The Huntress

by Susan Carroll

  “His lordship must be extremely disappointed,” Martin mused.

  “Disappointed?” Sander gave a shrill laugh. “Mad with rage would be a better description. He threw a bloody tantrum, overturning the banquet table, hurling stools, bellowing at all the guests to get out. Poor Lady Danvers was near to tears apologizing to everyone as they were hustled out the door.

  “Our company was in the low parlor chamber, readying ourselves to perform after supper. When the fracas broke out, the rest of them took to their heels. I was the only one who dared linger in hopes I might still be recompensed for this evening.”

  That hardly surprised Martin. Sander Naismith was a bold lad and something of a protégé to Lord Oxbridge, who had introduced him to the Crown Theatre’s company.

  “It looks like I shall be heading home with an empty purse,” Sander groused. “And I am nigh desperate for a few crowns.”

  “Ah, you young fool. You have doubtless been hazarding too much at the dice again.”

  “No, sir!” But the boy’s sheepish smile belied his words.

  “Never mind. I am sure Lady Danvers will see that you all are paid when she is less distressed.” Martin clapped the boy on the shoulder. “If she doesn’t, I will.”

  Sander looked heartened by Martin’s promise. But as he continued on down the path, he called back over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, Master Wolfe. Ned—I mean his lordship—is roaring drunk and it isn’t doing much to improve his disposition.”

  Scooping up his skirts, Sander disappeared into the darkness. Despite the boy’s warning, Martin continued on his way, much troubled by Sander’s tidings.

  Martin knew that Ned Lambert had been looking forward to entertaining the queen, had been boasting about it for weeks. Like any other ambitious young nobleman, he frequently haunted the halls of Whitehall in hopes of currying the royal favor.

  Hampered by the fact that he was a Catholic and by his family’s unfortunate history, Ned had been frustrated in his efforts, obliged to rub elbows with the common petitioners in the outer court at the palace. But queen Gloriana was very fond of presents. A costly gift of a jeweled pin in the shape of a peacock had finally gained him admittance to the Presence Chamber. His handsome face, much flattery, and a song composed in Gloriana’s honor had won him greater favor still, the queen graciously agreeing to attend the banquet to be held at Strand House.

  Martin could well imagine Lord Oxbridge’s chagrin and humiliation at the queen’s absence this evening. But it was the extreme fury of his lordship’s reaction that disturbed Martin.

  Ned Lambert tended to confine his recklessness to the hunting fields, a breakneck rider who had brought more than one fine stallion to grief. He was far more temperate in his drinking habits than most of his friends. When he did imbibe too much, he became quiet and morose until he tumbled off to sleep. Martin had never known the young man to fly into a drunken rage. He hoped that the savagery of Ned’s disappointment did not have its roots in some sinister cause. Such as an assassination plot thwarted by the queen’s failure to appear…

  No, it would be hazardous to the point of lunacy for Ned to risk bringing harm to the queen beneath his own roof. Martin could not believe his lordship would be that foolish, especially since it would also put his sister at risk. Although Jane was nearly ten years older than Ned, the pair was very close.

  He couldn’t believe that Ned could be involved in any plots at all. Couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to, a voice in his head demanded, sounding remarkably like Walsingham’s.

  “You find it inconvenient for the man who helped fund your precious theater to be guilty of treason. Your liking for his lordship’s sister has led you to be less than zealous in your investigations.”

  The secretary’s accusations nagged at Martin as he entered the inner court. He did his best to thrust them from his mind.

  The household was still in enough turmoil that he made it as far as the great hall unannounced. Glancing about him, he was dismayed to see that Sander had not exaggerated.

  The dining parlor looked like it had been invaded by a troop of marauding Turks, tables, chairs, and stools overturned. The rushes were littered with the remains of what had promised to be the setting for a fine supper. Damask napkins, salt cellars, silver plates, and trenchers were scattered everywhere, the white linen table covering stained with wine from shattered crystal.

  Servants clustered in the doorway leading from the kitchen, whispering in hushed voices, clearly uncertain what to do next, but leery of the man sprawled in the chair before the hearth.

