So Worthy My Love

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “His lor’ship says we’re ta take ye ta London, mistress, an’ ‘at’s where ye’ll be goin’.”

  “Lord Forsworth, perchance?” Elise queried and chuckled in derision. “Let me assure you, good fellow, if that be the one who’s hired you, he is not a lord, and he’s as poor as a church mouse.”

  “Ne’er ye worry yerself ’bout his purse, mistress. His lor’ship needs none atall wit’ the pair o’ us. We’re as loyal as fish is ta water.” Spence’s flatly spoken answer made it apparent that he could not be coaxed from his mission.

  Fitch ran past with a lantern as his companion carried her to the river’s bank. Setting the lamp upon the ground, the portly man reached into the tall reeds growing in thick clusters along the shore and, seizing a rope, wound the cord around the length of his forearm until a boat was dragged from the grassy growth. He hastened to prepare a soft place in the prow, spreading out several fur robes, and it was upon this that Spence lowered their captive. The cockboat wallowed from side to side as the taller man stepped to the stern.

  Fitch settled amidship and, placing the lantern beside him, grasped the oars. With amazingly powerful strokes, he rowed the boat from shore out into the main channel where he dropped a centerboard and stepped a stubby mast which the two of them quickly braced before hoisting a small triangular sail. The small craft took on a skipping, dancing, headless manner ‘twixt the errant breezes and the strong, dark currents until Spence, lowering the rudder into the water and leaning against the tiller, brought the vessel into a steady, smooth course downstream.

  The lantern was doused, and once more the night closed in about them. Elise’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and as the boat skimmed through the water she could see the black bulk of the shore on either side. The tall shadows of the sail and the men were silhouetted against the quicksilver shine of the river, and behind them a mottled wake stretched out into darkness. As the night aged and the constant creaking of the mast lulled her senses, Elise dragged the fur robes close over her shoulder and, having some assurance that the men were on a specific mission and not intent upon rape or murder, finally yielded to sleep.

  It seemed only a moment later when a dull thump disturbed Elise’s slumber, and her eyelids flicked suddenly open. She stared aloft where the twigs and branches of a huge tree formed an airy canopy high above her small, floating bed. Beyond the far-reaching limbs, low clouds of a dreary gray hue scudded across the bleak sky while brisk breezes rattled the branches, tossing them to and fro. Leaves were whipped into a frenzied flight and, in jubilant freedom, pirouetted before her captive gaze, before slowly settling in a zigzagging descent and coming to rest upon her furry robes. The swirling, strengthening gusts cavorted like some mindless, invisible sprites through the woods, scudding over the river and rippling the surface with its breath. Secured by the long painter, the boat skimmed sideways over the water until it bumped against a fallen log, then as if beckoned, it drifted back to the reeds growing alongside the bank.

  On another day Elise might have enjoyed the interlude, but awareness of her circumstances dispelled any leisured thoughts of pleasure. The snoring cacophony of the two men rent the peace of the morning, bringing a reminder of her captivity. She bit her lip in anguish as she tried to move, realizing the struggles of the past evening had left her unmercifully stiff and sore. She stretched carefully until her aching muscles began to loosen and she could lift herself to a sitting position. Her gaze immediately found Fitch sleeping on shore beneath the very same tree which sheltered her. The man had removed his jerkin and spread a cloak beneath him as protection against the damp chill of his leafy bed, putting the leather jerkin to use as a pillow beneath his head.

  Almost lazily her eyes followed the long painter from the prow, moving upward along its taut line to a spot where it was double-looped around an overhanging branch. There it had been tied back upon itself to keep the boat some distance from shore. Except for the growing wind it might have remained where the men had planned it to stay.

  Her gaze continued to trace the path of the rope from the knot, down along a loosely dangling dip, back up into the tree near the crotch of a limb where she spied Spence. He had obviously drawn the last watch and had climbed into the tree where he could keep an eye on her from above. He had wrapped the loose end of the painter several times around his ankle to further secure the boat lest he should doze, and apparently had felt safe enough to fall asleep on his perch, for his snores rivaled those of his earthbound companion.

