Kingslayer's Daughter (The House of Pendray Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  He frowned, his lip quivering, and for a moment she feared he might burst into tears. “But he’s coming back?”

  “Yes,” she assured him, desperately hoping she spoke the truth. “Off to bed. Sorry I woke you.”

  He handed her the candle, then disappeared into the dark shop.

  She climbed the stairs, undressed slowly, blew out the candle and collapsed into bed, too weary to hang her best clothes back on the peg. The tears came readily. She sobbed until her head ached and her throat was raw. It was of little consolation there was no one there to hear her weep.

  Munro collected his laundry from the innkeeper, nodded a goodnight greeting and fled to his room. He stuffed the clean shirts into his satchel, grabbed the bolster, sat on the bed with it in his lap, and gave vent to his frustration. The heavy pillow served alternately as Reginald, then Henry Marten as he pounded his fist into it. He raged at the damage the two men had wrought on the woman he loved.

  Finally exhausted, he hugged the bolster to his chest and buried his chin in it, trying to steady his breathing and get his thoughts in order.

  The days ahead loomed like a jagged rock on which his ship might founder. Coach travel could be dangerous. According to his father, Wales was even more rugged and bleak than Scotland. What if he was injured or killed en route, or murdered? Sarah would think he’d abandoned her.

  Inhaling deeply, he admitted he was thinking like a deranged person. It was his responsibility to stay safe so he could return.

  But did she really want him to?

  He gritted his teeth and punched the bolster again. “Of course she does. She canna live without ye.”

  He chuckled wearily at his boast. “Apparently, she can.”

  Reason told him Sarah was right. There were practical and emotional things she needed to sort out, and he’d only distract her. He’d perhaps fallen in love too quickly and a few days apart would do them both good. But his aching heart refused to listen to reason.

  Finally, unable to stay awake any longer, he reluctantly took off his boots, undressed and climbed into a cold and lonely bed.

  Thursday

  Sarah and Giles spent Thursday in the shop. For the first couple of hours, she berated herself for not seeing Munro off at The Swan. He probably expected her, but she was afraid she would dissolve into tears and beg him not to go.

  Giles pouted for most of the morning, obviously upset over Munro’s absence.

  Tiring of his sulking, she sent him off to buy food. When he returned with pickled eggs and bread, she closed the shop for the usual half hour luncheon.

  They ate together in the workroom, Giles perched on his pallet, Sarah standing at the counter.

  “What have we learned from the Battersby episode?” she asked, anxious to get him talking again.

  “Never trust a prefect,” he replied with a grin.

  “Seriously,” she retorted, glad to see a smile.

  He scratched his head. “You put the remedy in your pocket as soon as it was sealed, and didn’t let it out of your possession until you gave it to Mr. Battersby.”

  “Yes, good. That way you and I both knew it hadn’t been tampered with. What else?”

  “You shouldn’t have let the headmaster give the opened packet to Addison.”

  She shivered. It was a reality she’d nagged herself over. “Or I should at least have warned him about losing sight of it.”

  Giles swallowed his food. “But how were you to know what would happen?”

  “I didn’t trust the sly look in Addison’s eyes.”

  Giles scoffed. “He always looks like that.”

  They finished their meal in silence, then Sarah broached the subject of the future. “I don’t suppose you’d want to go back to the school?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Never. I like it here.”

  “You could go on to university.”

  He gave that some thought, then shook his head. “I’d like to study at university, like Mr. Pendray, but chances are Battersby will be even meaner now. He’d see to it I never got the chance.”

  She ought to mention the likelihood the shop would close in the not too distant future, but didn’t have the heart.

  Custom was surprisingly brisk in the afternoon. It seemed the entire neighborhood had heard about Addison’s crime. Some voiced the opinion it was to be expected of a spoiled brat raised by a wealthy father. Others lamented the falling standards of a prestigious school. All assured Sarah they didn’t believe for a moment she was involved, and patted Giles on the head for his willingness to sacrifice himself to save her.