  Lord Oxbridge had his back to the entryway. All Martin could see of him were his long, elegantly hosed and shod legs stretched out before him. One arm dangled over the side of the chair, the tapering white fingers of his hand bejeweled with rings. Ned’s rage had finally spent itself or he had passed out. From his vantage point, Martin could not tell which.

  His sister hovered nearby, a ghost of a woman in her ecru silk gown draped over a farthingale, her fine blond hair confined by a net caul seeded with pearls. She was the first to notice Martin’s arrival.

  When one of the pages would have ventured across the parlor to attend to Martin, Jane Danvers waved him aside. She approached Martin herself with her hand outstretched.

  “Marcus. I—I mean Master Wolfe.”

  “Lady Danvers.” Martin bowed. He took her hand and brushed a light kiss against her cheek in the customary greeting for one’s hostess.

  A hint of color crept into Jane’s pale cheeks. She usually had the serene countenance of a Madonna, but her smooth brow was furrowed, her dove gray eyes full of distress.

  “I—I am sorry. I regret to tell you we have been obliged to cancel. That—that is the queen did not—and—and my brother is not quite himself. He—he—.”

  “It is all right. I know what happened.” Martin squeezed her hand gently.

  The simple action was enough to cause Jane’s eyes to fill with tears, but she blinked them back. She might not possess Cat’s fierce pride, but Lady Danvers had a quiet dignity of her own.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Martin asked.

  “Find me a nice quiet convent where I can hide?” Jane made a wan effort to smile. “Ned’s behavior has been so scandalous I will scarce dare to show my face in London or at court for weeks.”

  Her lashes swept down. “Not that Ned or I were very welcome at Whitehall before.”

  “Wolfe, is that you?” A slurry voice called from across the room. Lord Oxbridge roused himself, staggering up from the depths of the chair.

  He lurched toward Martin, his gait unsteady, the candlelight winking off the jeweled buttons of his blue silk doublet. Ned Lambert’s hair was slicked back from his brow, the blond strands lighter than his sister’s, but his gray eyes were a shade harder. Unlike most fashionable men, he went clean-shaven.

  Handsome in an arrogant sort of way, tonight his lean countenance was stained an ugly shade of red from too much wine. His eyes still glittered dangerously. Even though his temper was banked, Martin sensed it would not require much by way of tinder to flare up again.

  Martin sketched a bow. “Good evening. How fares my lord?”

  “Ill. Cursed ill.” Oxbridge stumbled a little and braced himself, resting one hand heavily on Martin’s shoulder. “The old bitch didn’t come.”

  “Ned, please—” Jane began, starting toward him.

  But her brother righted himself, waving her off with a contemptuous gesture.

  “Oooh, my older sister scolds me. Mustn’t speak disrespectful of my sovereign queen even though she made a bloody fool of me. Sending a message round sayin’ she was in-indisposed. Phfft!” His lordship made a scornful noise through pursed lips, poking Martin in the chest. “Did you ever hear the like, Wolfe? Old bat’s never sick a day in her life. She’ll live forever even though we’d all be better off if she up and—”

  “Edward!” Jane cried, shooting her brother a warning look that
he was too far gone to see. Her hands fluttering nervously, she appealed to Martin, “Please. You must pardon his lordship and myself. We are in no fit state to be receiving guests. I must beg you to leave.”

  “Certainly. I understand, my lady,” Martin said. He had already heard far more than he wished.

  But Ned slung his arm around Martin’s shoulders. “No, stay.” He glowered at his sister. “Mustn’t be rude to Wolfe, Jane. He’s a fine fellow. Saved your life, y’know.”

  Leaning heavily on Martin, he said, “Come and have a cup of wine and com-commiserate with me.”

  “Ned, you’ve already had far too much,” Jane said, but Martin gave her a warning shake of his head, realizing that all of her pleas were doing nothing except aggravating her brother.

  “Excellent idea, my lord.” Martin added in a softer voice to Jane, “More wine might help him to sleep.”

  Jane’s eyes widened, then she nodded in comprehension.

  “Who the devil wants to sleep?” his lordship growled, overhearing. Peeling himself off of Martin, Ned managed to make it back to his chair on his own. Tumbling into it, he bellowed for more wine.

