“Farewell, sweet Clemence. I may have forgotten many things, but I’ll never forget you.”
Before she could reply, the door closed at his back, and he was gone.
All the breath left her body as she collapsed onto the bed. The urge to chase after him and force him to stay was a weight on her chest, crushing her. But how could they put everything right?
She’d never felt so powerless. When the tears came, she made no effort to check them. She tried to stifle her sobs lest she be overheard and, eventually, exhaustion overtook her.
Not bothering to undress, she lay face-down on the bed, cradling her forehead on her arm. Soon, dawn would come, and she’d feel better. Then she could be with her parents again, mayhap even feel able to break her fast—the food would do her good.
It seemed she’d dozed but a few minutes when a ruckus from below had her leaping up in alarm. Flinging open the shutters, she discovered it was full daylight but could see nothing in the stable yard below to account for the row. She must hurry down—were they under attack? Had someone else been poisoned? Had something happened to Lancelot?
She was just lifting the latch when footsteps came scurrying along the passageway, and the oaken panels of her door resounded to a frantic knocking.
It opened to reveal her mother, red-faced and breathless, but fully dressed.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“I bring ill tidings, Daughter. Lancelot has been arrested for murder.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lancelot’s first inclination when accosted by the three men was to toss them into the gutter. But one carried what he now understood to be a baton proclaiming his status as an officer of the law. He also brandished a paper which he declared was an arrest warrant.
So, he had to curb his compulsion to sweep the undesirables into a heap, steal a horse and ride it bareback down the road, because it would resolve nothing—it would merely put off the inevitable. If he had, in truth, slaughtered one of his fellow men, he deserved punishment. And if he had done no wrong, he needed to know, for only then would his soul be cleansed, or his dreams be comfortable. Only then could he seriously consider himself as an eligible husband for Clemence.
There was still the religion problem, but one could resolve that—he hoped. One couldn’t resolve a killing.
Suddenly, Sir Kester appeared, followed by the lawyer and Clemence’s father. “What is this? This gentleman is with us.”
The justice of the peace must have come straight from his bed—he was in his nightshirt, with a short cloak thrown over the top. Despite his disheveled look, there was an authority in his voice that stopped Lancelot’s captors dead.
“Sir—we’re throwing him into a cell to await the next quarter sessions. Then he must answer to a charge of murder.”
“The murder of whom, Constable? Nay, don’t hesitate—you may tell me. I’m Justice of the Peace for Brocking Hundred, in Essex, and you’re interfering in my business.”
The constable brandished the paper. “A former resident of this parish, Paris de Glanville, has gone missing under suspicious circumstances.”
“Missing?” Kester looked down his nose at the constable. “But not dead?”
“Our informant claims the poor fellow is dead, and that this is the man responsible. Only he’s been in hiding for the past three years, trying to avoid capture.”
Lancelot fought the urge to grind his teeth. He was pretty certain who the “informant” must be. Though he’d never known much of the workings of English law, he remembered how heavily it relied on witness testimony. Walter de Glanville must be the witness in question. Who else could it be?
“So, you have no body, Constable? By what right, then, do you seize this man?” Sir Kester indicated Lancelot.
A muscle worked in the constable’s jaw. He was doubtless used to dealing with violence when arrest was resisted, not reasoned arguments. Lancelot held his breath, unsure whether or not he wanted to hear that Paris’ body had been found. While his brother was still missing, he could hope he was alive.
“The corpse will be produced once the accused is incarcerated. That was the agreement made betwixt the accuser and ourselves. If there’s no body, your friend will have naught to fear.”
The witness knew where Paris’ body was? If this was the only way to uncover the truth, he’d do whatever it took. Shaking off the hands that held him, Lancelot stepped forward. “Good Sir Kester, mayhap ’tis best I respond to these charges. Rumor can ruin a man’s life, I understand—and only by being found guiltless may he be exonerated.”
