was? “Olivia.”

  “Pretty name, but foreign. You stay there. I’ll go find a bit of bread and chicken for you. A nice piece off the breast’ll do you good.”

  Deb bustled out of the room, leaving Olivia sitting on the bed, her toes dangling like a child’s. She sipped the red wine slowly. Her stomach rumbled alarmingly, but now that she was clean and the prospect of food was on the way, she felt much better. Immediately she thought of Nicholas, alone in that cold, dank place. Had they fed him? Given him a candle, or a blanket? What would happen to him?

  Thoughts of torture, of the rack and all the other medieval accouterments of justice, brought tears to her eyes. She remembered the last anguished look they’d exchanged. Had her eyes deceived her? Or had it really been “I love you” that he’d mouthed?

  The door opened, and Deb stepped through carrying a plate. She placed it on the small table next to the bed. “Now, eat.” She took the bowl from Olivia and nodded at the plate. “Come now. Slowly.”

  Her hand shook as she reached for the bread. It was coarser than anything she’d tasted so far. A smear of butter glistened on the surface, and she bit and chewed it slowly. Surprisingly, it had a rich, nutty flavor. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m going back downstairs now. You rest, m’lady. Don’t eat that too fast—it’ll all come back up.”

  “I understand. Is Jack downstairs?”

  “Yer boy? Aye, in the kitchen with my Meggie getting his arm bandaged. He’s quite a talker, that one. You rest now. There’s nothing doing tonight. ‘Tis nearly nine by the watch.”

  “I need to talk to Jack.”

  Deb looked skeptical. “All right. m’lady, an ye will. I’ll send him up to ye directly.”

  “Thank you.” Olivia bit off another piece of bread as Deb, with a doubtful shake of her head, left the room.

  A hesitant knock came just a few minutes later.

  “M’lady?”

  “Come in, come in, Jack.” She smiled up at him and was touched to see the boy blush. “Thank you for everything. I know you took it upon yourself to disobey Nicholas, but—but honestly, I’m glad you did. But listen now. You must go to Talcott Forest tomorrow. You must leave at dawn, for there’s no time to waste. God only knows what they’ll do to him in that horrible place. Take one of the horses—you brought them, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, m’lady—one of them. The others I left in Dover. I left the rest of Lord Nick’s money wi’ the landlord for their care—they’ll be well looked after till we fetch them.”

  “Well, no matter now. You’ve got to get to Geoffrey and tell him everything. I’ll wait here, I suppose. Is there—is there enough money?”

  He patted his money pouch with pride. “Aye, m’lady. I was lucky with the dice. But I don’t like to leave you, lady. The streets are dangerous, ye saw that for yerself.”

  Olivia sighed. “There’s no help for it, Jack. We’ve no other way to get a message to Geoffrey, and you can travel so much more quickly alone.”

  He hesitated, as if he wanted to argue more, but finally shrugged. “An ye will it, m’lady. Here—this’ll be enough to cover a day or more.” He dug into the pouch with grimy fingers and placed the coins on the table. Olivia smiled up at Jack. “Thank you. I’m sure Lord Nicholas will—”

  “Aye, lady. I’ve no fear on that score.” He glanced around the room, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll leave you now, to rest. But I promise, I’ll be gon by first light.”

  She sat back and sighed. “Thank you, Jack. You’ve been more than kind to me. Lord Nicholas will be pleased.”

  He tugged his forelock awkwardly. “Aye, m’lady. I think so.” With another shy smile, he was gone.

  Olivia slipped to the floor and walked around the wide bed to the one small window. It was set into the thatch of the roof, and stood open on its hinges. She leaned out.

  London sprawled around her, all leaning rooftops and church spires. The Red Lion was the only two-story building on the street. Here and there, a clothesline stretched between houses, and through windows dimly lit by candlelight, she could see dark shapes moving about. The smell of cooking and horses was strung in the heavy evening air. Clouds massed on the horizon, and the air was humid and still. It pressed all around her, stifling as a cloak. She glanced down at the street, where only a few passersby still hurried. The middle of the street was clogged with garbage of every description, from which a rank, fetid smell rose. She wondered if even a strong thunderstorm could clean the streets completely. But at least maybe a storm would clear the air. A dog slunk out of the shadows, sniffing through the refuse. It growled and snapped at something much smaller, which scampered out from under its paws. A rat, most likely, she thought as she averted her eyes with a shudder.

