by June Francis
He smiled grimly. ‘So I was right, it was you. By St George, what are you thinking of wearing such garb?’
Beth tilted her chin. ‘Why did you have to come after me? Couldn’t you have pretended that your eyes had deceived you?’ she said heatedly. ‘What I do is really none of your business, sir!’
‘Is it not?’ he said drily, grabbing hold of her plaits and stuffing them inside her cap. ‘You are a disgrace to womanhood and I could no more ignore your behaviour than fly to the moon.’
The colour in her cheeks deepened. ‘Do you not think that is rather an exaggeration? I have done naught wrong. I have hurt no one by my behaviour. But I do beg you not to mention this to my father. He has had enough to grieve him in the past few months.’
Gawain’s eyes held hers. ‘Perhaps I will do as you ask if you provide me with a worthwhile explanation. Otherwise, I must believe that the heat has affected your sanity.’
‘You are insinuating that I am crazed just because I wished to pass unnoticed amongst the crowds!’ She raised her eyebrows and gave him a look of disdain.
A short derisive laugh escaped him. ‘You call crawling on your belly into a wrestling ring going unnoticed? You are crazed, woman!’
‘I was simply curious!’ she protested.
‘Curiosity can get people into trouble.’
‘Obviously, but I am not the only person here showing curiosity. Why should I satisfy yours, sir? What is important is whether my father really needs to know the truth about a matter that would cause him embarrassment and make him angry?’
‘If you knew that, then why do what you did?’ he asked.
Beth said scornfully, ‘You wouldn’t understand because you are not a daughter.’
‘You forget your place,’ he snapped. ‘And that remark is a typical feminine excuse to avoid telling the truth.’
‘Men are not always honest,’ said Beth recklessly. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell me why you were wrestling half-naked.’
‘The heat?’ he suggested, raising his eyebrows.
‘Then you must have broiled alive in the armour you wore in the lists yesterday,’ she said unthinkingly.
‘Aye,’ he said, holding her gaze. ‘But I did not notice you there.’
‘I was not amongst the ladies,’ she countered, wishing he would not look at her so. There was something about this man that caused her to be hot and bothered and it was not due to her concern about his informing her father about her alter ego.
‘You mean you were dressed as a youth then, too!’ Gawain swore softly and thrust her away from him. ‘I must be mad, but I will say naught about your disgraceful behaviour if you promise never to wear male garb again.’
‘Of course, if that is the price I have to pay for your silence,’ she said with a sudden meekness that he found unconvincing. ‘Now, if you do not mind, Sir Gawain, I must be on my way.’
He frowned. ‘You do realise that if you betrayed yourself as a woman in front of a priest, then he could have you clapped in prison. Your head would be shaved and you would be dragged through the streets in disgrace.’
Beth stiffened. ‘I deem you are trying to frighten me, sir.’
‘Not at all, Mistress Llewellyn. I am just pointing out to you the punishment that could be heaped on your lovely head if you don’t do what I say,’ said Gawain, exacerbated.
Hot words were on the tip of Beth’s tongue, thinking how there was one rule for men and another for women, but she decided to hold them back. ‘I’ve noted your warning, Sir Gawain, so may I now be on my way?’ She gave him a limpid look and a honeyed smile.
He found himself once again comparing the colour of her lovely eyes with polished chestnuts and her lips with soft fruit. Would they yield to his tongue and teeth and release their sweetness? And what of her body? His thoughts shocked him. He was a married man despite having been informed that Mary had been seen arm in arm with another man in the next shire, information that had resulted in him lying through his teeth to the informer. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had not slept with a woman for six months that had resulted in him desiring Beth Llewellyn? If so, it had to stop!
Beth wasted no time hurrying away. She wondered what would be Sir Gawain’s reaction if she told him that it was her mother, Marian, who had first put the idea in her head to don a disguise if need be to gather interesting little snippets of news. It was Beth’s mother who had also encouraged her to jot down her thoughts and feelings about this and that. She had been a great admirer of the mystic, Dame Julian of Norwich, who was believed to have been the first woman to have written a book in the English language.