  Elise studied her choices. If she managed to climb from the boat when it bumped against the fallen log, her ankle was just sore enough to prevent her from fleeing swiftly on foot. To escape in the boat was her best choice, but even if she managed to extricate the rope from the branch, there would still be Spence to contend with.

  Even as she watched, fate took a hand and set in motion a chain of events that would have astounded a casual observer. The wind had risen, and the current swung the boat outward until the painter stretched tight. The well-chafed branch could no longer stand the strain and suddenly snapped with a splintering c-r-r-a-a-c-k. The broken limb plummeted into the water, freeing the knot. The boat shot outward into the stronger current, and Elise seized hold of the sides as the wind filled and then took aback the loosened sail. As she was the only weight aboard and situated well forward, the craft spun in a crazy dance on its bows, catching the painter with the now-lax tiller and twining it firmly thereon before picking up a direction downstream. The rope snapped taut, and with the end of it now bound only to the foot of the dozing man, Spence received the full jolt of the thrust. Snatched sideways from his lofty perch, he sailed through the air, instantly and totally awake, but thoroughly confused. He gave voice to a bellow of fear and clutched in panic at whatever branch or twig he passed. Retaining only a handful of dry leaves, he struck the water with arms and legs akimbo and then abruptly disappeared from sight. The water was shallow, perhaps no more than half his height, and his free foot found good purchase on the bottom, but only briefly. The momentum of the boat was such that it caused him to cartwheel up from the depths like some many limbed sea monster. His wail of distress rose to a shriek, but the sound was cut short by another plunge into the river.

  The horrendous caterwauling finally snatched Fitch from the depths of noisy slumber. He could not mistake the panic in Spence’s voice, and he sprang to his feet, shedding the remnants of his bed and presenting a truly astonishing sight in his baggy chausses, loosely flapping shirt, and bare feet. He stared in awe at the sight of his companion being dragged over a shallow strand while the boat drifted downriver with the stern lifted high before the morning gale. A brief vision of his lordship sternly admonishing the pair of them “that at no cost were they to let their captive escape” gave him sudden momentum. Lifting his bare feet high as he ran and pumping his arms to gain the best turn of speed, he raced along the edge of the embankment toward a downstream point from which he hoped he could intercept the flight of the wayward craft.

  Elise looked back at the one in the water. Somehow Spence had managed to grasp the rope and, with much choking and spluttering, was pulling himself ever closer to the cockboat. She made her way aft to the tiller, but the painter had been twisted firmly about the rudder and, with the floundering man’s weight upon it, she could budge neither. She seized an oar and, with a desperate heave, managed to lift it from the oarlock. Sliding the long, unwieldy thing out over the stern, she began to poke and harass her half-drowned captor, to such an extent that the mild- mannered Spence gave vent to loud shouts of duress amid threats against her person.

  The hull grated bottom, and Elise glanced around in time to see Fitch reach his goal. With a great shout of victory he hurled himself, still striding, from the top of the low bluff directly into the path of the boat. Though his entry into the water raised a sizable geyser, Fitch paused only briefly beneath the surface before he came up spewing water and gasping for breath. He flogged about wildly with his arms, raising a
white froth until he regained his senses and began to make some discernible progress toward her.

  The boat lurched, and Elise turned to see Spence’s huge hands grasping the stern. She tried to swing the oar, but it was too long, too clumsy, and much too heavy to be an efficient weapon. The rear of it caught on the mast and almost sent her tumbling overboard. After another rough jerk she glanced forward and saw a pair of hands grasping the gunwales, one on either side of the prow. Very slowly a straining, dripping, leering man heaved himself above it. With a brief whine of enraged frustration Elise started forward, intending to poke him away with the oar, but she staggered unsteadily as Spence flung a leg over the stern, inadvertently kicking the tiller. Now free of the restraining weight, the tiller ifipped hard over, and the boat careened and teetered like some love-drunk walrus a-reel in euphoric bliss.