  A dignified servant wearing the Lambert scarlet and black livery appeared swiftly, bearing two flagons on a tray. Swilling his own wine, Ned didn’t even notice that Martin placed his cup atop the mantel, untasted.

  Martin realized he was in a cursed difficult situation and he needed a clear head. This was exactly the opportunity Walsingham would expect Martin to take full advantage of. Pry out what secrets he could while Ned’s tongue was loose with drink.

  But Martin could scarce tear his eyes from Jane. Her gentle face was so distraught, rousing all of Martin’s most protective instincts.

  The servant caught her attention and asked in an undertone, “Your pardon, my lady, the cook was wondering. What is to be done with all the food prepared for the banquet?”

  Ned’s copious drinking didn’t seem to affect his hearing. He snarled, “Fling it into the streets. Let the dogs and kites have it.”

  Jane frowned, remonstrating with her brother gently. “Surely, my dear, it would be much better to distribute the food among the poor.”

  Ned took another gulp of his wine, scowled, and then shrugged. “Oh, very well.”

  While Jane quietly imparted her instructions to the servant, Ned brooded over his wine cup and intoned, “The poor will be with you always. Especially nowadays. No place for the poor buggers to go for alms. Damned Protestants didn’t think of that when they were closing down all the monasteries and convents, did they, Master Wolfe?”

  “No, I daresay they didn’t,” Martin replied uncomfortably. Both the Lamberts had always been so discreet about being Catholic. Martin knew Jane wore a simple crucifix but she kept it tucked beneath her gown, only the gold chain visible. As for Ned, Martin had never heard him mention a word on the subject of religion until now.

  Jane returned in time to hear her brother’s latest ravings. She rested her hand on his shoulder.

  “God expects all of us to be charitable, Ned. Not just the holy men.”

  “You are charitable enough for both of us. M’sister’s a saint, Marcus. Did you know that?”

  Martin smiled at Jane. “Certainly she is a noble and virtuous lady.”

  “No! I am telling you she’s a saint,” Ned said. “A goddamned saint!”

  “Edward!” Jane admonished, squeezing his shoulder. She cast Martin a rueful glance. “I assure you I am not.”

  Ned gave a sloppy grin, reaching up to pat her hand. His expression darkened almost immediately. He startled both Martin and Jane by suddenly flinging his wine cup into the empty hearth.

  Doubling over, he buried his face in his hands and groaned. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do? I thought by licking the queen’s boots I could obtain some fat post at court. I should have known better. She gives preference only to Protestants, dark-skinned gypsies like that old fart Leicester. He used to be the queen’s lover, y’know. They plotted together to murder his wife.”

  “Ned, for the love of heaven, I beg you. Talk like that could get you thrown into the Tower.” Jane cast an uneasy glance at Martin.

  “Don’t fret, my lady,” he hastened to assure her. “I am familiar with all the old gossip. I take little heed and certainly would not repeat it.”

  “Why not? Everyone else does,” Ned muttered, and then went back to moaning. “I am ruined. I’ve near bankrupted myself on this s-supper. Do you have any idea how much money I spent? Jane’s money.”

  Jane rubbed her brother’s back soothingly. “It doesn’t matter, dearest. I don’t mind.”

  “But I mind, damn it.” Ned jerked his head up. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life tied to m’sister’s apron strings.”

  “It is a woman’s duty to look out for her family.”

  “That’s our father talking,” Ned sneered. Peering up at Martin, he asked, “Did you know Jane was bartered off twice to repair our family fortunes? Once to a sickly boy and then to an old man with gout. Poor little cow.”

  When Jane lowered her gaze in embarrassment, Martin longed to give the young man a good clout to the ears. An unwise idea in Ned’s current inebriated state. It would only lead to fisticuffs or a duel, distressing Jane further.

  Ned twisted in his chair to blink owlishly up at his sister. “Never again, Janey. Next time you’ll wed to your own fancy, some handsome lusty fellow who will bed you proper. I’ll make our fortunes. I’ll be the wealthiest and most powerful man in England, if all goes well.”