“Nay, de Glanville. Don’t offer yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter.” Sir Kester glared at the constable. “Who laid these charges?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
“Foolish fellow. How may we answer them if we know neither the accuser nor the circumstances of the crime? You cannot cry murder if you have no body.”
The constable blinked. “There may be no body as yet, sir, but the circumstances need examining. It will be up to the local justice to decide.”
Lancelot’s patience was waning. He wasn’t used to being made a spectacle of. Already, some upstairs windows across the street were clicking open. If they debated here much longer, Clemence would see him put in irons a second time. He didn’t think he could bear that.
“Good sirs, I’m willing to go with these men. I cannot live with such a stain on my character, and if the only way to hold my head high is to prove my innocence, I’m willing to be tested.” He didn’t add that if the only way to have Clemence was to be found innocent, he’d walk through fire to do it. Only—he’d lief as not get it over with quickly.
Then, as if summoned by his thought, Clemence was there, throwing her arms around him and straining on tiptoe to cover his face with kisses.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his for a tender moment. “We’ll find a way to set you free.”
He held her away from him. “I will never be free. Not unless the truth is uncovered, and I know not how that may be done. I beg of you, do not raise your hopes too high, sweet mistress.”
Her shoulders felt fragile beneath his hands—her fine-featured face turned up to his was as delicate as an opening rose, yet he knew the strength and determination that lay beneath her beauty. Even so, he could risk no harm coming to her.
“Let others take up my cause, and be patient. You can do but little, and I won’t have you ruin your life or your prospects because of me.” He cared for her too much—he couldn’t allow her to suffer. But would she take any cognizance of his words? Probably not.
“Now, before the whole village turns out to enjoy the spectacle of my arrest, we must say farewell. Here is the key to the main door at Emborough. Keep it safe, and lend it only to those you consider our friends. Walter de Glanville must never know you have it.”
He saw the constable stiffen, and his expression changed. That name had meant something, had it not? So, now Lancelot could be certain of the identity of his accuser, and his motive for the accusation. If English justice could not determine when one man lied about another to take possession of a fortune, then the law was an ass. But the knowledge gave him hope, and he bent his head to Clemence once more.
“Beware Walter de Glanville—I fear he knows of my re-emergence. If Sir Kester is of a mind, he must investigate both Walter and me in the case of my brother’s disappearance. And if that Wentworth woman can be found, I’ll warrant she may have an interesting tale to tell. Should you need money for bribes, you may sell my sword—it’s in my chamber at the inn—or anything else of value that remains in Emborough Hall.”
“Daughter, enough.” Fitzpayne’s tone was harsh. “We must leave these gentlemen to their business. Come—half of us are not yet fit to be seen. We’ll dress, eat, and discuss what must be done. Where do you take your prisoner?”
The constable gazed at the device on his baton of office.
“Tell him, damn you.�
� Sir Kester put his hands on his hips. “This man has a right to visitors, you know. Am I, the Queen’s Justice, likely to attempt to break him out of your custody? By even hesitating, you insult me. Where are you taking him?”
“To Walden, sir, to await the Midsummer quarter sessions.”
“That’s in two sennights’ time.”
“Aye, indeed, sir.”
Lancelot hardly heard the exchange. Clemence was in his arms once more, and he was falling apart.
Sheepishly, the constable held out a pair of manacles. Lancelot felt Clemence shudder, brushed a final lingering kiss on her forehead, and eased himself away from her. For the second time, he felt the bite of cold iron on his wrists.
Unable to speak without revealing the intensity of his feelings, he scrambled onto his captors’ cart and waited for them to join him. The constable heaved himself up after, and Lancelot then endured the humiliation of being chained to a loop on the side of the cart.
He closed his eyes, refusing to open them again until he felt the other men climb in, and the vehicle jerk as the great horse between the shafts was goaded into movement.