Sadly her mother had died four years ago when Beth was sixteen. If Marian had been alive today, then she would have insisted on her husband allowing their daughter to play an even greater part in running the business. Her father, on the other hand, was determined to marry her off to a man who would be his partner in the business, whilst she would be expected to keep house for them. It was why she had stubbornly refused to marry!
The thought infuriated her as she made her way into the next field, where thousands of tents of lesser splendour were pitched. Both Henry VIII and Francis I had determined to outshine the other, with tents, horses and costumes displaying accoutrements and jewels amidst much expensive fabric woven with silk-and-gold thread. The most elaborate arrangements had been made for the two monarchs and their queens, Katherine of Aragon and the pregnant Claude of Brittany. No doubt King Henry was wishing that it was his Katherine who was expecting a child, as he was desperate for a legitimate healthy son, according to rumour.
She hurried between the tents and, as she approached her father’s tent, thought she caught sight of a whisk of a red skirt as it vanished behind the next tent. No doubt it belonged to one of those loose women she had seen disappearing into the gloom the other night. Cautiously she drew back the flap of her father’s tent, praying that he was still talking business with his old friend in Calais.
Her prayer went unanswered.
Lying on the ground was her father with the jewelled hilt of a dagger sticking out of his back. Her heart began to pound in her chest and she felt sick as she fell on her knees beside his body. Her first instinct was to remove the dagger and see if he was breathing. But as she reached for it, there came a sound behind her. She whirled round, fearing that the murderer had returned, and saw Sir Gawain standing in the tent-opening.
For a moment she could not speak and then she cried, ‘Help me!’
Scowling, he took her by the shoulders, hoisted her to her feet and set her aside. Then, gritting his teeth, he hunkered down beside the body and searched for a pulse before looking up at her. ‘I am sorry, Mistress Llewellyn, but your father is dead.’
‘But—but he can’t be dead,’ she stammered, scarcely able to believe his words nor her own eyes.
‘Did you catch sight of anyone lurking outside as you approached?’ asked Gawain.
‘I—I thought I caught a glimpse of a woman’s scarlet skirts, but I cannot believe my father would have been—’ She fumbled for a camp stool and sat down. ‘Who could have done this?’ she asked in a bewildered voice.
Gawain remembered Master Llewellyn mentioning someone who might have wanted his son dead, but had refused to name names. Could he have confronted this person with his suspicions here in this tent and met his end at that villain’s hand? ‘Do you recognise this dagger at all?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
Beth stared at the elaborately decorated weapon and shuddered. ‘No, but I would wager that it is not the instrument of a hireling.’
Gawain agreed, frowning as he took a cloth from a pouch at his waist and wiped the blade. He wrapped the dagger in the cloth and placed it on the small table nearby. ‘Whoever did this must have been in a hurry to leave such a distinctive weapon behind. Perhaps he heard you approaching and made his escape via the back of the tent.’
Beth glanced at the canvas wall that divided the living area from the sleeping quart
ers. She opened her mouth to speak, but already Gawain had walked over to the dividing canvas wall and stepped through the opening. She hurried after him.
He was kneeling by the billowing outer wall of the tent; at the sound of her entry, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘The murderer most likely did make their escape this way. See how the bedding has been pushed aside and there are scuff marks on the ground and a couple of tent pegs have come loose. Perhaps the woman you caught sight of might have seen who it was and would recognise him again.’
Beth took a shaky breath. ‘Should we try to find her?’
‘Aye. Where are your servants?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You need someone with you.’
‘They were given leave to see the sights and were to return this evening.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat and added in a husky voice. ‘Jane and Sam have been with our family for years and this will be a terrible shock to them.’
Gawain rasped his unshaven jaw with a finger and his dark lashes hooded his eyes as his gaze washed over her and the froth of feminine garments sprawled on her bedding. ‘Perhaps someone tending a cooking fire nearby might have noticed whoever entered this tent. You will stay here and change your garments whilst I see if I can discover if that is so.’
