by Jane Feather
“So much for Luisa's reputation,” Pippa murmured.
“You're remarkably flippant,” Robin said, flushing.
“'Tis that or weep,” Pippa returned smartly, sounding much more like herself. The die was cast, nothing would be gained by a show of resentment. She would think up some alternative to the pillion pad on the morrow.
“I have every faith that Luisa's reputation will be safe in your brother's hands. It appears to have been so hitherto,” Lionel observed, dry as dust. It was Luisa's turn to flush.
Pippa stepped in. “If we've settled the mechanics of this, could we please go in search of oxtail soup?” She headed to the door, the others on her heels.
Lionel followed them downstairs. Malcolm stood by the open front door, chewing reflectively on a straw as he gazed out into the star-filled night. He turned at his master's approach. “So what now, sir?”
“You'll leave for Southampton at dawn.” Lionel spoke briskly. “I believe Sea Dream is taking on a cargo of cloth and raw wool and expects to sail to Calais in two days' time. If all goes well and we ride hard we should reach Southampton by then, but tell her captain to be prepared to postpone his departure in case we're delayed.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then meet us at the usual house in Chandler's Ford. I'll need you to escort Dona Luisa back home. She can't travel alone with Lord Robin.”
“No, sir,” Malcolm agreed. “And I'll make sure she doesn't give me the slip this time.”
Lionel nodded. “Go to your supper then, I have some arrangements to make with mine host.”
He found Goodman Brown in the kitchen nursing a tankard of strong ale while his good lady bustled red-faced over her cook pots. “Fresh rushes indeed!” she grumbled. “An' dried 'erbs on the mattress. Jest who do they think they are? Too good for the likes of ordinary folk.”
Her husband offered no opinion and regarded Lionel's sudden appearance in the kitchen with hostility and apprehension. “What would you be wantin' in 'ere, sir?”
“I need another guest chamber,” Lionel explained. As he saw Goodman Brown about to shake his head, he said sharply, “You'll be well paid for it.”
“There's the chamber over the wash'ouse,” the goodwife said at last, her tone grudging.
“Show it to me, if you please.”
The woman wiped her hands on a grimy cloth, took up a lantern, and headed for the kitchen door. The air outside was pleasantly cool after the heat of the kitchen but it was not particularly fresh.
The washhouse was a small building attached to the main house. The smell of soap and lye permeated the air as Lionel followed the woman up a rickety set of stairs and into a small chamber. Moonlight fell onto the dusty floor from an unglazed round window high on the wall. The only furniture was a narrow cot.
Lionel inspected the straw mattress. It seemed cleaner than the one in the main house. He guessed it was rarely used. The inn didn't attract many wayfarers. There were no fleas that he could discover. And the washhouse had an important strategic advantage.
“This will do. Fetch sheets of some kind and blankets, and make up another bed of straw and blankets on the floor. Your maid will share the bed in the other chamber with my ward. Supply both chambers with jugs of hot water and a lamp, the ladies will be retiring within a half hour.”
He didn't wait for an acknowledgment but strode immediately down the stairs and back to the inn. He found the rest of the party in the taproom, dipping spoons and chunks of dark barley bread into a communal bowl. A much-eroded wheel of golden cheese sat in the middle of the stained deal table.
“This soup is surprisingly good,” Pippa said. She was amazed at her own hunger, at the pleasure she was taking in its satisfaction. She felt healthy and energetic, as if some burden had been taken from her. Which was absurd, because all her burdens were as heavy as ever.
“'Tis good if you're not too fastidious about its container,” she continued on the same cheerful note. “I doubt the pot has been washed since it was on the wheel.” She slid up on the bench to give Lionel room and passed him a thick crust of bread.
“My thanks.” He wondered what she was really thinking. She was behaving as if nothing momentous had occurred; her manner to him was courteous and friendly; there was no special warmth, however, and she barely looked at him.
If she had chosen this approach as the least awkward for their companions, he would simply follow suit. He sampled the soup with his bread, and drank from the pitcher of ale that was circulating among them.