He looked behind him as the cart rattled away from Emborough, away from Milforde. His eyes remained glued to Clemence’s upright frame and solemn face, admiring the strength of spirit that prevented her from falling into a swoon or fit of hysterics, as many women would have done in such adversity.
And prayed to any god prepared to listen to him, that this would not be his last sight of her.
Chapter Eighteen
It was a full hour’s ride from Clairbourne to Walden and despite her protests, Clemence was only permitted to make the journey once before Lancelot’s trial was due to be held. She’d literally had to beg her father on bended knee to let her visit him and accept that he must come with her.
The weeks since her last sight of Lancelot had passed in a haze of anxiety. She’d attempted to alleviate this by baking and cooking, producing treats to tempt the prisoner and keep up his strength. She’d also ransacked her store of salves and simples for anything that might make Lancelot more comfortable while languishing in his cell. She had southernwood against fleas and lice, comfrey salve to ease any possible sores he might have from the chains, honey and garlic for a sore throat, or valerian, should he have trouble sleeping.
Then catastrophe struck—her father was ailing on the day she was due to head for Walden. He had a flareup of his occasional gout, so she did what she could to reduce the pain, and swore she’d ask Sir Kester Bayliss to go with her instead.
This, of course, she had no intention of doing. Instead, she took a groom, Perkin, a young lad easily commanded. She might want privacy with Lancelot, something Sir Kester, in his need to pander to propriety, would not permit.
As she urged her mount, Sorrel, onto the highway, the heat of the mid-June sun hit her like a furnace. She pulled her straw hat forward, shielded her eyes, and eased Sorrel across to the shadowy side of the road, followed by Perkin. They would be baking by the time they reached Walden, but she was well supplied with cordial, and they could make a stop or two along the way to water the horses and refresh themselves.
Walden was a town of impressive size. As they reached it, she saw the anxiety on Perkin’s face and suggested they dismount and lead their horses, the better to navigate the narrow streets and busy traffic. The roads were choked with wagons and packhorses bearing wool sacks.
One or two men looked at her in a way she didn’t care for, and she was glad of the bollock dagger she’d tucked into her belt, despite having no idea how to use the thing to best advantage. Glancing at Perkin, a spotty, gawky lad of sixteen summers, who walked as if he were always about to pitch forward onto his nose, she began to understand why Sir Kester would have been a better choice of companion. Ah, well. It was too late for that now.
She was just about to admonish the boy and tell him to put his shoulders back when she caught sight of a familiar figure, examining a peach from a hawker’s basket.
Mistress Julia Wentworth.
There was no time to think. “Perkin! Stable the horses and meet me back here immediately.”
When he hesitated, she made an impatient gesture that sent him scudding off to do her bidding. Then she breathed a silent prayer of thanks and descended on Mistress Wentworth.
This was not the proud, overblown lady of the incident at the Black Bull. She was far more simply dressed, in a plain buff kirtle and apron, with a partlet pinned across to cover her modesty and a linen coif over her hair. As Clemence reached her, she was putting a few peaches into her basket.
“Mistress Wentworth.”
The woman straightened, shading her eyes. “Who’s that? I know you not.”
“Mayhap. But I know you. I was witness to the horse trough incident at Milforde. I am Clemence Fitzpayne.”
The thin lips pouted. “Oh, that. I trust that giant idiot received his just desserts.”
Clemence kept her voice low. “That ‘giant idiot’ was poisoned shortly afterward.”
Despite the glaring sunlight that enveloped them both, Clemence could tell the color had drained from the other woman’s face. But Mistress Wentworth tilted her chin and said, “Nonsense. That cannot be.”
“How would you know? You were not there. I nursed the man, and I say it was poison. A woman’s weapon. Was it you who gave Lancelot his ‘just desserts’?”
“Hector. His name is Hector. And I did no such thing. You can prove naught.”
There was some underhanded business here—the woman’s defensive stance, her pallor, the way she’d dropped her basket and was twisting her hands together, spoke of guilt.
