by Jane Feather
“I believe Lionel can be trusted,” she said after a minute, her voice now very low. “But don't ask me why I believe that.”
“I must make up my own mind on that score,” Robin responded soberly.
“Yes,” Pippa agreed. “In that case I wonder if it would be wise to have Lionel's own boatmen leave you off at the French ambassador's water steps.”
Robin whistled through his teeth, cursing himself for such an elementary mistake. Lionel Ashton had thrown him completely off course with his scarab talk. “You're right. I'll take you to your bed, and make my own way after.”
Pippa sat in frowning silence for the remainder of the journey. It was unheard of for Robin to make such a tyro's error. Whatever had disturbed him about this evening must be very serious. It had certainly taken his mind off the fair Luisa.
Seventeen
Gabriel adjusted the leather strap around his neck. The lyre was heavy and the strap that held it was too tight, cutting into his shoulder. In his haste to make his rendezvous he had not taken the time to position it properly.
The evening star showed bright above the glistening gray river at the end of the lane. Gabriel hummed softly to himself, a melody that he had composed for Stuart. Tonight he would play it for him in the welcome anonymity of the tavern.
Stuart had agreed to spend tonight in the tavern instead of in the little chamber in the palace. Gabriel could not relax there. Even though Stuart had installed a strong lock and a heavy bar across the door he was jumpy and afraid, hearing footsteps in the corridor outside when there were none, imagining ears pressed to the door, eyes that could pierce the heavy oak. In the tavern there were no spies, everyone had their own secrets and kept them.
They would sup in the chamber under the eaves that Gabriel considered their very own. Unlike Stuart he did not allow himself to think of all the other couples who also used the chamber. He knew it troubled Stuart but for him it was an irrelevancy. There would be a fire in the grate, wine in the flask, wax candles in the sconces. And Gabriel would play the music of his soul.
Something struck him in the middle of his back. The melody died on his lips. He spun around, bewildered. A group of men stood about twenty feet from him. They stared at him with hard, red-rimmed eyes from beneath pulled-down caps. Their mouths were twisted, their faces rough. One of them raised a hand and a stone flew through the air, hitting Gabriel in the shoulder.
He cried out at the pain. A second man raised his hand; the stone this time hit Gabriel on the cheek. He felt warm blood trickle. But for a moment he could not move. He could not understand what was happening. Other men emerging from doorways and alleys along the lane converged on the group as if drawn by invisible string. They stared at Gabriel with the hungry eyes of a predator. Some bent to pick up stones from the muddy lane.
Another missile flew, striking Gabriel's lyre. He heard the gilded wood crack. And the sound brought him to his senses. He turned and ran. He knew there would be no help. This was London, where the mob ruled the streets. Even if one of the rare city watchmen happened upon the scene he would look the other way and hurry past lest he too become the focus of the rabble's violence.
Gabriel heard them behind him, a steady trot of booted feet on the cobbles. Another stone hit him in the back, winding him. He tripped, fell to his knees in a muddy puddle, and they were upon him. He covered his head with his hands and waited for the blows, but none came. Instead a low vicious chant of obscenity beat down upon him. In the vile language of the gutter they called him what he knew himself to be in their eyes, a perverted, unnatural beast. Someone bent over him, pushing him down onto his back. He spat into Gabriel's face.
Gabriel closed his eyes against the leering hateful faces staring down at him. The stale, fetid odor of their clothes and bodies and breath was overpowering. Gobbets of saliva soaked his face, spattered his clothes as they chanted their obscenities. A boot made contact with his ribs and as if from a great distance he heard himself moan. Now it would begin . . .
But it didn't. The chanting ceased. They still stood over him, but he felt them move back a little, giving him room. He could hear them breathing. He didn't dare to open his eyes and yet his body moved of its own accord, like an injured mouse who thinks the cat has forgotten about it and tries to crawl away.
He staggered to his feet, and they let him. He opened his eyes a slit, just enough to see how to push his way through them. And they let him go.