It surprised him that Luisa appeared to have no reservations about this rough-and-ready communal supper. It was almost as if she was accustomed to an inn's taproom and had supped in this manner before. Perhaps she had, presumably in Beaucaire's company.
He glanced at Robin. The man was wound taut as a lute string but his concerns tonight were clearly all for his sister. He was watching her like a hawk. She, in her turn, responded to his anxious glances with reassuring smiles.
“There's a small chamber over the washhouse with a separate entrance from the kitchen yard. Pippa will sleep there and I'll keep guard at her door so that if we have any unwelcome visitors I can get her away without having to come through the inn. Malcolm will keep watch in the inn throughout the night. Robin and Luisa will take the upstairs chamber. I have arranged for the girl, Nell, to sleep with Luisa.”
He glanced around the table with an interrogatively raised eyebrow but no one offered any objections to his arrangements. He swung off the bench. “Luisa, Dona Bernardina packed a bag for you with some necessities; 'tis in the hallway. I'll escort you to the washhouse now, Pippa. There should be a jug of hot water in both chambers. Then I'm going to make a reconnaissance. Beaucaire, will you accompany me?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course.” Robin scrambled off the bench. Luisa would be safely in bed with the curtains drawn by the time they returned.
“How beautifully organized,” Pippa murmured, unable to resist it. “You seem to have thought of everything, sir.”
He responded in kind. “I try. I presume you have a bag?”
“In the chamber above. Jem, will you fetch it?” She nodded to the page, who ran from the taproom still eating his bread and cheese, and returned within a minute with Pippa's leather bag.
Lionel took the satchel and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to Luisa. “I bid you good night, my ward. When I have a moment to think, we shall have a little talk, you and I.”
“Yes, Don Ashton,” Luisa murmured with downcast eyes. Her meek demeanor didn't fool anyone.
“Robin, you will see her safe upstairs. Come, Pippa.” He went to the door.
Pippa threw her cloak around her shoulders and followed him in silence. Only a potboy was in the kitchen, sitting on the hard wooden bench in front of the range, yawning deeply. It was his job to keep the range on overnight but the warmth of his sleeping place more than made up for its lack of softness.
“You will not bolt this door tonight,” Lionel instructed him as he opened the kitchen door.
“Oh, but missus—”
“Forget your mistress for the moment,” Lionel interrupted him. “For tonight, I am your master and you will obey my instructions, is that clear?”
The boy nodded, his sleepy eyes widening. “You'll 'ave to make it right wi' the missus.”
“I'll make it right, rest assured,” Lionel said in softened tones. He stepped out into the unpaved yard.
Pippa looked around, wrinkling her nose. There was a strong smell coming from the midden at the rear of the yard, and the dirt beneath her feet was slimy with kitchen garbage that had been tossed from the back door.
“I need the outhouse,” she said doubtfully. “I wish I didn't.”
“I'll wait here for you.”
She trod resolutely to the shack that stood next to the midden. She opened the door then retreated. Some things were possible, some were not.
“That bad?” Lionel inquired.
“That bad.”
>
“Try the bushes.” He indicated a scrappy group of red currant and gooseberry bushes bordering the kitchen garden.
Pippa sighed but could see no alternative. Lionel turned his back on the bushes and she hurried behind them reflecting with a mixture of surprise and dismay that the intimacy of this dilemma didn't trouble her as it should.
She returned within minutes, grimacing as she straightened her skirts. “I trust our next resting place will be a little more salubrious.”
“I wouldn't make a wager on it,” Lionel responded. “We need to travel off the beaten track.” He climbed the rickety stairs to the washhouse, Pippa on his heels.
A lantern burned low on the floor beside a jug of water and a makeshift bed of straw covered with blankets.
Pippa dipped her finger in the jug. “'Tis not what I would call hot, but it will do.” She glanced inadvertently at the improvised bed.
“I'll leave you then.”
