No, she wasn't better, Rozalinde thought morosely. For now she was hearing things. Was it something in this pomander? She held up the bauble in her hand and squinted at it.
"Rozalinde! Grab the rope. Do you hear me?"
Sudden hope pierced her. She turned toward the sound of the voice. It seemed to come from the huge, ostentatious chimney piece. Could it be ... ?
The hearth was cold. Thrusting the pomander into her kirtle pocket, Roz raced for it and without hesitating, bent over and thrust her head inside. The flue was big and dirty, but there was no fire in the hearth downstairs, for she smelled no smoke. It would easily accommodate a woman her size.
Something brushed her face, dangling from above. It was the rope. "Jonathan?" she called softly. "Is that you?"
"Aye, sister. Tie the rope around your waist."
She did so, not stopping to ask questions. At her tug, he began to haul her up slowly, while Roz helped with hands and feet.
"By heaven, I'm glad to see you." Roz emerged into the open and breathed deeply after the suffocating closeness of the flue. She reached out her arms to Jon, who helped her down from the tall chimney stack.
"Aye, well, we must be away. Come," he whispered, clasping her arm as he balanced precariously on the sharp pitch of the roof where the two sides joined. "We must go to that tree." Letting go of her, Jonathan began walking steadily across the point of the roof, balancing precisely, putting one foot before the other. He'd always had perfect balance—it seemed to go with the juggling and the tumbling he so loved.
Roz swallowed with great difficulty, finding a sudden lump lodged in her throat as she watched him move along the dangerous path. The tree looked far away. "I don't know if I can make it, Jon." She could hear her own voice tremble. She took a grip on herself before continuing. "The roof is so steep."
"Sit down," he told her over his shoulder, "and slide yourself across."
" Twill take forever," she muttered, more to herself as he drew farther away. And what hour was it? She must get to The Chalice before it left port. Troth, she thought dismally, Kit's words ringing in her memory. If you set one foot out of your door for Antwerp, you'll walk straight into trouble. Gingerly she placed one foot on the pointed pitch of the roof, extended both arms for balance, and took her first step.
It proved to be the longest walk of her life. Each placement of her foot seemed to take her nowhere, her journey endless. She had to count something, to steady her nerves. People she loved rose up in her mind. With fierce concentration, she began.
One, for Angelica, always into trouble. But that reminded her of Kit and his warning. She thrust him from her mind.
Two for Lucina, always hugging her so desperately. Right in front of the earl, too, who'd clearly been shocked. Oh, she had been wicked that day, to do what she'd done—to make the girls kiss him. He'd been so angry. But the thought of that led to thoughts of his embraces, and her face flamed red. Oh, why did she keep thinking of him? It was too confusing. For days she'd thought he'd stolen her cargo. Then she learned it was Trenchard. So how should she feel about the earl, now that she knew? She took another step and pushed him from her mind.
Three, for Charles, with his whines and his smiles. That didn't remind her of the earl—troth, there he was again. She took two steps in rapid succession without even counting. She would never make it.
Despite the coolness of the night, beads of sweat gathered at her hairline. One trickled down her forehead, dripped into her right eye. She batted her eyelid futilely, trying to clear her vision.
Four for Jonathan. Oh, thank the good Lord for Jonathan. Five ... six ... seven ... eight ... nine ... She stepped slowly and deliberately, relying on the numbers, trying to keep her mind blank to everything except their soothing formations.
Down below there were shouts in the town green. She could hear footsteps, people running. Intent on her own business, she continued to count with each step.
Ten ... eleven ... twelve ... The commotion below died away, but images of Kit returned to torment her. Scraps and snippets swirling in her memory — Kit in the black velvet mask, bending to kiss her mouth; the rich scent of cloves and his wonderfully musky pomade; Kit in the stormy black cape, standing alone on the Spanish ship, entrusting her with his secrets. His handsome face had looked down at her, passion burning in his eyes as he warned her to remain at home. The thoughts were joy and agony, all leading to her present trouble. She was just where he'd predicted she would be, and it was her own fault. But it was too late—she could not change her mind about going to Antwerp. Scarcely daring to breathe, she inched her way along.
