Ridley stepped away from him and spread his hands—a gesture of cool indifference. “I am unarmed, sir.”
“Arm yourself, then.”
Ridley shrugged. “I choose not to.”
“Do you refuse my challenge?”
“Not at all.” Ridley pointed toward Ludlow Castle. “There’s an open field just beyond the porter’s lodge. Quarterstaffs. It would please me to crack your pate.”
Suddenly, Crompton stepped forward, his eyes glittering like hard coals. “No. Swords.”
Grey Ridley laughed. A harsh, strange sound, it seemed to Allegra. “I prefer quarterstaffs,” he said. “Though I don’t mind rapping Sir William’s empty head, that coat of his is too fine to cut with a blade. Good tailors are harder to come by than lousy noblemen.”
“By God,” said Batterbee, beginning to sheathe his sword, “it matters not to me what we use. Just so I teach this braggart a lesson!”
Crompton’s smile had become a sly smirk. “No, Billy. Swords. This is Lord Ridley of Baniard Hall. You will recall I told you of him?”
“Ecod!” Batterbee slapped his thigh in pleasure. “This is the man? Then swords it is. Give him your blade, Cousin.”
Crompton drew his sword and held it out, hilt first. Ridley flinched, took several shaky steps backward, and wiped his hand across his mouth as though he were desperately in need of a drink. Allegra stared in horror. What was happening to the man?
He glanced briefly at her, then looked away, the color rising to his cheeks. “I shall not fight you, sir,” he said. “’Tis scarcely worth my effort.” Allegra heard the tremor in his voice, and wondered if the three men could hear it as well.
Batterbee’s friend began to laugh. “Is this nothing but a toupet man?” he taunted. “A mincing coward who is less than a man?” He pointed down the street. “Yonder is a monkey with a sword, Billy boy. He would make a more worthy foe than this lily-livered craven.”
Crompton poked the hilt of the sword at Ridley’s lax fingers. “Take it.”
Ridley pulled his hand away; he was beginning to tremble slightly. “I shall not.”
Batterbee’s friend reached out and slipped his arm around Allegra’s waist. “A kiss from the wench as the prize.”
Allegra broke away from him and turned to Ridley. He mustn’t be forced to fight on her behalf. Not when he was so clearly unwilling. And afraid? She was reluctant to accept the word, but surely that was fear on his face. She searched her brain to rescue him from this dilemma.
“You needn’t duel on my account, Lord Ridley,” she said, the words tumbling out of her in an anxious rush. “I’m to blame. Wholly to blame. I did insult Sir William.” She curtsied to Batterbee. “For which I humbly beg your pardon, sir. There’s no need to trouble my master further. Put up your sword.”
He sneered. “Shall I have you on your knees next, begging for your master’s life?”
She glanced again at Ridley. That was fear in his eyes. An unreasoning terror that had reduced him to helplessness. “If I must,” she whispered.
“Enough,” said Ridley. His voice was low, his face a mask of tired resignation. “Give me the blade, damn you.” He took the sword and held it firmly for a moment in a white-knuckled fist, his jaw clenched in determination.
Then he groaned, lowered the blade and began to shake—a violent quivering and trembling that buffeted him from head to toe. He had become as pale as a ghost. The corner of one eye twitched and beads of sweat appeared on his broad forehead. He was now shaking so violently that the sword point tapped against the ground in a sickening rhythm. His chest heaved as though he were having difficulty breathing, and soft, agonized grunts came from his throat.
Allegra gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. The transformation was so complete and appalling that she wanted to die. This was far more dreadful and bone-chilling than anything Lady Dorothy had told her of his behavior. It shamed her to watch him. Shamed her even more to guess that her own presence must be adding to his humiliation.
The more he crumbled before their eyes, the more his tormentors taunted him; the air was poisoned with their laughter and their insults. Allegra couldn’t bear another moment. She pushed aside Crompton and Batterbee, snatched the sword from Ridley’s hand, and threw it to the ground. She glared at the men and indicated Ridley’s bloody sleeves. “Can’t you see that His Lordship has been hurt?” She put her arm around Ridley’s waist. “Come away, milord. Let me tend your wounds.”