  She craned her head, trying to see the Tower, but her window faced the wrong direction. Don’t let them hurt him, she prayed. Let them listen to the truth. A cold, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach despite the heat. She had been instrumental in getting those plans for him. If she’d not spoken up, maybe there would have been trouble with the Spaniard, but surely Nicholas, being younger and perhaps just as well schooled in fighting, could have bested him. They would’ve gone home empty-handed, and then there would be no damnable evidence to point to.

  But who accused Nicholas, she wondered. Sir John?

  Was that why he’d been lurking around the church? But how had he known to watch for them there? She pressed her hands to her temples. Oh, for an aspirin, she thought.

  If ever there was an Excedrin moment, this had to be it.

  She padded to the table and drained the contents of the bowl. There was nothing she could do. She climbed into bed and blew out the candle. Please God, she prayed. Let him be safe. Let him be whole. Let him be free.

  “You concocted this scheme. And used it against me.” Bruised and battered by the treatment of the guards, Nicholas held himself rigid. He would never let this bastard see any weakness.

  Christopher Warren shrugged. “You can’t prove that.”

  “When my brother goes to Leicester—”

  “Leicester’s with the Queen on summer progress. Remember? And by the time your brother finds Leicester, you’ll be dead, my lord. The only question here is how.”

  “I’ve not been convicted.”

  “You were arrested with the plans for the invasion of England on your person. You’ve already been convicted. The sentence has but to be carried out.”

  “So you mean to put me to death? Without so much as a trial? You can’t do that.”

  Warren shrugged again. “That is the penalty for treason against the Crown, my lord. Surely you are aware of that.” Nicholas did not respond.

  “But I’m here to make you an offer. The usual sentence, as you know, is death by hanging, drawing, and quartering—a most painful method, as you can imagine, and one possibly only surpassed by burning to death. If you sign this confession, admitting your treachery, then you’ll be beheaded—which is, after all, quite possibly the swiftest and cleanest of deaths. But if you don’t, I’m afraid the execution will be by the former method. And it will be quite prolonged and painful. I can assure you. I’ve watched.”

  The expressionless tone, and the flat, hard look in the man’s eyes, chilled Nicholas. He had no doubt at all that Warren intended to see him die in the most painfully protracted way possible. “Why?”

  Warren seemed to falter for a moment. “Why what?”

  “Why do you want me dead?
”

  “What makes you think I want you dead?”

  “This whole, elaborate scheme—clearly it was concocted by you. Why? I don’t even know you. What reason do you have?”

  “No, you wouldn’t know me, would you, Lord Nicholas? The son of the lord of the manor would have no reason to consort with the snot-nosed son of the local schoolmaster, would he? Of course you wouldn’t know me. But I know you.”

  “What of it?”

  “My father was the schoolmaster in Sevenoaks. You don’t recall it—you had a tutor. Not for you the creeping from the house at dawn in the gray winter light. He kept eight of us on his schoolmaster’s pittance. But no mind, we were happy. Until the day Lord William Talcott of Talcott Forest caused him to be arrested for heresy. And treason. And saw him sent to Canterbury and burned at the stake for the sin of reading an English Bible.”

  “Sweet Jesu,” Nicholas murmured. “This is about your father? You seek to avenge his death?”

  “Aye. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons even unto the seventh generation. That’s in the English Bible—have you read it?”

  “Of course I’ve read it. The Bible also talks about forgiveness.”

  “Forgiveness? Should I forgive the son of the man who saw my father die in agony? Who saw my mother turned out of our home and forced from the parish? She died in a ditch in London with no more than a bundle of sticks for a roof above her head. ‘Twas the best I could build for her. I was ten at the time.”

  “Warren, I’m sorry for your losses but these things were not my fault—”

  “Your fault? Your fault is not the issue. What I want from you is payment, and you shall pay. I swore that day I would see the Talcotts brought down.”

  “Let me make amends to you—”

  “Amends? Can you raise the dead? Can you bring life into my father’s ashes? Or flesh to my mother’s bones?” Warren got to his feet, a light burning in his black eyes. His face was pale, and in the flicker of the candlelight, his eyes glowed like twin lamps. He twisted his hand in Nicholas’s hair and pulled it, so that Nicholas was forced to face him. He put his face so close to Nicholas’s, he could smell the wine on Warren’s breath and the sour smell of decaying teeth. “You’ll make your amends. I will forgive when the house of Talcott falls—when I see your bones crushed and ground into powder and scattered to the four winds—then the debt between us shall be repaid. But I shall never forget.” His voice shook with suppressed emotion, and his eyes burned with a mad light.