She moistened her lips. ‘What if the murderer returns for the weapon?’
Gawain hesitated, then said reassuringly, ‘I will keep this tent in my sight, so I will see if anyone approaches it.’
She thanked him.
He brushed past her and vanished from her sight. For a moment she considered running after him, not wanting to be alone. Then she tilted her chin, knowing she must depend on herself for so many things from now on. With her father dead, she would now inherit his business. Even so it made sense to obey Sir Gawain’s order and change her clothing. Swiftly she stripped and donned a cream-coloured high-necked chemise, stockings, garters and a long-sleeved dark blue gown that fastened at the waist to reveal the underskirt of the chemise. The front of the gown was cut to an arch over her bosom and the neckline was fashionably square. She searched for the shoes with buckles that her father had insisted on having made for her in London before they came away. He had never bothered much about her appearance and she guessed that he had only done so recently because he was determined that she should attract a suitor. Well, his plan would come to naught. She would not marry, but run his business herself and make her mother proud of her. God grant that she was in heaven and able to look down on her. Father, too, now, she added forlornly.
Who could have killed him and why? She wiped her face with a drying cloth and then, with a shiver of apprehension and praying that Sir Gawain was keeping his promise, hastily coiled her braids beneath her headdress, the front of which was shaped like the gable of a house. Then from a box, inlaid with different kinds of woods, she took the simple cross of amethyst on a silver chain that had belonged to her mother and placed it about her neck. She smoothed down the conical-shaped skirts of her gown before picking up a blanket and leaving the sleeping quarters.
She gazed down at her father and then kissed his cheek. With trembling fingers she covered him with the blanket and then shot to her feet at the sound of footsteps outside. She gazed towards the tent opening with a racing heart and then sagged with relief as the flap lifted and Sir Gawain ducked his dark head and entered the tent.
‘Thank God, it is you! Did you discover anything?’ she asked.
‘A woman was seen entering this tent,’ he said curtly.
Beth was stunned. ‘I—I don’t believe it!’
Sir Gawain’s frown deepened. ‘She was wearing scarlet, so it seems likely that it was the woman of whom you caught a glimpse. Apparently she was tall for a female, so she could stand out in a crowd and be easily recognisable.’
‘I—I still don’t believe my father would entertain a woman alone in this tent,’ she said fiercely. ‘Maybe it was a man in disguise?’
‘I suppose that is possible,’ said Gawain slowly.
‘It’s also possible that it could have been just an opportunist thief who made the mistake of entering the tent, not realising Father was here.’ She seized on that idea because it was less frightening. ‘It could even have been an accident.’
Gawain did not look convinced and she guessed that he thought she was deceiving herself. ‘You’ll have to go through your possessions to see if aught is missing,’ he said.
Beth reached for the cross at her throat. ‘This was not taken.’
He stared at the lovely column of her neck and felt an unexpected urge to press kisses on her white skin and was stunned that he could feel such thoughts at such a moment. He had a need to clear his throat before saying, ‘Whoever it was must be found. I have initiated a search, but the men are also seeking the youth that one saw enter this tent shortly before I did. They gave me your description,’ said Gawain tersely.
‘You—you mean they think I could be responsible?’ gasped Beth.
‘Hush, woman, keep your voice down,’ growled Gawain. ‘We do not want folk knowing that you dress up as a youth. I told them that he must have escaped by crawling beneath the back of the tent as soon as he heard me enter.’
She sank on to a stool and chewed on her lip. ‘They will wonder why I did not see this youth and scream.’
‘Most likely they will believe that you returned while they were elsewhere. I asked another man to find a physician.’ He paused, ‘You’ll need to get rid of the male clothes you wore. Best give them to me to dispose of. Go, fetch them now.’
Beth hesitated.
He glowered at her. ‘Mistress Llewellyn, if you still have it in mind to continue with this charade, then forget it. You will never again don that costume while I am responsible for you.’