There was no help for it unless she wanted to sleep in her gown. She said as neutrally as she could, “Before you go, would you unlace me? I don't wish to sleep in my gown and 'tis awkward to do myself.” Without waiting for an answer she gave him her back so that he had no chance to see her face.
Lionel said nothing as he swiftly unlaced her stomacher, making sure that his fingers made no contact with the thin shift beneath. Her warmed flesh had a scent of cut grass, of newly turned earth, and it sent his senses whirling.
“My thanks,” Pippa said, her voice thick. The proximity of his body, the feel of his fingers so close to her skin, made her want to weep anew, but this time with pure contrary desire that could never be fulfilled. The irony of their present situation was like the torture of Tantalus. They had never been naked together when they'd made love; something she had frequently lamented. Now it would be so easy.
“Is there anything else I can do? I am a passable lady's maid.” Lionel too was aware of the supreme irony of this moment, just as he was aware of the swift beating of his heart, the deep-rooted passion he felt for this woman.
She shook her head and put her hands at her waist, forcing the conversation into a path that would douse desire. “How soon do you think it will it be before I have to put panels in my gowns?”
He shrugged. “Another month perhaps, maybe more. Women are very different in the way they carry their children.”
She took a deep breath, then spoke the thought that she had not dared to articulate even in her mind. “There are ways to rid oneself of an unwanted child, are there not?”
“So I believe, but I don't know them.” He kept his voice as calm and neutral as hers.
“No, neither do I.” It was spoken at last, and now perhaps it could be forgotten.
“Is that what you would wish?” He asked the question with difficulty.
Silence stretched taut between them, swarming with a hive of impossible considerations, impossible possibilities. Then eventually Pippa said, “I don't know. What of you?”
She looked at him with a clear, direct gaze. “Would you wish to rid the world of this child . . . the child of the man who tortured your sister to death?”
“How can I answer that?” he said in a low voice. “If you cannot answer it, Pippa, how can I?” He opened his hands in a helpless gesture.
She gave a little shrug, a gesture as helpless as his own, and turned her gaze from him. He wanted to hold her but he didn't dare, so he hurried away, leaving her alone in the little chamber above the washhouse.
Twenty-two
The solemn party of four black-clad gentlemen climbed down from their open carriage before the door of Lionel Ashton's mansion. They carried their black bags and the lappets of their caps were tied firmly beneath their chins. Their gowns flapped at their ankles.
A man at the head of the troop of horsemen who had accompanied the queen's physicians strode to the door and rapped sharply with the hilt of his dagger.
The door opened slowly and Senor Diaz, the steward, surveyed his visitors with a mixture of curiosity and hauteur. “Mr. Ashton is not within,” he pronounced, the English fluent but the Spanish accent heavy.
“No matter. He understands our business. We are come to see Lady Nielson,” the visitor stated. “I bring the queen's physicians to attend her.”
The steward gave him a blank stare. “Lady Nielson?”
“Aye, Lady Nielson. She is at present residing under Mr. Ashton's roof,” the other said impatiently.
“I don't believe so,” Senor Diaz stated, his not inconsiderable bulk barring the door. “But if you will remain here a moment, I will consult with the lady of the house, Dona Bernardina.” He stepped back and firmly closed the door.
The steward was not in his master's complete confidence, but he was aware that something concerning the suddenly absent Dona Luisa had caused Mr. Ashton's present journey. Dona Bernardina's long face and frequent sighs merely added to his suspicions.
He found the duenna in the small parlor where she was accustomed to sitting with her charge.
“Was that someone knocking?” She rose eagerly from her chair, setting aside her tambour frame. “Is Don Ashton returned?”
“No, madam. 'Tis a troop of the queen's horse escorting the queen's physicians. They say they are come to attend upon Lady Nielson.”
“Lady Nielson?” Bernardina gazed blankly at him. “How could that be?” She smoothed down her skirts with anxious little pats of her plump white hands. “Why would they expect to find Lady Nielson here?”
“I do not know, madam. I understood the gentleman in charge of the troop to say that she was residing at present under Mr. Ashton's roof.”
“What a silly mistake to have made. Send him in to me.”