The news of Lancelot’s poisoning had come as a shock, but the confidence with which she’d denied he could have been poisoned suggested she knew something.
But how could Clemence get Mistress Wentworth to talk? What would Lancelot do? Tie her up, hoist her over his shoulder and throw her in some dungeon until she confessed? Chain her to a bucket and dunk her in the nearest well?
Fury at the injustice done to Lancelot suddenly seized her. Eyes blazing, she jabbed a finger at Mistress Wentworth. “You know more of this affair than you’re prepared to admit. Let me tell you—I shall keep you here, send my man for a constable, and then make my accusation. Even if you’re innocent of the poisoning, you can be accused of making a false claim upon Hector de Glanville. Nay, don’t deny it—I see it in your face. You lied in front of a lawyer and a justice of the peace—you brought no proof, no papers, no ring. You didn’t even have a lock of your lover’s hair to substantiate your assertion.”
The woman’s eyes flickered from one side to the other. Clemence hoped she’d seen Perkin making a beeline for them, and know she had not come alone.
Mistress Wentworth’s expression soured. “You know nothing of the ways of men. What if I were to tell you he had lain with me, and promised to marry me thereafter but reneged on that promise? Every woman understands that is a heinous thing to do. Fortunately, he did not get me with child.”
Clemence repressed a shudder. It couldn’t be true. Well, it could, as Lancelot had proved himself a lusty fellow, but she refused to believe he’d abandon a woman he’d promised to wed.
“Mistress Clemence, the horses are settled. Shall you go to the jail now?” Perkin had appeared at Clemence’s elbow.
Mistress Wentworth narrowed her eyes at the boy, then glared at Clemence. “You’re going to the prison? Wherefore?”
“It is no business of thine.” Damn the youth—had he no subtlety? Clemence put up a hand, indicating he should stand a little way off while she concluded her conversation.
Leaning close, she whispered, “If you have lain with Hector de Glanville, you can tell me what he looks like naked.”
The expression on the other woman’s face would have made Clemence laugh under any other circumstance.
“What… what do you mean?” Mistress Wentworth glanced around her, her cheeks reddening.
“I mean, has he any peculiarities that would set him apart from other men?” Clemence was thinking of the scars on his back.
“None at all,” the other woman snapped. “He’s the same as most men—detestable.”
“So, Lancelot is not the only man in whose arms you’ve been.”
“That’s not what I said. Now, get you gone, Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne. This conversation bores me.”
“It proves you to be a liar. I now know how to make you perjure yourself in a court of law, and believe me, I will do it. Unless you tell me truly what brought you to the Black Bull that morning. Perkin, help the lady with her basket—she will accompany us to the prison to speak with Hector de Glanville.”
As Perkin stepped up beside her, Mistress Wentworth tensed visibly. “Hector’s in prison? I thought you said he was poisoned?”
“He recovered well. And is now indicted on a charge of murder.”
“Murder?” Mistress Wentworth shook her head in disbelief. “He said nothing about that.”
Clemence’s head snaked forward. “Who? Who said nothing about that?” But she didn’t need to voice the question—it could only be Walter de Glanville.
Suddenly, she wished she’d brought an entire mob of officials with her; wardens, the Watch, justices of the peace, constables—even her father. This woman needed to be cast into the deepest dungeon until she was prepared to talk. Lancelot’s life could depend on her testimony—if a court run by men was prepared to listen to a woman.
Well, they damned well would. She’d petition the queen if they didn’t.
The time for gentle persuasion was over. “Mistress Wentworth—you’re coming with us. I have a dagger and I’m not afraid to use it. Perkin, too, is armed, and you’re no match for both of us. You will come, and you will confess your treachery to Hector himself. He can then decide what’s to be done with you.”
The lady made no move. Having expected her to bolt like a frightened cony, Clemence was poised and ready to make a grab for her. So, she was puzzled at the woman’s lack of reaction.
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