To avoid the possibility of being seen by Ramsay she wended through some empty alleys and closes. Though the days were somewhat longer now than at the solstice, they weren’t nearly long enough yet for the sun to still be up by the end of the afternoon performances. The darkness of early winter nightfall hid her well. She knew these streets thoroughly, and made her way in full confidence of getting where she was going. The Goat and Boar was not far. She turned up the collar of her cloak and buried her hands in her muff, put her head down against the cold, and hurried on.
As she passed through the pool of light surrounding a torch outside a coffeehouse, she noticed a shadow from behind stretch before her. It continued to follow her until the darkness swallowed her again. Just beyond the limit of the light, she turned to glance behind, for it must be Ramsay having discovered her attempt to avoid him.
But it wasn’t. Though the silhouette was tall and broad shouldered, the gait was absolutely not Ramsay’s. The man following her did not have the swagger that was his habit. This man walked plainly and gracefully. And when she looked toward him he slowed to a stop. And waited.
Fear fluttered to her breast. She couldn’t see who was following her, but she could only conclude that the man was up to no good. Otherwise he would approach her and speak to her. It was plain he was waiting for her to move away from the light. She realized that because the only light in the alley was behind him, she could see only a silhouette. But he, on the other hand, could see her quite well.
She looked around the alley. Beyond that light was utter darkness. Back the way she’d come there was the torch and a circle of safety. Inside the coffeehouse this time of the evening would be people who might protect her. Or at least would make an attacker hesitate. She took a step toward the door, hoping to slip past the figure and join whatever men she might find inside, but the silhouette took a step toward her. She stopped.
The figure also stopped. He stood like a statue, not moving or even seeming to breathe. His stance was casual. Not tense, but ready to move whichever direction was necessary to keep her from the light. It was the attitude of someone accustomed to physical superiority.
She took a step to the side in order to go around him, but he also stepped to the side, blocking her way. Suzanne halted, tensed for what he would do. He reached to his belt and withdrew a dagger. He held it to the side, point upward, so she could see it well.
Panic tried to steal her wits. She fought it down, but could hardly think of what to do. All she could think was how she wished she’d brought Ramsay along with her.
She looked behind her at the alley farther into the darkness, and couldn’t see what or who might be there. She knew this alley well. She knew where it led, and she knew there were empty barrels stacked a few yards beyond her vision. There was a hole in the cobbles a little beyond the barrels. The alley at that end came out on Bank Side, not far from the Goat and Boar, and if she made a run for it she might make it to another place with a number of people. Now she had to decide whether to take the chance of getting past that knife and into the coffeehouse, or turning the other direction and hoping to disappear into the darkness.
Her hesitation robbed her of whatever advantage she might have had if she’d been able to decide. The figure rushed at her.
With a rabbit’s terrified reflex she spun and fled the opposite direction, into the darkness. The barrels were just ahead. She held out a hand to find them, and dodged to the side as she touched them. Her footing wobbled on the cobbles, but behind her she heard a satisfying crash as her pursuer stumbled into the barrels. They came tumbling to the ground, and there were more bumps and crashes as the assailant stumbled among them, rolling in the street. Suzanne ran on, and leapt over the hole. A few more steps, and behind her came a thud and a cry.
“Come back here, you whore!” The voice belonged to the Duke of Cawthorne, shouting orders at her as if she would blindly obey for the sake of form.
Again, she ran on.
But he was large, and fast. He regained his feet in a trice and surged onward. From the darkness behind her came gasping of pain and angry grunting. Suzanne navigated by dim outlines here and there of reflected light from distant sources, but couldn’t see within the deep shadows all around. She held out her palms to feel the brick wall she knew was ahead, and there she would make a turn to the left, where she might possibly come upon another torch so that at least she would be able to see her way to Bank Side. But not wanting to smack headlong into the wall slowed her down. Running footsteps approached from behind. Before she could reach the end of the alley she was grabbed from behind, jerked backward by her hair.
She twisted, but he held her in a solid, painful grip. To her horror, he was able to detain her with only one hand, which gripped her throat. It pressed her against his chest, and his voice reverberated through her and shuddered down her spine. “Hold still, you stupid whore.”
She tried to scream, but the large hand cut off her air. She grabbed at it, and dug in with her fingernails. He cried out, a feral, angry roar. His other hand slammed into her flailing arm. The dagger went into her arm. Oddly, it didn’t hurt much. Only a slight, metallic pain. She continued to struggle, and again caught the blade with another part of her arm. The hand holding her throat loosened in the fray as he cursed his bad luck, and she drew a deep, ragged breath. She screamed again, this time at full throat and the sound echoed from the surrounding buildings.
“Shut up!”
“Let me go!”
He struggled to throttle her again, but she twisted to deny him sufficient purchase. The dagger tried for her throat, but missed her entirely as she grappled.
“Hold still!”
“No!”
There came a thud, and Cawthorne grunted once. Suddenly his grip released, and Suzanne staggered to keep her feet as the duke fell to the ground. Another figure had come behind, and now she watched that shadow draw a small dagger from his shirt and face off against the duke, who felt of the back of his head and said, “Who are you?”