He stared down at her. His eyes were blank and lost, like a man who had suffered a mortal blow and still couldn’t believe it.
“Please, Your Lordship. Grey. Come away.”
He clung to her. She could feel the helpless quivering of his limbs. “Gin,” he said hoarsely.
She guided him to an old, out-of-the-way tavern, suffering—as though the pain were hers—the taunts and laughter that followed them down the High Street until they turned a corner.
Ridley seemed incapable of conducting his own affairs; Allegra hesitated, then fished in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out several gold coins. “Here,” she said to the tavernkeeper. “A private room. And a dram of gin to start. And send a boy to the High Cross to fetch His Lordship’s coat and hat.”
The private room in the rear of the tavern was small and cheerless. Grey Ridley staggered to the single decrepit armchair, threw himself down, and glared at Allegra. “Go away.”
She gambled that he was too devastated to care that she was merely his bondservant, who owed him perfect obedience. She shook her head. “No. I shall stay.”
“Then stay and be damned,” he said, and closed his eyes. He was still pale and shaking when the landlord shuffled into the room a few moments later, bearing his coat and hat and a flask of gin. He opened his eyes and curled his lip in disgust. “Did you have to send to London to get it, fool? If you expect to be paid, you will fetch me another flask of gin at once. In timely fashion, you understand. I’ll not pay for a sluggard. Now, get out.”
He lifted the flask with a trembling hand and poured the gin down his throat. Allegra watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as the liquid sought its terminus. He scarcely seemed to stop for breath. But when he lowered the flask at last, the color had returned to his face. He paused for a moment, then returned the bottle to his lips. He drank steadily and silently, by the time the landlord returned, bearing the second flask of gin, Ridley had drained the first.
About to start on the second bottle, he looked at Allegra and frowned. “Why do you stare at me in that fashion?”
“Please, milord,” she whispered. “Don’t drink so much.”
He gave a sneering laugh. “Such a humble plea. Landlord, in honor of this sad-eyed creature, bring me six more bottles of gin.”
She sighed, feeling helpless. There must be something she could say that would ease his pain, turn him from his self-destructive course. “If I may be permitted, milord,” she began in a faltering voice. “I have never seen such bravery as yours. The boy would have died else. No one would have saved him from the bear. But you…you risked injury…ignored the danger…”
“Injury?” He laughed and held up his bandaged arms. “I’ve had worse scratches from a whore. And enjoyed it almost as much. Do you scratch a man when he’s swiving you?”
She lowered her eyes, shocked by his crudeness. He was determined to be cruel. Best for her to hold her tongue.
He finished the second bottle of gin, watching her uneasily all the while, as though he expected—or dreaded—that she would speak. “Come here,” he growled at last, and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of his chair. When she obeyed, standing before him with downcast eyes, he stuck out his chin as though he were challenging her. “Do you think I give a damn what they think of me?” he demanded.
“No, of course not, milord.” But of course he did. She sought desperately to give him back his pride. “They were as lowbred and coarse as the lowest rogues in the land. What should their opinions matter to a man
like you?”
“And your opinion?” He searched her face, his amber eyes glowing with intensity. He seemed almost to be holding his breath, waiting on her answer.
She had a sudden wild thought. Would he have felt so humiliated if she hadn’t been there to see it? God forgive her, but perhaps he would have refused the sword except for her presence. Surely he had only accepted the challenge because she was there. Yet why should he care what she thought of him? She was only a lowly servant. But, clearly, he did.
She felt a pang of guilt; if it was her fault, how could she lessen his shame? And then she remembered “Mr. Morgan” at the almshouse. She would praise him, confess that she knew of his secret life of benevolence, his noble deeds. Far more the mark of a truly brave man than a momentary weakness in the marketplace. “You’re a good man, milord,” she began. “Whatever your…difficulties in the face of a challenge…”
His mouth curved in a bitter smile. “My dishonor, you mean. My cowardice.”