  Grove brought the news that Battersby was recovering. Sarah was immensely relieved. Her apprentice excused himself to use the privy and returned ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes.

  The evening shadows were lengthening when she locked up. Fraternizing with apprentices was frowned upon in the profession, but she couldn’t face eating alone. “We’ll have a quick supper upstairs,” she told Giles. “Then I’m for bed.”

  “Me too,” he replied with a yawn. “This was a long day. Can’t wait for Mr. Pendray to come back.”

  The other three passengers on the Shrewsbury coach probably thought Munro was the gruffest person they’d ever met, but he didn’t feel like conversing with anyone. He feigned sleep for most of the day, arms folded across his chest, legs sprawled. For the first two hours, he pouted because Sarah hadn’t come to see him off.

  Then he turned his ire on Giles. The lad could at least have made the effort to…he stopped in mid-thought…there was no guarantee Giles even knew he’d left. He swallowed the lump of regret in his throat. He should have bid the boy farewell, tousled his curls, assured him he’d be back.

  By the time the coach pulled into the torch-lit courtyard of The Lion, he was thoroughly annoyed with himself. This love business was turning a jovial, friendly fellow into a sulking oaf who seemingly couldn’t control the persistent hardening of his tarse whenever he thought of Sarah, which was every moment of the day, and night.

  He barely exchanged a word with the buxom landlady who handed him a key and directed him to a room. He groaned inwardly when he set eyes on the urchin assigned to carry up his bag. The child was a six-year-old red-headed replica of Giles, who could barely lift the satchel, hampered as he was by a candle-lantern in the other hand.

  “I’ll take both,” he whispered, handing the servant a penny when they were out of the landlady’s hearing. It was tempting to ask how long the boy had been at work, likely since dawn, but there was nothing he could do about it anyway. Prior to the journey to King Charles’ court, he’d never traveled far from Kilmer, except to go to university. It was a sad truth he’d been ignorant of the plight of children working long hours.

  He tossed his luggage onto the wooden chair, paying scant attention to the room’s amenities, and toyed with the idea of going straight to bed. His appetite had fled.

  However, having eaten nothing all day and faced with the likelihood the morrow would involve a lot of walking, he blew out the candle and made his way to the dining room.

  Friday

  Munro ate breakfast in the busy dining room. He’d risen late, having finally fallen asleep after deciding in the middle of the night he was behaving like a spoiled child. Sarah’s insistence on a short period of separation was the right thing. She was being mature while he was acting like a jilted lover. It didn’t make the parting any easier, but it wouldn’t do to give the wrong impression of himself at the Shrewsbury School.

  The gravel-voiced landlady estimated it would take him ten minutes to walk to the school. “If you want to see the headmaster, you’d best make an appointment,” she advised. “Reverend Taylor is a stuck-up bugger.”

  Munro refrained from replying most grammar school headmasters were probably considered haughty. He simply smiled and bade her good-day.

  He huddled into his cloak as he exited the inn, holding on to his hat in the brisk wind. The route took him across the footbridge spanning the S
evern. He kicked at dead leaves whipped into piles by the autumn wind, and his spirits began to lift. There was a hint of winter’s chill in the air. It wasn’t the ideal time for Sarah to arrive in Scotland. On the other hand, they’d hopefully be married before Yuletide. He found himself whistling a few bars from The Holly and the Ivy in anticipation.

  He stopped abruptly at first sight of the massive stone building that, surprisingly, was more impressive than Birmingham’s King Edward. His father had always been tight-lipped about his years at Shrewsbury, so he hadn’t known what to expect. He mounted the front steps, aware he was about to enter a bastion of privilege where many powerful men had received their education. Chuckling, he paused for a moment and scanned the surrounding meadows, conjuring a vision of his father as a boy, newly arrived from Wales. While Morgan Pendray rarely spoke of his accomplishments, there was no doubt he’d played a significant role in changing the history of England and Scotland. The headmaster would surely be interested in learning of a former pupil’s achievements.