“The archangel Michael.” Angel he might have been, but Suzanne recognized Ramsay’s voice. He continued, “You murdered your own son, and you’ll pay for it.”
“That’s hardly your business. He was my son.” He scrambled to his feet, and squared off against Ramsay, his dagger at ready.
There was a black moment of rage from Ramsay, who then muttered, “I believe you’re a man who just needs killing.” Then he attacked with his sgian dubh.
Cawthorne parried and backed toward Suzanne. She wished she had a knife of her own, and would gladly have cut his throat from behind. Instead she balled her fist and whacked the side of his head. He staggered and Ramsay attacked again, but the duke was close enough to parry and he backed around, away from Suzanne, to recover. Now Ramsay was between Suzanne and Cawthorne and she was no longer in a position to help.
Suzanne’s screams had attracted others, who called out alarm and came running with shouts of “Murder!” Men with some candles and a torch swarmed from the coffeehouse up the alley, and others in the surrounding tenements poked their heads from windows and held candles to see what was all the ruckus, shouting “You leave her alone!” Ramsay ignored the chatter of onlookers wanting to know what was going on and warning each other of the big man with a knife.
Ramsay made another foray, and this time was able to open a long cut in Cawthorne’s arm. Though the sgian dubh had a very short blade, the thing was uncommon-sharp. The duke gave a yelp, and jerked back that arm, but again recovered his en garde.
“Hold still so I can cut yer throat,” Ramsay mocked, his brogue thickening in disgust.
“You’ll hang for this.”
“Then I’ve nothing to lose by making certain you’re dead first.”
“You’re mad.”
“You’re soon to meet your maker.” Then Ramsay shouted, “Och! leave him alone, he’s mine!”
/> The duke took a glance behind to see who was there, and found nobody near. Ramsay took that brief slip, and drove a stab at Cawthorne’s throat. The small knife went in to the hilt. A spray of blood covered them both.
The next two stabs were probably unnecessary, and definitely the three after that were in excess. The duke collapsed to the pavement, dead without a doubt. He lay on the street, in the midst of an expanding pool of glistening blood. Ramsay watched him, alert to know whether he might still be alive, and ready to make sure he was not.
Cawthorne’s dagger lay on the cobbles, and Ramsay picked it up.
“Are you all right?” he asked Suzanne.
She shook her head. In a fit of unleashed rage, she hauled back and kicked the dead duke. She staggered back, then did it again. Then again, her ragged breaths feeling sharp in the cold air. There were no words for her anger, only the need to damage the evil at her feet.
Finally Ramsay took an arm and restrained her. “Where are you hurt?”
She pulled open her cloak, and held out her forearm for him to see the two stab wounds, and blood spreading along the white fabric of the shirt she wore. Along with the surrounding crowd she and Ramsay stared at the dead duke. Her terror hardened into anger. A knot formed in her heart and grew so large it choked her. Her fist clenched, and at that moment she wished with all her heart to hold that dagger in it and do to him the horrible thing he’d done to his son.
Then she shook the thought away, for she didn’t want to be that sort of person.
Chapter Twenty
Ramsay’s action in killing the duke was determined on the face of it to be self-defense and defense of another. There could be no question of it, for dozens of witnesses—all neighbors of Suzanne and the Globe—stated exactly what had happened, and the stories were consistent. Ramsay spent only one night in the neighborhood lockup, and was released the following morning with a gracious “good day” from the turnkey, who had won more than a pound from him at poker in those few hours.
Suzanne went to his rooms when she learned he had been released. Like most single men who were neither indigent nor wealthy, and neither servants nor apprentices, he lived in a flat of rooms that were more or less clean, and free of vermin. They were on the third floor, just below the servants’ garret and just above a noisy couple enjoying a late-afternoon rendezvous. As Suzanne knocked on Diarmid’s door, a bedstead banged and thudded against a wall downstairs, and a male voice was taking the Lord’s name in vain loudly and in imaginative fashion.
Ramsay’s door opened, and she found him caught by surprise with no shirt. Then a wide grin crossed his face. “Och, I thought you were the boy to deliver my dinner!” He ducked back inside for his shirt. “Come in! Come in and have a seat!”
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“I hardly could be. Come, sit.” He indicated a carved wooden chair that would accommodate her skirts, and she sat. He drew on a linen shirt with slightly foppish ruffles at the wrists, and tucked the tail into his breeches without fastening its ties. Most of it hung out in any case, and he let that go while he hunted down a jacket to put over it. He wore no stockings, but did find a pair of shoes to make himself barely presentable.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have sent Christian before me to announce my impending visit.”
“Nonsense. I’m happy to see you at any time of day or night.” He leaned forward for a closer look at her. “How is your arm? Were the cuts deep?”
She held out the bandaged arm and rucked back her sleeve to show him the linen strips wrapped about it. It had taken a very long time for the bleeding to stop, and even now some pink seeped through the dressing in little spots. But she said, “No. They hardly bled at all. His was a long knife, but the blade went to the side too much for it to even hit the bone. It doesn’t hurt much.”