“No!”
He shrugged. “Call it what you will. I can live with it.”
“If you can live with it, why do you need the gin?”
“What would you have me do? Cut off my offending right arm?”
“No.” She sighed heavily. “Only learn to accept whatever is past.”
A cynical laugh. “As you have, with the flame of hatred burning in your heart?”
She gulped back the tears. What could she say? He twisted every bit of comfort she tried to give him.
He laughed again and picked up a bottle. “This is where my succor lies.”
“Please don’t,” she murmured.
He rose to his feet and towered over her, staring down at the rounded swell of her bosom. He raised a mocking eyebrow. “If you can give me something better to do for the next quarter of an hour or so, I’ll not touch another drop.”
She backed away. This was not where she had wanted to lead his thoughts. If she could get him to his horse, send him back to the sanctuary of Baniard Hall and the care of Jagat Ram, she might keep him from further harm. And herself, as well, God knows.
She turned and picked up his coat. “Come, milord,” she said briskly. “Come home. You’ll have a fine supper, and I’ll bring you your cordial. I have a new concoction I think you’ll enjoy. And, if it will comfort you…” She smiled shyly, hoping she could remind him of the tender moments they had shared. “I remember what you said at the High Cross. If it will comfort you, I’ll stay in your rooms for hours and let you look at me.”
He sneered. “I must have been mad when I said that. The only way you could comfort me is if I found you in my bed naked and willing.”
She stared at him in hurt and dismay. “But…you said…my face…”
“You’re merely another petticoat,” he drawled. “If I could have your body willing, you could come to my bed wearing a mask.” He laughed bitterly. “At least, in some ways, I can still prove that I’m a man. You see?”
His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist; with a cruel wrench, he pressed her palm against the hard fullness of his groin. “You see?” he said again. “Am I a man?”
“For the love of God!” she cried, cringing at the savage intimacy he had forced upon her. “Let me go.”
His eyes glowed with pain and rage. “Am I a man?” he repeated.
She twisted her hand from his grasp. “You’re a monster!” she cried, and burst into tears. “And not deserving of a minute’s pity!” She threw his coat to the floor and rushed from the room. From the tavern. From the town.
From the grief that tore at her heart.
“You silly creature! Just because I saved your tail, will you follow me all the way up to Wenlock Edge?” Allegra sat down on a patch of grass beside the dusty road and held out her arms to the thin dog. She had paid no notice to the animal on her hasty flight from Ludlow. She had been filled with too much misery for anything but the thought of escaping Ridley.
But the dog had remembered her. And followed, wagging its tail in happy loyalty. Now, it barked softly and burrowed in her arms, tucking its head against her neck.
Its fur was as warm as her flesh, reminding her that she had kept her large hat hanging by its ribbon down her back since Ridley had pushed it from her head. She should have been wearing it all this time. The climb in the sun had been too hot for her to go uncovered. Perhaps that was why her head was beginning to throb.
She got to her feet and looked around. She must be near Culmington by now. She seemed to remember from her childhood that there had been a brook, running through the village and into the woods. A cool drink would revive her spirits. At least if she could stop thinking about Grey Ridley.
The woods were cool and refreshing when she turned off the road. There was even a footpath; others, no doubt, had been drawn to the stream on hot August days like this. With the dog scampering at her heels, she came to a small, open meadow, bright with flowers and sweet, scented grasses. It reminded her that she had forgotten her visit to the apothecary in her haste to leave Ludlow.
“Well, dog,” she said to the animal, with a laugh, “my mother taught me to be practical as well as patient.” And surely there were enough plants and flowers in the meadow to stock a dozen apothecary shops.