The steward bowed and returned to the door just as a series of imperative knocks rattled the oak.
He swung open the door. “My lady will speak with you, sir.” He offered a half bow to the leader of the troop. “Who shall I say is calling?”
“Sir Anthony Crosse,” the man said, brushing past the steward. “And I do not care to be kept cooling my heels on the doorstep.”
“No, sir. Forgive me, but in Mr. Ashton's absence I am instructed to keep the ladies from any disturbance.” The steward opened the door to the parlor. “Madam, Sir Anthony Crosse.”
Bernardina had resumed her seat and now kept it, offering her visitor a calm but cold smile. She spoke in Spanish and waited for the steward to translate for her. “We are not accustomed to visitors in Don Ashton's absence, senor. How can I help you?”
Sir Anthony stepped into the parlor and felt the first stirring of discomfort. He was on the king's business, bearing His Majesty's writ. He had been told to expect some resistance from Lady Nielson but that he was to overcome it however necessary. He had not been told to expect a confrontation with a stately, jewel-encrusted, mantilla-swathed lady who spoke no English.
He bowed deeply. “Forgive the intrusion, madam, but I am on the king's business. I bring the queen's physicians to attend upon Lady Nielson, who, I understand, is at present a guest under Mr. Ashton's roof.” He glanced expectantly at the steward, who provided the translation in a monotone.
Bernardina was so astonished, so anxious to correct such a misapprehension, that she felt the need to speak directly to the visitor and searched her sparse English vocabulary.
“No . . . no . . . indeed not so. Such a stupid notion, senor. Lady Nielson was here for . . . for supper, yes . . . yes, but no . . . no she does not live here. I can tell you that she is with Dona Luisa de los Velez of the house of Mendoza . . . as chaperone. Dona Luisa will be back anytime now, yes . . . yes, she will, but Lady Nielson . . . no, I do not think.” Her expressive shrug filled in the blanks.
Sir Anthony stared at her. None of it made any sense to him. He opted for a simple route. “Where may I find Mr. Ashton, madam?”
For the first time some of Bernardina's confused anxiety showed. Flustered, she stammered, “I . . . I do not know . . . I am not party to Don Ashton's
business.”
“I see. I must ask you to forgive me, but my orders are explicit. If you cannot produce Lady Nielson then I must search the house to find her. Pray remain in the parlor, madam, and you will not be molested in any way.”
Sir Anthony strode from the chamber. He flung open the front door and stood in the doorway, preventing anyone from closing it, while he bellowed his orders to his men.
Bernardina listened to the booted feet tramping through the house. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she would swoon. She had no idea what was happening but she had only one thought, to protect Luisa's reputation. Don Ashton was not here to do it so it was up to her. It might seem as if these men were not interested in Luisa, but since Don Ashton had told her the girl was with Lady Nielson then any business that involved the one would inevitably involve the other.
After what seemed an eternity the booted feet crossed the hall again and the great front door opened and slammed. Only then did Bernardina rise from her chair.
The steward entered the parlor. “Forgive me, madam. They wouldn't let me come to you.”
“What did they want?”
He spread his hands in incomprehension. “They seemed convinced that Lady Nielson was in residence. I told them only you were here and that Don Ashton has gone on a journey and so has Dona Luisa.”
“You did not imply that Dona Luisa had gone alone?”
“Hardly, madam. You had already told Sir Anthony that she has gone somewhere with Lady Nielson. I would not contradict you.”
Bernardina waved him away and returned to her seat. She could do nothing but wait and pray. She took up her rosary.
“So it seems all our birds have flown the coop,” Philip said in a low voice that throbbed with rage. With a sudden violent movement he drove the blade of a silver paper knife into the table. The blade bent and he hurled the knife to the floor.
“How did it happen?” He glared at his two companions.
Ruy Gomez steepled his fingers. “Our men lost Nielson and his lover when they attended mass at Southwark Cathedral this afternoon. But they are sure to pick them up again within the hour. They cannot have gone far.” His tone was smooth and soothing.