Beth’s head shot up. ‘But I am not your responsibility.’
Gawain hesitated, uncertain why he felt so reluctant to tell her that her father had made him her legal guardian. ‘Someone has to take care of you,’ he muttered.
‘I am able to bear the responsibility for myself,’ said Beth, squaring her shoulders.
Gawain scrutinised her pale, tear-stained but proud face. ‘I would not dispute that you are an extremely capable young woman. Having said that, I deem the circumstances in which you find yourself in right now would prove difficult for anyone. You will need my help to deal with the rigmarole involved in a suspicious death. This will have to be reported to the proper authorities and I will need to hand over the weapon. If fortune is with us, then someone will recognise it.’
They both looked towards the table where he had left the dagger wrapped in its cloth. It was not there! ‘The murderer must have come in and taken it whilst I was changing and you were outside!’ cried Beth.
Gawain frowned. ‘They’d have to be invisible or hellish quick.’
‘Of—of course,’ stammered Beth. ‘Perhaps it is on the ground!’ She dropped to her knees and Gawain hunkered down beside her. They bumped heads, both winced and hastily drew back.
‘Did I hurt you?’ asked Gawain, reaching forwards and straightening her headdress.
‘N-n-no!’ She felt breathless. ‘Did I hurt you?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I have a hard head.’
‘You’d need to have with all the fighting you do,’ she said, without thinking.
‘My fighting days are mostly over,’ he muttered, getting to his feet.
‘It must be here somewhere,’ she said, continuing to search whilst wondering what he meant by his words.
‘I’ll have the servants make a thorough search.’ He held a hand out to her and pulled her to her feet.
Beth saw him wince. ‘What is it? Are you hurt?’
‘It is nothing!’ He was not about to explain that he was suffering for his foolish behaviour in accepting the challenge to wrestle earlier. Why did he feel this need to prove his manhood just because Mary had been seen with another man? Especially when he knew it could result in more than a few bruises and strained muscles? It was not the sam
e sense of rightness and pride that had resulted in him resigning his position in Henry’s Gentlemen of the Spears, whose duty it was to look to the king’s safety on the field of battle, at court and on ceremonial occasions such as this one.
‘I don’t believe you,’ blurted Beth. ‘You are obviously in pain.’
‘It is nothing,’ he repeated through clenched teeth. ‘I will need to report your father’s murder to Cardinal Wolsey.’
‘No! Father—’ She paused to swallow the tightness in her throat. ‘He—he did not like Cardinal Wolsey,’ she added weakly. ‘Could you not investigate my father’s murder instead?’
Gawain hesitated. ‘It wouldn’t be right. I could be a suspect.’
‘Why should you be?’ She was aware of a sense of unreality and felt sick, then added faintly, ‘I cannot believe this is all happening. It is as if I was taking part in a masque.’
‘You’re not about to swoon, are you?’ he asked, taking her arm and lowering her on to the stool, praying that she would soon recover her composure. ‘Come, you showed such strength earlier,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I did not mean that I really was a suspect. You can trust me.’
‘Then why say what you did? You might as well say I could be a suspect, too. I have much to gain by my father’s death,’ said Beth, shivering.
He realised that what she said was true, but surely she would not have killed her own father? There came the sound of voices outside the tent. ‘Go into your sleeping quarters and remain silent,’ he hissed. ‘I’d rather you left this to me.’
Beth hesitated, but then, still suffering from that sense of unreality, she decided she had to trust him and wasted no time in doing as he bid. She gathered together the clothes she had worn earlier and stuffed them inside her pallet of straw and lay down. She could hear the murmur of voices, but could not make out the words. She wished she could leave this tent now and never return. Yet somewhere outside lurked her father’s killer.
Beth did not know how long she lay on her pallet, waiting for Sir Gawain to call her. It seemed an age before the voices trailed off and she heard him call her name. Then she rose and went out to him and saw that her father’s body had been removed. ‘Where have they taken him?’ she asked.