by Stella Riley
This time there was a small change in Luciano’s expression but not one that she cared to interpret. His voice as bland as milk, he said softly, ‘His father is a Parliament man?’
‘Sir Robert? Yes. I believe he once sat in the Commons.’ Kate could feel the air starting to dwindle in her lungs and thought weakly, Yes! Now you’re interested, aren’t you? Then, before her resolution failed completely, she said baldly, ‘His estate marches with that of Venetia’s family. Brandon Lacey. Near Knaresborough.’
Silence stretched out on invisible threads. And then, in a tone she had never heard before, Luciano said, ‘All right. I won’t ask what you know – or even how. I’ll just give you one piece of very sound advice. Stay out of it in future.’
‘I might,’ she said wistfully, ‘if I knew what I was staying out of.’
If he was relieved, it didn’t show and his smile was far from comforting.
‘Be grateful. That’s the only fact in Tobias’s favour. Or yours.’
‘Aside, of course, from my having told you something you wanted to know.’
His brows rose.
‘And what, tesoro mio, makes you so sure that you have?’
* * *
The departure of Gianetta and Liam took place amidst a welter of emotions and promises to write. Gianetta, having embraced each of the Maxwells in turn, spent her last minutes rather desperately hugging her brother … and then it was time to go.
Everyone gathered to wave them off. And when they were almost out of sight, Luciano said quietly to Richard, ‘It will come as no surprise that I, too, am leaving.’
‘For London?’
‘No. For a place called Knaresborough in Yorkshire. But it might be better if you didn’t tell Kate that.’
Richard’s head turned sharply.
‘Kate? What’s she got to do with this?’
‘Nothing – I hope.’ Luciano met his gaze with wry candour. ‘I just thought you ought to know that, thanks to her, I now know where to find your Robert Brandon.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
TEN
It was a long ride to Yorkshire and, since the weather remained unsettled throughout, not an especially pleasant one. By the time Luciano reached Newark, he had run into numerous bodies of cavalry and lost count of the number of times he’d got wet. His safe-conducts, as he moved continuously in and out of opposing districts, had proved beyond price … but his hat and cloak were never going to be the same again and his backside was growing decidedly saddle-sore.
He spent a substantial amount of time thinking of Caterina. For some reason he chose not to identify, she’d stopped being Kate to him quite some time ago - though he recognised the wisdom of continuing to call her that in public. He had a fair idea of why she’d told him not to call her Caterina. It made him smile. It was the only thing that did.
During the course of their most recent conversations, he’d tried – obliquely – to give her a few notions worth exploring. It was all he could do. There had been a moment or two when he’d experienced an explosion of pure rebellion; moments when he’d come close to saying what he actually wanted to say instead of speaking in riddles. Fortunately, sense had prevailed. He hadn’t any right to speak plainly. And even if he had, the attack on Cheapside would have convinced him otherwise.
Onwards, ever onwards, along the seemingly endless Great North Road, through country he had never expected to see again and dialects he could at times barely understand. And finally, on the eighth day of his odyssey, he rode into the small market town of Knaresborough with its neat, gabled houses and imposing castle perched high above the River Nidd.
It was a pretty place but Luciano did not waste time admiring it. He bespoke a comfortable bed, a good dinner and a large tub of hot water at the Red Bear behind the market-place; he established that the castle was being held for the King; and he learned, without any difficulty at all, the precise location of the manor named Brandon Lacey.
He also discovered what would probably prove to be the fly in the ointment. Sir Robert, he was told, was a strong Parliament man – and, because he lived in a largely Royalist area, he had fortified and garrisoned his house to the point where not even a mouse could get in unchallenged. Or so people said. At any rate – having failed to take the place by storm – the Cavaliers had apparently resigned themselves to doing without Sir Robert’s taxes.