"You can do it, Rozalinde. Just a little farther." Jon had reached the tree long ago. Now he encouraged her in a loud whisper. "You're almost here."
She dared raise her eyes from the roof, seeking his reassurance. As she did so, one foot slipped.
Down she fell, grasping at anything to stop herself. One of her hands hooked on the roof's pitch and hung there, her heart pounding with deafening loudness, her breath rasping wildly in her throat.
Kit winced sharply as a stone pierced his shoulder. The instant he'd aimed his pistol through Trenchard's window, then fired a ball straight into Lord DeVega, this fellow had leaped out and pursued him. He ran like the wind, the devil. And now he was gaining on him, coming closer and throwing stones, though Lord knew how he stooped to get them.
Redoubling his speed, Kit dodged around a house and changed direction, heading south. He must get to The Raven. Some way farther on he stopped, leaned against the wall of a house and listened, filling his lungs with searing breaths of air. Had his pursuer realized the trick? Was he followed?
The sound of footsteps echoed in the quiet town, not running now, but moving steadily, pausing every so often to determine which way the unknown assailant had gone.
Blast! Kit set off, used the trick again, circling around several houses and traveling north. At this rate he would take hours to reach The Raven. Not that it mattered. His diversion had done its work—created chaos in Trenchard's house. He hoped it was long enough for Jon to help Rozalinde escape, because he couldn't help her now.
From above Jonathan saw the commotion, the people coming and going, and whispered a thanksgiving. No one had heard his sister fall. No one looked up. Turning resolutely, he crossed the roof to where she hung by one hand. "Steady, now, Rozalinde." Lowering himself carefully, he sat with one leg straddling each side of the roof. "I'll have you up in a thrice." Grasping her arm, he braced himself and pulled.
When he had her sitting before him, skirts bunched around her waist, legs on each side of the roof, she collapsed. He put both arms around her to give her support.
"Pull yourself together, Rozalinde. My stars." Jon had never thought to say such a thing to his sister. 'Twas she who'd always said it to him.
"I feel dizzy." She clung to him fiercely. "They hit me on the head. It pains me so, I couldn't keep my balance."
Jon held her tighter. "I know. I saw them."
"You followed me, didn't you?"
She didn't ask, she stated the fact, and he thought she was going to chastise him, but she didn't. "Thank you," she whispered after a moment, "I'll never doubt you again. I'll trust you with anything. The house, the shop."
"Don't thank me yet," he said gruffly, elated by her gratitude. "We still must get down."
"And you must get me to the ship."
"You're still going?"
"I am."
"But, Rozalinde, you've been hit on the head. You just said you can scarce keep your balance, that your head pains you. You should come home, go back to bed."
"I must go with the ship, Jon. Things will not be better with the business if I remain at home. They'll only grow worse."
Jon gave her a last pat on the back, realizing she was determined, then began the slow process of turning himself around. "All right, Rozalinde. Just as you say."
"I think I can climb the tree if you'll ge
t me to it."
Jon nodded resignedly. "Hold on while we slide back. That way you won't fall."
They got down safely, slipping into the shadows at the back of the house. The tree's height had let them see and avoid the watch, several of Trenchard's servants, and two Spaniards who stood out front, waiting to see if the mysterious attacker was caught. Jon's horse was tethered a few streets away. The beast whickered when they drew near.
"Up you go, Rozalinde." Jon boosted her into the saddle, then prepared to swing up behind her.
"What hour is it?" Roz whispered, holding the horse steady for him to mount. "The ship will leave at dawn. I'm not too late?"
" 'Tis well after three, but never fear. I'll see you on that ship." Jon took the reins and nudged the horse into motion, feeling a faint twinge of guilt for concealing Kit's part. Nonetheless, his lordship had ordered it thus. "I'm not much good with numbers. Not like you. But I can manage this," he assured her.
It was hours later, just before dawn, when a tired Kit arrived at Poole. At the risk of being seen, he approached the quay cautiously, then concealed himself in a shed. From there he scanned the harbor, looking for The Chalice. He'd meant to catch up with Jonathan and Rozalinde, to take Rozalinde and force her, if necessary, to accompany him on The Raven. Since she was so intent on going to Antwerp, why not go with him? Either way she would be missing from her home, so it didn't make much difference. He would give in to those urges that drove him. That was his plan.