  Munro had always been proud of both his parents, but he strode into the school’s hallowed halls feeling ten feet tall.

  Two small boys opened the double doors, heads bowed. A third, older boy greeted him. “Welcome to our school, sir. James Pontefract. Your name?”

  Munro resisted the urge to chuckle. All three pupils wore white ankle-length tabards over black cassocks—somewhat reminiscent of the Birmingham uniform—but here the prefects’ knee socks were bright red. He wouldn’t have thought white a practical color for small boys, but perhaps Shrewsbury lads didn’t indulge in the usual boyhood pursuits. “Viscount Munro Pendray,” he replied, certain the title would impress. “My father is an Old Boy.”

  Pontefract gaped for a moment, clearly surprised by the brogue, but quickly resumed his polite role. “Follow me, sir. You’ll want to see the plaques.”

  Munro obeyed, keeping up with the boy’s brisk pace. “Aye, but I’d like to speak to the headmaster. I’m sure he’ll be…”

  The prefect interrupted without stopping or turning to look at Munro. “Reverend Taylor doesn’t see visitors without an appointment, sir.”

  Munro halted. “Even if they’ve come all the way from Scotland?”

  Jaw clenched, Pontefract turned and looked at Munro as if he were a disobedient underling. “No, sir. I’m afraid not. It’s always best to make an appointment.”

  “I’ll make one for the morrow in that case.”

  Pontefract rolled his eyes. “You’ll have to speak to his secretary about that, sir. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

  Miffed, Munro trailed behind into what was obviously the assembly hall, its walls lined with wooden plaques listing the boys who’d matriculated in past years.

  “You’ll know the time frame, sir.”

  Munro walked the length of the cavernous hall, his bootsteps echoing off the high walls, until he finally found what he sought.

  Pendray, Morgan.

  It was maudlin to get emotional, yet he had to swallow the lump in his throat. The gold letters chiseled into oak shone like a beacon. The years at the school had helped form his father’s character and thus his own. Shrewsbury was no longer just historical trivia. It was real.

  Pontefract cleared his throat. “Will you be wanting to see the secretary now, sir?”

  Munro saw no point in returning to converse with a stuck-up academic who had no interest in the achievements of a boy who’d left the school long ago. “Nay, laddie,” he replied with a smile. “I doot the Reverend Taylor wants to hear about the exploits of the Earl of Glenheath.”

  A brief spark in the boy’s eyes indicated he’d heard the name, and was keen to know more, but Munro hadn’t made the effort to come to the school to chat with a prefect. He’d fulfilled his mission. “If ye’ll lead the way to the exit.”

  The same two student porters held the door as he walked out and down the steps. He filled his lungs, recognizing at last exactly why he’d wanted to come to Shrewsbury. Sarah had known he needed to see an important part of his history for himself, just as she had to come to terms with her past.

  Intensely meaningful as his experience at the school had been, he was glad he’d come alone. He intended to tell Sarah about it, but doubted he’d share the deeper emotions the visit had engendered. They were for him alone.

  It gave him a new understanding of her desire to process the changes in her life for herself.

  Whistling, he returned to The Lion in time to enjoy a hearty Ploughman’s Lunch and a thirst-quenching tankard of dark ale.

  Friday brought a steady stream of customers to Sarah’s shop. The prospect of running her own successful business was gratifying, but meant the enterprise would be that much harder to leave.

  She began to recognize personal characteristics she’d possibly inherited from Henry Marten. Was it a constant desire for something better, something more that had led him to regicide? She’d learned her mother was patient, steadfast, loyal, and wise, but Mary was a follower, not a person who blazed a trail.

  Sarah could be considered a standard-bearer for women who wanted to be independent of men. She had the gumption, the expertise and the drive to succeed in apothecary. She’d more or less run the shop before, without much help from Reginald. However, life without Munro would be colorless, and filled with regret.