Luciano’s problem was less how to get in than how to deal with matters once he had done so. And even after half-an-hour’s meditation in a relaxing bath, he found he was still no nearer finding an answer. It began to look as if his only option might be the direct approach. He sighed and sank deeper into the water. It was all very unsatisfactory … and still more so was the fact that, since Sir Robert had reputedly not left home in the last six months, he was unlikely to have been responsible for the events which had led up to Gwynneth’s death. In one sense – not having brought Selim with him – it was comforting to know that he wasn’t about to put his head in the lion’s mouth; but in another it was sheer disaster. For if Brandon, like Ferrars and Webb before him, turned out to be yet another pawn, the hand that had placed them all on the board seemed likely to remain forever anonymous.
* * *
Brandon Lacey lay off the road to Boroughbridge, close by the village of Stavely, and was situated on a slight rise in the ground. As Luciano had been told, it was walled and ditched and positively bristling with small artillery … and by the time he arrived at a point some thirty feet before the main gate, there were at least six muskets trained on him. It was all very impressive – and a downright, bloody nuisance.
He presented – or rather bellowed – his name up to the captain of the guard, waved his parliamentary pass and asked to see Sir Robert. Five minutes later he was admitted to the gatehouse and courteously relieved of his weapons while the bars and bolts were shot once more behind him. Then, overlooked from above by two sentries, he was escorted across the small, orderly courtyard, through a second gate and thence to the house. The message was clear, thought Luciano. Put a foot wrong in this place and you haven’t a hope in hell of getting out again.
The room into which he was eventually shown had linen-fold panelling and an over-large fireplace – suggesting that it had probably once formed part of a Great Hall until somebody had very sensibly decided to divide it. The fire blazed cheerily, the furniture was comfortable rather than elegant; and seated at a table beside the window was a vigorous-looking man in his early fifties. The man, presumably, that Luciano had travelled almost two hundred miles to see.
In the silence that followed, Luciano realised two things. First, that the captain of the guard had entered the room with him and now stood just inside the closed door; and second, that his own scrutiny was being met with another equally searching.
Removing his hat, he bowed slightly and said, ‘Sir Robert?’
‘Yes.’ Brandon rose but remained where he was, his fingers resting lightly on the table-top.
‘I am obliged to you for receiving me.’ Luciano advanced to within a few feet of the window. ‘No doubt the captain has given you my name?’
‘He’s given me a name,’ agreed Sir Robert, slowly. And then, with an unexpectedness that took Luciano like a blow to the stomach, ‘But I don’t somehow think it’s yours, is it?’
Luciano kept his face expressionless and, with an effort equally invisible, controlled his breathing. He said, ‘Now why, I wonder, should you suppose that?’
A strange smile twisted the older man’s mouth.
‘Your colouring and cast of feature. But mostly – forgive me – that shoulder of yours gives you away.’
The dark brows rose.
‘We’ve met before?’
‘Yes … long ago. You wouldn’t remember. I, of course, have very good reasons for doing so.’ There was a pause; and then, with a sort of detached irony, Brandon said, ‘You’d be surprised, I daresay, at how often I’ve wondered if this day would ever come. But I suppose the question
now is whether you’re here for information … or vengeance.’
Luciano felt rather than heard the slight hiatus which afflicted the guardian at the door. It was nothing compared to the one afflicting him; but he disguised it by remaining perfectly still while he waited for the words he needed to hear.
‘Well, Signor Falcieri? Which is it?’
Luciano drew a long breath and then loosed it. The air was thick with tension. He said softly, ‘As far as I can see, I don’t have a choice – unless I’m happy to commit suicide. Fortunately, however, I don’t consider assassination to be particularly apt. Given the right circumstances, I might ruin you; but I can safely promise not to murder you. Does that satisfy you?’
There was another yawning silence broken only by the sound of a log shifting in the grate. Distantly, Luciano wondered which of them was more out of his depth. Then Brandon gave his answer. He dismissed the man at the door.