Once free he broke into a stumbling run. Behind him the chorus of obscenities began again, but his tormentors didn't follow him and the mocking chant faded away as he reached the end of the lane and turned the corner.
Two men in black cloaks, black caps pulled low over their foreheads, moved away from the upstairs window of a house that hung over the narrow lane.
“Good enough,” one of them observed.
“Aye,” agreed the other, picking up a pile of coins from the table. “Not a message to be ignored.” He returned to the window and leaned out. “Here,” he called down to the street, and dropped the coins in a shower of copper and silver.
The rabble fell upon them, and then upon each other. The man above shrugged and stepped away from the window. “Animals.”
“They have their uses,” his companion commented with an indifferent shrug of his own. “Let us make our report to Renard.”
Gabriel staggered in through the doorway of the Black Bear and fell to his knees in the passage. His body ached, a deep throbbing pain that was as much mental as physical. He was soiled with saliva and the filth of the kennel where he had fallen. His clothes were torn, his lyre cracked beyond repair. In his ears rang still the vile chanting of the mob.
But he was safe here. He would just rest here in the dim passage until he had the strength to climb the stairs to the chamber where Stuart would be waiting.
The landlord emerged from the taproom and nearly tripped over the huddled figure in the shadows. “Eh, what's this then? What d'ye think y'are doin' 'ere. Get out!” He raised a foot to kick the disreputable, filthy beggar back into the street.
“No . . . no . . . wait!” Gabriel straightened himself against the wall and the landlord recognized him.
He whistled. “What 'appened to you, sir?”
“An accident,” Gabriel said.
“I'll fetch Mr. Brown to ye.” The landlord hurried away upstairs in search of Stuart, who was known to him only as Mr. Brown.
Gabriel stood leaning against the wall. His face felt swollen and when he put his fingertips to it he felt the jagged edge of the cut crusted with blood. And then Stuart was beside him.
After one shocked oath, Stuart moved swiftly, issuing a stream of orders to the landlord as he helped Gabriel up the stairs. Hot water appeared, bandages, arnica and witch hazel. Within half an hour, Gabriel, his filthy garments consigned to the midden at the rear of the tavern, sat by the fire wrapped in a blanket, a tankard of mulled wine between his hands.
“Now tell me what happened,” Stuart pressed gently. Now that the urgency of action had passed he was filled with shock and horror at his lover's condition.
At the end of Gabriel's halting narrative, Stuart's shock and horror had yielded to a deep cold rage. He knew what this was about. He had been given a warning. There would be no reprieve. Regardless of Pippa's pregnancy, they still held him in a noose. He would not be permitted any leeway. Put a toe wrong, and Gabriel would suffer.
“I don't know how they could have known, Stuart,” Gabriel said, stretching his cold bare feet to the fire. “Those obscenities they screamed at me . . . how could street rabble have known what I am? Is it apparent just by looking at me?”
“No, of course not,” Stuart said, turning away to hide his expression. He poured more wine for himself. “You fell foul of a mob, love. They were looking for trouble and you came along. What they shouted meant nothing. It was just words to them.”
Gabriel bent down and picked up his lyre. “I was going to play for you tonight.” He plucke
d a string and the instrument's note was harsh and discordant.
“I will get you another, the finest lyre in London.” Stuart knelt down in front of him. He rested his head on Gabriel's knees and the musician stroked his hair with his long, delicate fingers.
He could not go on like this. Stuart knew that he had reached the watershed. He had been a coward too long. He would find a way out of this . . . whatever it took to obtain their freedom, he would do it.
Antoine de Noailles regarded Robin with a considering frown. “We have to change the code,” he said. “We cannot wait to discover whether Ashton is with us or against us. You must go to Woodstock with the message. Go by Sir William of Thame and take it also to Sir William Stafford. They will know how to disseminate it from there. I will alert our people in London.”