  Elise clung to the oar and grasped a corner of the sail. Neither served her well when the boat teetered sideways into a growth of reeds. The tough, wet canvas slipped from her grasp, while the weight of the oar across her middle pushed her backward into the river. The shock of the icy water struck her, and it was only by a dint of will that she did not gasp in a lungful as she sank below the surface. Releasing the oar, she lashed out in blind desperation, trying to right herself in the water. Her head came up, and she sucked in wheezing breaths of air until the painful, icy shock ebbed.

  Elise ground her teeth as she saw the pair of men now standing fore and aft in the boat. They stared back at her in awe, as if frozen by what they saw. She could well imagine the sight she presented with a welter of broken reeds crowning her head, dripping strands of hair streaming down her face, and her once-crisp ruff draped around her neck like the much-bedraggled ornament of a woebegone sea nymph.

  Though the water was only slightly deeper than the draft of the boat, the weight of her sodden skirts kept her from rising. She braced her feet beneath her and pushed hard, then grimaced in repugnance as she felt her once-dainty slippers sink into the slimy muck that covered the bottom. For her trouble, she gained only a half-crouching position, and with a snarl of rage she jerked an arm free of the tangled reeds and caught hold of the oar. Plunging the tip downward into the ooze, she braced herself against it and, with an effort, withdrew a foot from the mud, minus her shoe, and tried to step forward. The oar lost its footing, escaped her grasp and, like some vengeful prig, banged her across the head as it fell back to the surface. Elise’s lips tightened with her mounting frustration, and she shoved the oar away angrily. Fitch caught the piece as it glided past him and copied her manner by sinking the tip firmly into the muck. Leaning it against the boat, he pushed the hull close beside her and kept his face carefully blank as he offered her a hand.

  Elise’s chin came up in a silent but eloquent snub and, managing to turn her back to him, she staggered from the muck, dragging her ponderous skirts with her as she left the river. Gaining solid footing, she set her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering as the two men pulled the boat ashore. Avoiding her baleful stare, they set about building a fire, then hung the cast-off drapery on a rope between two trees as an offering of privacy, for the lady.

  Elise used the makeshift chamber to doff her garments and found a hollow in a tree where she could hide her purse temporarily. The men spread her clothes to dry before the fire while she sought comfort in the warm furs. Spence bagged a hare and was soon roasting its cleaned carcass on a green stick above the flames. Bread, cheese, and wine were also provided, and though the rabbit was rather tasteless and dry, the victuals sufficed to soothe the gnawing hunger in her stomach. In a cool, stoic manner Elise relented enough to thank the men for her portion.

  “Ye’d best rest yerself mistress,” Spence advised. “We’ll be on our way ‘gain come dusk.”

  Hardly enough time for her velvet gown to dry, Elise mused morosely. “What do you expect me to wear?” she demanded. “My gown is ruined! ‘Twill never be the same! I’ve lost a shoe! Everything is still soaking wet!”

  Spence stepped away briefly, then came back with a pair of hide shoes, a frayed woolen gown, and a coarsely woven cloak of the same cloth. “Here be somethin’ for ye ta wear if ye’ve a mind ta put ’em on,” he offered as he handed the garments to her. “Simple though ‘ey be, ‘ey’ll serve yer needs an’ get us past ta where we’re goin’ wit’out so much as a twitch o’ a brow.”

  Elise’s glare conveyed her lack of gratitude. She had no idea where they were bound to warrant her wearing such drab clothes, but she found nothing in his statement to suggest their destination would be among the establishments of the elite. She accepted the garments, knowing the foolishness of wearing a soaking-wet gown or trying to maintain her modesty with only the fur robes. She dried her hair by the fire, combing it out with her fingers and left it tumbling in loose curls. When her undergarments were dry enough, she returned to her makeshift chamber and made some adjustments to her farthingale, reducing it down to a thin, padded wheel into which she tucked her purse. She donned her petticoats, laced the bodice of the woolen gown, tying the cords tightly at her waist, and tucked her feet into the pair of hide shoes. The gray woolen cloak provided some warmth for which she was grateful, and she pulled the deep hood close around her face.