‘But sir!’ protested the fellow, horrified. ‘If you think that he – well, that he might want to kill you, you can’t just take his word for it that he won’t!’
‘Yes I can. But, if it makes you any happier, you may check that I’m alive and well before letting the gentleman leave. Now go.’
Reluctantly, the captain went. And when the door had closed behind him, Brandon said stiffly, ‘I ought to know where to start, but I don’t. Except, of course, that we need to talk. Perhaps we could begin by sitting down?’
Wordlessly, Luciano accepted the chair he was offered.
Brandon remained standing, still visibly at a loss. After a moment, he said, ‘Will you take wine?’
‘I think not.’
‘No.’ Again that faint, bitter smile. ‘I can’t say that I blame you. But I hope you won’t mind if I do?’
‘Not in the least – if you feel you need it.’
‘In my position, wouldn’t you?’ Sir Robert filled a glass and returned to his chair. Then he said, ‘I think it might be best if you were to tell me what you know – after which I’ll add what I can. How did you find me?’
Somewhere deep inside himself, Luciano was aware of a slight worrying tremor. Keeping eyes and voice equally impassive, however, he said that he had seen the trial record.
‘Ah.’ Brandon nodded and then proceeded to produce his second grenado of the day. ‘But which one?’
‘Both.’ Luciano stared at him. ‘You knew the original had been removed? How?’
‘It was while I was a member of the Commons. I … exerted a little pressure on the right people. I thought that if I was able to read the entire transcript it might tell me something. But what I eventually got, of course, was a completely useless forgery that wouldn’t have deceived a child.’ Sir Robert paused and then said, ‘You say you’ve seen them both. Who has the original?’
‘I hope and believe that I do – now. I bought it from Justice Samuel Fisher. I have also found and interviewed Thomas Ferrars and Ahiram Webb.’ A chilly, impersonal smile curled his mouth. ‘You will wish, I feel sure, to know what became of them. Ferrars is dead by his own hand and Webb is disgraced and ruined.’ The smile grew. ‘Neither of them, you see, was disposed to be particularly helpful – or show any hint of regret.’
Abruptly, Sir Robert drained his glass and then rose to refill it. Remaining on his feet, he said abruptly, ‘You don’t need to show me the scourge – or even the lure. I have had this matter on my conscience for seventeen years – and you are possibly the only man to whom I can confess it. So I am waiting with some impatience to do just that.’
Since he had first walked into the room, thought Luciano, nothing had gone as expected. Either Brandon was entirely unlike the others – or he was playing a very clever game indeed. It would be interesting to discover which. He said sardonically, ‘Then do so. I am all attention.’
Sir Robert sat down again and set his glass on the table. Then, keeping his eyes on his hands, he said, ‘Thirty-two years ago, I fell in love. I was twenty … and she slightly younger. She was the daughter of one of the noblest houses in the country; and on the day I first saw her, she was being married to a man whose rank and fortune matched her own.’ He hesitated briefly and, when he spoke again, his voice was noticeably harder. ‘Her husband was one of the old King’s intimates and no different to the rest of them. If – if he’d cared for his wife or shown her the least consideration, things might have been different. As it was, he preferred to spend a good deal of his time either travelling or at Court. Sometimes he was away for as much as a year.’ He looked up and met Luciano’s eyes. ‘You can probably guess with what result.’
‘The obvious one?’
‘Yes. We were so happy it didn’t even seem wrong. And then she became pregnant.’ Sir Robert reached for his glass but made no move to drink. ‘It wasn’t possible to pass the child off as that of her husband … so it was necessary to arrange for the baby to be born in secret.’
‘Go on.’
‘The details don’t matter; except perhaps for the stupendous cost of it all – mostly in bribes. My father was still alive at that time and I had very little money, so of course I ran into debt – which was how I first met your father. But the debts didn’t matter, not then.’ For the first time a real smile touched Brandon’s face. ‘You see, we had our son. And even though he had to be brought up by others, we were able to see him sometimes – as long as we were careful and went separately. He’s thirty now and a professional soldier fighting for the Parliament – but he still doesn’t know who his mother was. And that, until he reached the age of fifteen, was my only regret.’