“I will go as soon as may be,” Robin agreed. “But how are we to discover Ashton's purpose? You have heard nothing about him . . . about his inclinations?”
The ambassador shook his head, looking chagrined. “I would have sworn that if he was playing some deep game I would know of it. But I am not infallible, Robin. My network is not infallible.”
He pulled at his beard, wrinkling his nose. It had a rather comic effect but Robin, who would ordinarily have been amused, was not so now. “It pains me to admit it,” de Noailles said with a heavy sigh.
“I cannot imagine that Ashton could be one of Elizabeth's supporters,” Robin stated robustly. “He is so close to Philip and his advisors. He has a Spanish ward. He has been put in charge of my sister at Philip's behest.”
“Does Lady Pippa have an opinion on Mr. Ashton?”
It was Robin's turn to frown. “She appears to like him,” he said.
“That displeases you?”
“It troubles me.”
There was silence for a long moment as the ambassador absorbed the implications of this. “You think she may be in some danger?” he asked delicately.
“I don't know,” Robin replied. He didn't wish to talk about Pippa's private affairs or his concern for her with anyone. It smacked of disloyalty and gossip although he knew the ambassador had a purely business interest in the question.
The Frenchman accepted this without a murmur. He rose from his chair and went to the sideboard. “Wine?”
“Thank you.” Robin threw another log on the fire. It was late and he had roused de Noailles from his bed. He rubbed his eyes with a weary gesture and yawned.
“I will compose a letter for the Lady Elizabeth and change the identifying code word,” the ambassador said, handing Robin a goblet.
“Before you leave for Woodstock, talk with your sister. She is ever loyal to Elizabeth and I believe her to be a shrewd judge of character. Discover if she and Ashton ever talk politics. Perhaps he has revealed something of importance to her, but maybe she is unaware of its significance.”
“She told me that she believes he is not what he seems,” Robin said, gazing into the ruby contents of his goblet. “But she also said that she doesn't know what he is.”
“I see.” De Noailles shook his head. “Press her a little deeper. She must have some reason for believing that.”
“Aye,” Robin agreed. “She must have some reason.”
“In the meantime I will set my own people to looking more closely into Mr. Ashton's circumstances. We investigated when he arrived, of course, but no one knew anything of him. He had spent time in Flanders, was an intimate of Philip's, but appeared to have no history, no past that we could look into. He seemed to be exactly what he presented himself to be. A friend and ally of the Spaniards and a shrewdly clever arbitrator and mediator.”
Antoine sighed again in disgust. “We saw an opponent; we thought that by knowing him we had defanged him, and instead he turns out to be a damnably clever spy for the Spaniards, or a supporter of Elizabeth buried so deep no one could guess at his secret.”
He drained his goblet. “My masters will not be pleased.”
Robin made no comment. He knew that de Noailles was out of favor in France as well as at Mary's court. He hated England, this “nasty island” as he called it, and longed to return home. Pen's husband had hoped to succeed him as French ambassador to Mary's court, a position that would have brought his wife back close to her family, but the French king had not approved the transfer. Owen d'Arcy was too valuable in France, at least at present.
“Owen d'Arcy might be able to discover something,” he suggested on the thought. “He has men in Flanders as well as in Spain.”
The ambassador nodded slowly. Owen ran his spies rather differently from de Noailles, and was more prepared to get his own hands dirty in the pursuit of information.
“I do not know that we have the time to ask for the chevalier's assistance,” he said. “A message will take at least a week to reach him, then he will need time to make his own inquiries, and then another week to send us information.”
“Nevertheless, I think we should ask him,” Robin said. “We don't have to wait for his results, though. In the meantime, we do what we can here.”
Antoine sighed once more. “Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose you're right. But if I ask the chevalier's help it makes me look inefficient, incompetent.”
“There is no need for anyone to know that you sought his help,” Robin pointed out. “Owen is an old friend. He will do you a favor without broadcasting that you asked it.”