  Night had not yet draped the river with full darkness when Elise was shaken gently awake. With protest she yielded the furs, allowing the men to make a comfortable place for her in the boat. “I’ll catch my death ere long,” she complained, “but do you care? Bah! A heartless pair of scoundrels, you are. I swear I will cry for vengeance upon your souls from my grave.”

  “Nay, mistress! ‘Tis not true! We’ve been charged wit’ yer safety, we ‘aye, an’ do cherish it above our own,” Spence declared.

  Elise gave him a dubious stare. “Well, Spence, I for one can attest to the fact that you’ve been lax in your duties, and ere I would hear the banshee’s cry, I pray to have no more of your tender care, for my frail form cannot long withstand your mercies.”

  Spence could not find the words to soothe the girl’s ire. She had much cause to feel offended, and he could not blame her for resenting them. His lordship had foresworn them to secrecy, and he could not go against that troth, though he was beginning to feel much like an ogre.

  The best he could do was to prepare a cozy place for the girl in the boat. This he did, lining it with thick pelts and leaving the finest for her to use as a cover against the crisp night air. Her wet garments were rolled in another hide and tucked away in the boat, though he had grave doubts as to their future usefulness. He handed Elise in and took care as he laid the robes over her, for this was indeed precious cargo which had been placed in their charge.

  Chapter 4

  THE SHROUD OF NIGHT still hung over the river as the craft slipped into the currents flowing through London. Elise awoke from a fitful drowse and saw dark towers and buildings drifting by on either bank. The small boat lurched and swayed as Fitch leaned against the tiller, steering toward the darker shadows. Spence paused in reeling the sail and glanced down where his charge lay warm and snugly nestled in her bed of furs. He saw the faint glimmer of her eyes as they swept the riverbank.

  “Stay where ye be, mistress. Make like a wee, small mouse wit’ nary a sound from yer lips. I’ll be layin’ this pole”—he patted the short mast—“down in a bit, so be mindin’ yer head.”

  Sleepily Elise nodded assent and, as directed, avoided the lowering mast. Once all was secure, the men bent their backs and strained at the oars to row from shadow to shadow, much like a shadow themselves. A thin, ragged vapor drifted from the stills and backwaters along the river, partially obscuring their passage as they hugged the shoreline. With only the slow, rhythmic creak of the oars intruding upon the hushed stillness, they rowed past palaces both magnificent and declining. The slowly fading beauty of the Savoy was masked by darkness, but no gloom could hide the splendor of the houses of Arundel and Leicester. Beyond the Middle and Inner Temples, the riverfront degenerated into rough timber structu
res and shabby wharves. Here the men dug the oars deep, slowing the cock until it bumped gently against a landing where crudely constructed stairs gave access to the river. Her curiosity aroused, Elise sat upright and experienced a foreboding of doom as she saw where they had halted. Beyond the wharf was an area she had traversed in the guise of a homeless waif when she had gone in search of’her father. It seemed logical that she should be brought here, for Alsatia was a refuge for every sort of renegade, murderer, vagabond, or strumpet. By the Queen’s own edict, it had become an area exempt from any law or official who might be wont to carry out justice here and, as a result, it offered a safe haven for her abductors. In Alsatia the pair would be among their own kind.

  Spence stepped across to the landing and, beneath the light of a dim-lit lantern, secured the painter around a heavy piling. Fitch followed more clumsily and then turned to help their hostage from the craft, but Elise snatched away from his reaching hands and shook her head angrily. For the moment she had no choice but to resign herself to being their captive, but she would not be an accommodating one.

  “I shall see to myself,” she hissed, keeping her voice low. She did not like being in this hellish place and knew the folly of arousing the curiosity of others perhaps more evil than the two she was with. When Fitch displayed his obstinance, she flared back in a rasping whisper, “I’ve no intention of being rudely mauled while you carry me where I have no wish to go. For the moment I’m your captive, with little choice but to follow where you lead, but I’ll take naught but your hand. That is all!”