‘Ah.’ His gaze unreadable, Luciano leaned back in his chair. ‘Don’t tell me. Someone found out.’
‘Yes. I still don’t know how. We’d been so careful … and we were no longer even lovers. That had ended years before – when my father died and I myself was married. So by 1628 we had every reason to believe ourselves safe. She had children by her husband and I a son by my wife. As for our boy, he was still safe in Shoreditch and knew nothing. But someone must have talked. And the result was a letter, threatening to expose everything if I didn’t do what it said.’
‘And naturally you couldn’t take the risk,’ remarked Luciano caustically. ‘After all, what’s a man’s life compared to your domestic harmony?’
Lines of strain were becoming apparent on Brandon’s face and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then, opening them, he said, ‘It wasn’t myself I had to protect. Exposure would have meant little to me. My marriage was one of mutual advantage, not love; and, since the affair pre-dated it, Margaret – my wife – would scarcely have cared. No. The one who would suffer most from disclosure was my former mistress.’ He spread his hands in a gesture half-helpless, half-appealing. ‘I don’t know if you’ve ever loved a woman to the exclusion of all else; loved her so much that you would do anything for her sake. But that’s how it was for me. And I couldn’t stand by and let her be ruined. Can you understand that?’
‘Perhaps. But I also understand that there are a variety of ways of dealing with threats.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ asked Brandon bitterly. ‘I tried quite hard to get free, believe me. The letter said that someone would come for my answer in two days. I used those days to warn my mistress and send Margaret and Ellis back here to Brandon Lacey. I visited Shoreditch, warned Gabriel’s foster-family and told him that he was my son. And then I collected together as much money as I could lay my hands on.’ He picked up his glass and drained it. ‘The man who came was an obvious hireling. I named the highest price I could afford and told him to put it to his master. Then, when he left, I set a man of my own to follow him.’
‘And?’
‘It didn’t work. My servant was found clubbed half to death in an alleyway not five hundred yards from my door. And when the next letter came, it said that silence could only be bought by compliance to the original orders. Furthermore, if I made any more attempts to trace the writer or was foolish enough to try and warn your fath
er, my legitimate son would meet with a fatal accident and the threat of exposure would still stand.’ Sir Robert drew a long, weary breath. ‘I gave in. There didn’t seem to be anything else I could do. Aside from that, I have no excuses.’
For a long time, Luciano stared down at his tightly-laced fingers. Then, without moving, he said, ‘It is almost certainly a silly question … but can you prove any of this?’
‘Yes,’ replied Brandon simply. And was immediately impaled on a piercing, blue-black gaze. ‘I have both the letters.’
The shock of it drove the blood from Luciano’s skin. He said raggedly, ‘You kept them?’
‘Oh yes,’ came the grim reply. ‘I kept them. I hoped that one day they might lead me to the evil bastard who wrote them.’
In one smooth, explosive movement, Luciano left his chair for the window embrasure and stood staring blindly through the small panes. And finally, in a fair semblance of his usual tone, he said, ‘I’ll drink to that. If, that is, the offer’s still open?’
It was Brandon’s turn to be silenced by simple relief and being believed. Crossing to the dresser, he filled a second glass – spilling a little because his hands were less than steady. Then, passing it to the Italian, he said abruptly, ‘Under the circumstances, an apology is a useless thing. But before we go any further I have to at least try to tell you how bitterly I regret what happened to your father and my own part in it.’
Thor’s hammer started to beat steadily in Luciano’s skull.
‘You want absolution? I can’t give it. I believe, however that I’m beginning to arrive at some degree of understanding.’ He took the glass and drank. Then, ‘You said you saw me as a child. How did that come about?’