He hadn't counted on that fellow from Trenchard's household reacting with such insistence. Lord, but that underling could run! For over an hour they'd played cat and mouse in the dark streets of West Lulworth. But Kit had the advantage. He'd grown up in this town, and the place had changed little over the years. How well he'd known the obscure hiding places, how often he'd used them to hide from his father, who would storm down from the castle and search for hours before catching him and dragging him home for a beating. Those hiding places had served Kit well tonight. The barn loft behind the shoemaker's house, the huge box where the alemaker stored his wood. They'd allowed him to outwit the fellow, then make his escape.
Scanning the bay rapidly, Kit searched for The Chalice, but failed to see it immediately. Thinking he must have forgotten where it lay anchored, he changed his position and looked again. Intently he studied the water, seeing the fishing boats, the usual small hulks at anchor. A vast displeasure deepened in his mind. There was no mistaking it. The Chalice had left port.
Two days later, Kit scanned the horizon, looking for Rozalinde's ship. Devilish puzzling, he told himself as he stood at the rail of the Swiftsure, his hair and cape ruffled by the brisk breeze. He had sailed from the coast of Dorset to this point just north of the Straits of Dover. By rights he should have encountered The Chalice. But he'd seen not trace of the English ship.
Now he approached his expected rendezvous with Phillipe. Just ahead, the dozen or more ships of the Beggar fleet arranged themselves to guard the passage to Antwerp. From the Swiftsure he could see The Hope sitting in the position of authority. Feeling a driving need to be on board that vessel, he issued orders to move ahead.
"Christopher, m'n vriend, I am most pleased to see thee."
Entering the captain's cabin, Kit found himself enveloped by Phillipe's massive embrace, then guided to the best chair. The welcome sound of Phillipe's deep-toned voice accosted him.
"I am relieved to see you yet whole, with your dangerous work, mijn vriend." Pulling off his heavy gloves, Kit sat, let his gaze linger on Phillipe as the man stoked the brazier with fresh coal, then seated himself opposite. Something radiant seeped into Kit, taking him by surprise. Warmth. Fingers of it spread through him, and it was not just heat from the brazier after the chill of the afternoon wind.
At the count's command, a cabin boy entered bearing two hot platters of food. The odor of hot chicken in pungent sauce tantalized Kit's nostrils. When it was served and the boy had withdrawn, Kit fell to, ravenous with an appetite he hadn't known in days. As he ate, he found himself pouring out the details of his secret movements in West Lulworth—how the Spanish had requested safe harbor in the town, his discovery of Trenchard's collusion with them. All of it dropped from his lips like a confession. "The Spanish ship is on its way here with the next communique. This Marquis DeVega is to deliver it to the Duke of Alva at Antwerp. All we need do is wait. They will sail right into our hands."
"Well done." Phillipe offered Kit another helping from the platter of roast capon. His mouth widened in a smile of congratulation. "I beg you, eat."
Kit lifted his knife again with relish. "You cannot imagine how good this tastes. I have not supped properly in over a sen-night."
"Sakkerloot!" Phillipe muttered in a chastening tone. He refilled Kit's flagon of wine, ignoring his own trencher of food. " 'Tis ill for your health, this moving about at night, going without rest and proper food, it wears on your strength. But your discovery is an important one. Now we know this Trenchard is in league with our enemy and a traitor to England. The Spanish must be moving forward with their plan for an invasion. What does your queen say?"
"The same thing she always says. Destroy him but keep her name out of it. She is a hard mistress, Her Grace. I would rather arrest him in the queen's name."
"You cannot, of course." Phillipe ran his hand through his thick gray hair distractedly. "If your countrymen knew a traitor lived in their midst, held a trusted position appointed by the Crown, they would lose faith. They would begin to suspect one another, would quarrel among themselves. Division within a country is lethal. You must rid Lulworth of this man without giving away his secret. Mayhap at the same time we can put a stop to the invasion."