“That’s excellent.” Then he sat back in his chair and his expression darkened. “But I must tell you it was extraordinarily stupid to walk about the streets like that without an escort. He would have killed you.”
“I couldn’t take you with me for the interviews I sought.”
He leaned forward once more to speak directly into her face. “He would have killed you.”
“He didn’t.”
“Only because I was there. Had I been escorting you and not had to go searching for you once I discovered you’d gone without me, he never would have approached you. So tell me you’ll never do anything so foolish again.”
She wanted to tell him that, and it was her first impulse to obey. But she stopped herself and thought over her reply. Slowly she said, “I very much appreciate what you did for me.”
“I saved your life.”
“Yes, you did. And I can never repay that.”
“I don’t expect payment. I did it for your sake only.”
She gazed into his face, and saw there was no irony or mischief in it. He was sincere in what he said. But she knew it was nevertheless untrue. “Diarmid, I know in your heart you think that, but I still cannot believe it.”
“Why not?” His expression darkened with puzzlement.
“I think you wish to control me.”
“I wish you to be safe.”
“And you think the only place I can be safe is under your control. Under your direction. I’m to do what I’m told, because I’m incompetent to decide for myself what is best for me. To you, I’m a danger to myself.”
Anger gathered, and Ramsay shifted in his seat. “You certainly showed no sense in deciding to go wandering off through Southwark alone and after dark.”
“I had a need.”
“He nearly killed you.”
“And now I carry a very sharp dagger with me.” She reached into her muff and produced the small knife she’d installed in it that morning. The knife grinder on Maid Lane had sold it to her, with a plain scabbard to protect her hands, and had sharpened it well so it resembled the sgian dubh Ramsay carried.
In a flash Ramsay reached out and grabbed the knife. She made a swipe for it, but he held it up and away from her. When she rose to chase it, he avoided her, moving it from hand to hand as she attempted to grab it back. “See? Now you’ve armed your assailant. You’re a woman, and do not have the strength or agility to use this.”
“I can learn.”
“You can get yourself killed.”
She finally gave up pursuing the knife, and returned to her chair, flushed, exerted, and angry. “I need to be able to move freely in the world. There are things I must do by myself.”
“Give me an example.”
“How would it be for you if you were required to wait for someone to be available to escort you everywhere you went? Would you want your entire life to revolve around the schedule and willingness of another person?”
“I have spent more than a week arranging my life to suit your needs.”
“One week. A generous thing, but you can hardly continue that way. You have business to attend to, and cannot follow me about every day.”
“I wouldn’t need to, were you to marry me.”
Exasperation made her roll her eyes, though she knew it would only irritate him. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. If I married you, I would be nothing but a prisoner. I would be under your control at all times and you would tell me when and where to go. I could not live my life as I pleased.”
“But I would please you. You would have everything you needed and would never need to go traipsing off in the night to question suspected criminals.”
“Or spend time with my friends, or shop at the exchanges, or anything else that might interest me. For that, I might as well be in the lockup for the rest of my life. How can I possibly continue this life, which I enjoy very much, if I’m limited to these walls?” She held up her palms and looked about the room to indicate the living space she expected would be hers if
she accepted his proposal. Then she returned them to her lap, leaned toward him, and in a lowered voice said, “Tell me, Diarmid, when you first put forth your suit, did you care a fig about me?”
At first he looked as if he might not answer. He glowered at her from beneath his eyebrows, appearing to sulk. But apparently he was thinking. He said, “I was attracted to you. Anymore, I’m not so very certain.”
That stabbed at her heart, for she had become very fond of him and wanted him to like her. But she said, “You cannot say your attraction was based on love. You could not love me, because you did not know me.”
“Nor you me, but I could have accepted that.”
She sighed, exasperated again. “But I could not. I could never marry someone I didn’t love. Not after twenty years of struggling on my own. Not after having raised Piers by myself and having earned my place in the world by myself.”
“Are you saying you don’t care about me?”
“Of course not.” The words came out without thought, and she caught herself, but then she continued, “I do care about you. I find you entertaining and exciting. I admire your intelligence and the protection you have provided me.” His scowl smoothed out some. “But I don’t want to tie myself to anyone. Especially I don’t wish to imprison myself with someone who wants to shield me from the world.”
“Why wouldn’t you want to be shielded from the world? I find it little charming, myself. My greatest wish is to become wealthy enough for my money to shield me from the worst of it.”
“But you would never wish to be required to stay within these rooms every day for the rest of your life.”
“I would allow you to accompany me to the Goat and Boar.”
She closed her eyes and took a long pause to avoid a cry of frustration at his lack of understanding. Then she opened them and said in a calm, level voice, “I do not care to ask permission. I am currently quite able to decide for myself whether to go to the Goat and Boar, or across the river, or to bloody Whitehall Palace if I please. You offer me nothing more than a modicum of safety, which I have never before had and therefore cannot miss or appreciate.”
The Twelfth Night Murder Page 26