  As he turned back to Martin, a sly expression played over his lordship’s flushed face. He laid one finger dramatically over his lips and said, “Shhh. Wolfe, old man, can you keep a secret?”

  No!

  Martin managed a stiff smile. “I try to be discreet. But I don’t think this is a good time for your lordship to be sharing confidences. Not when your judgment is impaired.” “Nothing wrong with my judgment.” Ned struggled upward, swaying a little. “I want to show you something.”

  “Ned, no!” If Jane had looked uneasy before, she was now white with alarm. “I am sure Marcus would have no interest—”

  “Sure he would. He might even want a share in my enterprise.”

  Jane clung to her brother’s arm, but he shook her off roughly. Beckoning Martin to follow, Ned lurched off toward the kitchen.

  Martin looked uncertainly at Jane. Although she cast him a pleading glance, she spread her hands in a helpless gesture. Martin had no choice but to follow Ned, but he did so with his stomach in knots.

  Goddamn the irresponsible young fool. Was it possible that Walsingham was right about Ned being involved in Babington’s plot? Was the drunken idiot about to serve up Martin the evidence the secretary needed on a silver platter?

  As Ned staggered into the kitchen, the servants skittered back like frightened shadows. Ned snatched up a candle.

  “This way,” he slurred, leading Martin through a door with a rough stone stair winding down to the cellars. Martin picked his way carefully after him, Jane rustling behind.

  Martin offered his hand to aid her down the worn narrow steps. She clutched at him with an almost frantic grip as though she wanted to draw him back. But Ned was the one she needed to stop, damn it, Martin thought.

  Unsteady on his feet, Ned nearly lost his balance weaving down the last step. Martin wrenched the candle away from him before the drunken fool set the entire house ablaze.

  Light flickered over a storeroom filled with casks of wine and barrels of ale. There was a heavy oak door at the far end. Weaving his way toward it, Ned fished inside his doublet and produced a large iron key.

  This couldn’t be good, Martin thought. A door to some mysterious room at the bottom of the house to which only his lordship had the key.

  And whatever lurked inside had his sister looking ill with apprehension. Some terrible secret that Jane obviously feared Ned revealing to anyone.

  So why the blazes didn’
t she do something besides wring her hands? Why didn’t she stop Ned? Cat certainly would have done so if it had been her brother. She would have knocked him unconscious before ever allowing him to betray himself.

  As Ned swore, making repeated jabs with the key in his drunken efforts to get it into the lock, Martin surreptitiously wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He didn’t know why he was even thinking of Cat at such a moment, comparing her to Jane.

  Perhaps because he felt a trifle desperate, dreading whatever Ned might be about to show him, perhaps evidence of treason, something Martin might feel obliged to report to Walsingham.

  He half hoped that Ned might break the blasted key off in the lock. But there was a loud click. Ned tugged on the heavy door and it swung open with an ominous creak. Leaning up against the jamb with a foolish smug smile, he indicated Martin should precede him inside.

  Jane made a soft sound. When Martin glanced at her, her hands were folded, her lips moving silently. Damnation, was the woman actually praying? What the bloody hell was in that room?

  A cold lump in his stomach, Martin squared his shoulders and stepped over the threshold. But nothing could have braced him for the sight that met his eyes.

  Holding the candle aloft, his mouth fell open in total shock.

  Chapter Eight

  NIGHT SETTLED OVER MEG’S BEDCHAMBER WINDOW LIKE A warm dark blanket, signaling the time for sleep. But the girl was wide awake. Her night rail fluttering about her bare legs, She opened the casement. Leaning out the window as far as she dared, she raised the magnifying device to her eye.

  She had fashioned it herself, following the instructions the best she could, fitting the convex glass into the metal tube. Like everything else described in the Book of Shadows, the device was intended for a sinister purpose, spying upon one’s enemy, gaining the advantage in war.

  But the only enemy that Meg longed to conquer was the one that lurked in her own heart. She trained the spyglass upon the darkened heavens, her breath catching in her throat as she studied the comet. Each night, it seemed a little brighter, blazing as though it would burn a hole in the sky.