"A tall order." Kit speared a piece of meat with his knife and downed it. "I would speak of it later. Let's to my news for you. You've not even asked."
Phillipe nodded, and Kit wondered how he could be so calm. In his place, Kit would have demanded the information. It must be his age, he decided, studying the lines reaming Phillipe's face, the dignity of the chiseled grooves around the eyes and mouth. It made Kit aware of the blood in his own veins, blood that was too hot, too impatient. "Her Majesty wishes to aid you," Kit told him, then stopped, realizing he had to tell the unpleasant part first. "Unfortunately, she cannot do it openly."
Phillipe's expression remained unruffled. " 'Tis not unusual. Our allies often resort to subterfuge."
"I am sorry," Kit breathed, feeling vastly uncomfortable, "but we cannot afford open war at this time. Spain would crush us. Our navy is still small—"
"No apology is necessary. I accept God's will." Pangs of remorse throbbed through Kit. He had let his friend down. "But wait ... There is also good news. Although the queen does not wish to drain her treasury, she will borrow money from her nobles. I have the funds needed to recruit men and outfit more ships. You tell me there are many people who want to leave the part of your country ruled by the Spanish—we'll simply put them to work for the Prince of Orange."
"I thank you."
Kit's heart sank. Phillipe was not responding as he'd hoped. He probed his mind for some other way to help. "You need a safe port for the fleet—a place to make repairs and take on water. I could arrange it for you, somewhere along the Dorset coast."
"I will not go there." Phillipe shook his head firmly. "I told you before."
" 'Twould be a place well concealed. I know many excellent harbors. I could bring supplies—"
"That is scarce the difficulty." Phillipe's gaze shifted away. "I did not tell you previously but ... there was once a woman in Dorset ... She is now dead ..."
Words froze in Kit's throat. He tried to swallow and found he could not. "I understand," he said, trying to fight the painful, powerful feelings, that surged within him whenever he thought of Rozalinde. "These feelings for this woman—you wish to forget them. They bring nothing but pain. Entanglements are best avoided before they take root." He stopped, wondering how Ph
illipe would answer. When he looked up, the older man was staring at him. "Do you really believe that?"
"Why should I not?"
Phillipe scrapped back his chair and stood. He regarded Kit steadily, arms crossed before his chest, expression inscrutable. "You have much to tell me, Christopher. I would like to know where you got such ideas. Are those your father's words?"
"Of course not." Kit bit out the retort. "I am master of my own thoughts and feelings. It's only that once I left home, I swore never to be tied to persons or places. Such emotions are ultimately meaningless. I merely thought you felt the same. Why should you visit a place that reminds you of pain?"
Phillipe shook his head. "That is not why I refuse to visit Dorset. I love the woman I mentioned."
The statement caught Kit off guard. He looked up, incredulous.
"Why does this surprise you? Our love gave us strength. At times, it was all I had." Phillipe's eyelids closed and a great calm seemed to suffuse his person. When he opened them again, he fixed his gaze on Kit. "You cannot call that meaningless—something that gives your life purpose."
Kit didn't hear him. His thoughts were still riveted on Phillipe's first revelation—this was a man he respected, yet he said he loved. No matter that the woman was dead. Kit winced inwardly as an unexpected gush of pain surfaced inside him. Unable to move, he stared at his mentor.
"You do not believe me, do you?" Phillipe sat down again and drew his chair close to Kit's. "Listen, then, and let me tell you. When I was young, I met with a maid. She was traveling in the train of the English ambassador to the Netherlands. As his only daughter, she was well guarded, greatly revered, but I encountered her often at the court of Emperor Charles in Brussels. I danced with her, dined with her, rode out with her, though always in company. It made no difference. In the presence of others or alone, I had eyes only for her. We fell in love.
"When I learned she was betrothed to another man, I was beside myself. I promised to challenge him to a duel, to kill him any way I could. My father forbade me. He locked me in my chamber, telling me I would not cause a scandal or wreak diplomatic ruin on relations between our countries. I knew I was indiscreet. I realized my impetuous nature, but I could not control it. My father, being a wise man, took precautions to do it for me. He keep me under lock and key, well guarded until such a time as the spell would pass.
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