She pulled off her hat and looped the ribbon over her wrist, making her way through the tall grasses to poke and search and discover the treasures that lay all around her. Yellow-flowered gentian, for ills of the stomach, eyebright and maidenhair fern, fragrant thyme, shepherd’s purse for the flux. She filled her hat with flowers and stems and leaves, grasses and berries. She brushed away the humming bees from a patch of clover and smiled in satisfaction. Even the unhappiest of days could yield its small rewards. If Lord Ridley’s scratches festered, she would need a poultice. And the clover was her chief ingredient. She plucked handfuls of the scented blossoms and added them to her store.
By the time she reached the edge of the meadow and heard the gurgle of the stream beyond, she was feeling a good deal better. She would think no more of what had happened. There was no way that she could help Ridley, so why should she suffer on his account? She had her own life. She had her own griefs. She would forget the despair she had read in his eyes, the softness of his lips, the warmth of his hands.
She knelt and drank from the stream, then followed it deeper into the woods. It widened suddenly into a little pool, shaded by a large ash tree and glinting with sparkles where the sun broke through the leaves and touched the placid surface of the water.
It looked cool and inviting. Allegra hesitated, then put aside her hat, and pulled off her clothing—gown, petticoat, stays, and shift. The summer breeze was gentle on her naked body, sweet after the heat of the day.
The dog watched her, its head cocked to one side, as though it thought her mad. And when she put a tentative foot into the water and gasped at its icy coldness, she was tempted to agree with the animal.
Still, it seemed foolish to lose her nerve now, when she had gone to the bother of disrobing. She screwed up her courage, took a deep breath and plunged into the pool. By all the saints, she was mad. She splashed wildly about to warm her blood and accustom her heated flesh to the frigid water. It was refreshing, but she didn’t intend to linger for any length of time.
The pool was not very deep—reaching only to her breasts—which was just as well; she wasn’t a good swimmer. Gammer Pringle had discouraged her from swimming in the farm pond even on hot days, fearing she might someday leap into the harbor of Charles Town and escape.
The dog stood on the bank and barked at her. She laughed and threw handfuls of water at it, which sent it scurrying behind the large tree. In a moment it emerged, returned to the bank and began again to bark. Again she splashed, again it retreated only to return, barking furiously. It was an amusing game, one that seemed to delight the dog as much as Allegra. She hadn’t played like this since she was a child. That thought sobered her for a moment, and she shivered—as much from her painful memor
ies as from the cold water. The dog stood watching her, barking to remind her of their game. She shook off her dark mood and splashed the animal with water once more. It vanished.
She waited. She could hear the rustle of branches in the thicket beyond the tree. “Well, dog,” she called, “have you tired of our frolic?”
“I could hear his barking all the way from the road. My horse frightened him away.”
Allegra gasped in surprise and ducked in the water up to her shoulders. Grey Ridley, astride his horse, moved to the edge of the pool and looked down at her, a sly smile on his face. His clothing was in disarray, and his eyes were unnaturally bright, like glittering chips of amber.
“How many bottles of gin have you drunk since I left?” asked Allegra in disgust. Oddly, she felt more anger than fear.
He looked pleased with himself. “Not nearly enough.”
She tried to shield her nakedness from his gaze, but it seemed a pointless effort. The water was far too clear to afford her much modesty. Besides, he had seen her breasts before. What did she care? She stood straight and tall and proud, defying him. “Go home to the Hall while you can still sit your horse, milord,” she said sharply.
He laughed and dismounted, his movements unsteady and graceless. His riding whip hung from his wrist; he raised it to smack the horse on its flank. “Let him go home alone. Together, you and I will walk back to the Hall.” He leered. “Later.”
She gritted her teeth. Why did drink always bring out his lechery? “I’m no more willing to be your whore today than I was yesterday. Or will be tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “Then I see no point in inconveniencing myself.” He turned and tied his horse to the tree, then ambled to the bank and sat down at the edge of the pool. He slapped idly at the water with his whip, watching Allegra with eyes that told her nothing. Was she in danger? Or was this just one more of his teasing games? Like the morning when he had come to her room.
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