The ambassador considered this, then nodded again. “Yes, indeed. I will have a letter off to him on the morning's tide. Go you to your rest now, and as soon as you are able discover what you can from your sister, and then return here for the letters I would have you carry to Woodstock.”
Robin set down his goblet, stifling another yawn. “I'll gladly take my leave, sir, if you've no further need of me this night.”
Antoine waved him away with a friendly smile, and when the door had closed on his visitor he sat down at his writing table and sharpened his pens. He would get no sleep tonight.
Pippa awoke soon after dawn. She lay warm and relaxed under the heavy covers, listening to the cheerful crackle of the fire that some anonymous servant had lit in the hearth at the first peep of day. It was good to feel a chill in the air after the exhausting heat of the long summer. Good to look forward to a breakfast of porridge and mulled ale. And then she would ride.
A burst of energy surprised her. It had been weeks since she had awoken feeling energetic and full of the day's promise. She sat up. She was not in the least sick. Instead she was starving.
She saw the dry bread that Martha had left for her and laughed out loud. She couldn't imagine ever wanting to eat anything so unappetizing. She slid to the floor and rang the handbell for her maid.
Her eye fell on the folded parchment that contained King Philip's orders for her restricted existence. She picked it up with a grimace of distaste and reread it. It seemed fairly clear that without Lionel's permission she couldn't leave her chamber, let alone the palace on a riding jaunt.
Pippa refolded the paper and tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of one hand. Lionel had said last night that he would visit her this morning, but she had no idea what time. A host of things could delay him, one of their interminable council meetings for instance. She was expected to sit here and wait for him.
But maybe not. If she was very careful to avoid being seen by any member of the court, she could leave the palace secretly for an hour. It was still very early, few people would be up and about in the public rooms. Her groom would be escort enough, he always had been before.
She went to the window and stood looking out, tapping the paper now against the glass. She didn't want to stir up an ant's nest, things were bad enough as they were, but surely she could slip out just for an hour. One hour in the crisp fresh air of early morning to celebrate how well she felt.
She would go, Pippa decided . . . and to the devil with the consequences. “Martha, bring me porridge and mulled ale,” she instructed the maid almost before she had fully entered the ch
amber. “I am going riding.”
“Yes, m'lady. You're feeling well, then?”
“Very,” Pippa stated, stretching luxuriously. “Hurry now. I'm famished . . . oh, and send a page with a message to the stables. Fred should meet me with the horses in the blacksmiths' court in a half hour.” She would take a leaf out of Lionel's book when it came to clandestine excursions and use the parts of the palace frequented almost exclusively by servants. No one would notice her or her horse in the bustle of the blacksmiths' courtyard.
Pippa ate her breakfast with relish and then chose the most sober costume in the linen press. A dove-gray velvet gown with a dark brown silk hood would not attract attention. She would take the back stairs and corridors just as she had done before when meeting Lionel at the kitchen water steps.
She could not be accused of disobeying the spirit of the royal edict even if she was defying the letter, she reflected as she slipped from her chamber. She would not offend the queen's sight, or Philip's.
Her lip curled slightly but her mood was too buoyant this morning to be downcast for more than an instant. She hurried down the stone stairs that gave onto the blacksmiths' court through an arched entranceway.
The court was crowded with servants and grooms leading horses towards the blazing braziers where the smiths in their leather aprons worked at the anvils, apprentice boys plying the bellows with desperate vigor. It was hot and noisy despite the freshness of the morning.
Pippa saw Fred holding her sorrel mare and his own cob at the far side of the court. He had a rather puzzled air as he looked around him, clearly wondering why his mistress had chosen this as a rendezvous. Pippa stepped out into the court and then stopped, frozen in her tracks.
From the stone arch opposite her three men strode into the smiths' court. Philip, Ruy Gomez, and Lionel Ashton.
She stepped back into the shadows of the gateway but it was too late. They had seen her. Her mind whirled. She could turn tail and run, hoping that it would never be mentioned, or she could brazen it out.