  Giles proved once again to be a quick study, but he was also personable with customers, a skill he’d probably acquired in his father’s shop. She soon felt comfortable allowing him to ascertain clients’ requirements if she had to spend a few minutes in the workroom. This advantage was another double-edged sword. It would be impossible to leave Birmingham without securing a promising future for the boy.

  By late afternoon, trade had dwindled. A quick glance along the deserted street confirmed the probability it was pointless to remain open. Sarah donned her shawl. “I’m off to the cemetery,” she told Giles, not completely sure why she was drawn to visit her mother’s grave.

  “I’ll escort you,” he replied.

  “No need.”

  “It’s my duty. Mr. Pendray would expect it of me.”

  Resigned to the truth of his statement, she waited while he retrieved his new cape.

  After locking the door, she paused, holding up the key. “When we return, remind me to give you the spare.”

  If she’d had any misgivings about the decision, his broad grin sent them packing. “I’m honored, Mrs. North.”

  Warmth blossomed in her heart. Motherhood wasn’t so difficult after all. Mayhap, she should allow Giles to address her by her given name.

  She looked towards St. Martin’s. Reverend Grove waved from the steps. She’d trusted the cleric with too much information about herself, and look where that had led. She wouldn’t have become aware of her father’s death, except eventually through local gossip. But then she wouldn’t have learned more about her parents, and herself. There’d have been no inconvenient coach journey to Chepstow. No Munro.

  “Why is life so complicated?” she mused aloud, not expecting an answer as they entered the cemetery.

  “Is it?” Giles replied.

  It was an answer one might expect from a child, but it served to underline that she was making matters more complicated than they needed to be. She had to decide what she truly desired, and keep her eyes on the prize.

  It took only a few minutes standing beside her mother’s grave for her to be absolutely sure Munro was the prize she wanted.

  Saturday

  The shop had been open for barely an hour on Saturday morning when the Beadle came through the door. Sarah and Giles exchanged an anxious glance. The Guild’s officer rocked back and forth on his heels while she took care of several customers. At least he’d politely removed his hat, but she wasn’t impressed with this man who held sway over her and who was obviously at the beck and call of other powerful men. On the occasion of his last visit, he’d falsely accused her of attempted murder. She felt his eyes on her as she administere
d remedies and advice. Giles didn’t escape scrutiny. The Beadle had evidently come to inspect.

  He closed the door after the last customer, then wedged his considerable bulk in front of it. There was no point protesting. Blocking entry was clearly his objective.

  Tired of men who seemed to think they ruled the world, she went on the offensive, stalking to the door to challenge him. The words died on her lips when she espied Battersby’s coach in the street.

  “The Headmaster would like to see you,” he explained. “If it’s convenient.”

  His placatory tone took her by surprise. “I cannot leave the shop.”

  “That’s why he asked me to come. I can take care of things here while you’re away.”

  “I’m sure you’re more than capable of compounding remedies, but you don’t know where anything is.”

  “Giles can assist me.”

  She glanced at her apprentice. His frown indicated she shouldn’t go. However, he stayed silent, likely realizing it wouldn’t be a good idea to offend the Beadle if he was going to be left alone with him.

  Part of her itched to confront Battersby, to scold him for falsely accusing her. He deserved to be lambasted as well for his treatment of Giles and goodness knew how many other innocent boys. Sometimes, tyrants had to be…

  She nigh on laughed out loud. Perhaps, she was her father’s daughter after all. “Very well,” she conceded. “I’m sure Giles can learn a lot from you. He’s a quick study. Hopefully, this won’t take long.”

  She retrieved her bonnet and shawl from upstairs, then spoke to Giles on her way out. “I have every confidence in you,” she said loudly enough for the Beadle to hear.

  She was also quite certain the pompous Beadle would be impressed with her organized, well-equipped shop, but she kept that to herself.