The shrill ringing of the bell above her head made her jump violently. Staring through the security viewer she saw that it was Adam. Her heart started to thud in long, slow strokes.
‘Ali, I know you’re there. Open the door.’
She took a deep breath. Damn it. She didn’t want him to know how upset she felt so she had no choice other than to be cheerful. Her hands shook as she turned the lock.
‘Did you forget something—’ she started to say, brightly, as she swung the door open, but the words died at the expression in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ Adam said. He took her in his arms and kissed her. It was hungry, desperate, driven by something Alison did not want to question, but still she did. She drew away from him, breathing hard.
‘I don’t want your pity.’
Adam swore. ‘This isn’t pity.’
He was kissing her again and this time she allowed herself to become lost in it, the old and the new, familiar sensations, the thrill of rediscovery, the sweet relief of no longer being so alone. She knew she should not give in to the need for solace and yet it was irresistible. She had no idea how they moved from the bottom of the staircase to her bedroom, only that they were there and she was pulling off his clothes far more clumsily and with less finesse than she had when they were teenagers. She would have laughed, but it felt too urgent for that as her hands slid over Adam’s bare shoulders and she arched up to kiss him more deeply, more desperately still. Past and present collided. She felt adrift. So she let herself be taken by the tide of it, and it took her apart and left her undone.
Chapter 19
Mary, 1566
I sat in the ruins of an old manor house, watching my captor prepare a rabbit for the pot. After Will had cravenly run away and left me, this man had picked me up with somewhat insulting ease, tossed me over the horse’s neck, and led us away. I had kicked and screamed so he had tied my wrists and pointed out that all I was hurting was the horse. After that I stopped.
I had no notion what he wanted with me. He had not said. I was frightened. Only a fool would not be.
‘You did not answer my question,’ he said now. ‘What is your name?’
He did not wait for me to answer, but continued to gut the rabbit, head bent as he worked. There was a ruthless efficiency in his movements. Where I shuddered with sentimental disgust over the fur and the smell and the pile of entrails, he seemed unaffected. I wondered if it was the product of hunger or native heartlessness.
Once again, I did not answer his question. Instead, I drew my knees closer to my chin, hunching forward. He did not know me but I had recognised him at once. There was enough of a look of Will about him to make identification certain. Fair where Will was dark, thoughtful where Will was fiery, he nevertheless had the dark Fenner eyes, the high cheekbones and the long aristocratic nose. There was a stillness about him I had never seen in a man before, a kind of distilled concentration that intrigued me for it seemed a quality far beyond his years. He rushed into neither action nor words.
‘I know who you are,’ I said. ‘You are Thomas Fenner, Will’s brother.’
His head came up. ‘Half-brother,’ he said. Then: ‘Does he speak of me?’
‘Never,’ I said.
I saw him smile. After a moment, his hands resumed their work. I watched him; his fingers were elegant, but long and strong, an artist’s hands, perhaps, rather than a butcher’s.
‘Are you another of Will’s women?’ he asked.
‘In addition to whom?’ I said, haughty now.
He looked at me. The contrast of those dark Fenner eyes with the fair hair was enough to steal the breath. I do not know why it affected me so but it felt as though my stomach had dropped a long way, almost down to my boots.
‘The Lady Anne Hungerford for one,’ he said. ‘She bore his child. She is accounted very beautiful.’
‘She is old,’ I said. It was a habit now to feel that flash of jealousy, but suddenly I wondered if I truly meant it. Anne Hungerford was indeed a beautiful woman and Will evidently still lusted for her, but what did I want from him anyway? Tonight the scales had fallen from my eyes.
‘Lady Hungerford is old and you are young.’ His gaze appraised me. ‘Too young. But then—’ his mouth twisted ‘—no woman is too young or too old for Will. He does not discriminate.’
‘Thank you,’ I said politely.
He laughed. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, for the third time.
‘Mary,’ I said.
He waited but I did not add anything further and in the firelight I saw his eyes glint with amusement. He put the rabbit, skinned, gutted, jointed, neatly to one side and got to his feet. Without another glance in my direction he strolled out of the circle of firelight, down towards the stream I could hear running at the end of the garden. I heard the splash of water and saw the glint of steel as he washed the knife.
It was humiliating to be left so, as though I was of little importance, even more so because I was. Thomas knew I could not run. I was still firmly tied.
Eventually, he came wandering back up the slope. He had washed his hands; water dripped from his bare forearms onto the carpet of old beech leaves beneath his feet. He was rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and whistling tunelessly under his breath.
‘A fox stole the rabbit while you were gone,’ I said. ‘I am sure it was grateful to you for the care you took in preparing its meal. There was nothing I could do.’ I raised my bound wrists expressively.
His gaze flew to my face and then to the place where he had left the rabbit. He said something very short and very to the point. I said nothing.
After a moment he came across to me and squatted down beside me. The knife was still in his hand. Inside I could feel the flinch but I tried not to show it.
‘Would you like some of the stew I have already made?’ he asked.
The stew smelled delicious. I had no notion what time it was but I was starving, the hunger gnawing at me, and all my principles about refusing to break bread with my captor were long banished.
‘That depends,’ I said.
He cocked an eyebrow. His brows were dark like his eyes. At such close quarters I could see the flecks of gold in them, illuminated in the firelight. The light and shadow flickered across his face in bars of red and black, highlighting those high cheekbones and the hollows beneath.
‘On what?’ he said.
‘On whether you intend to kill me directly afterwards,’ I said. ‘If so then do not waste your food on me.’
A smile tugged the corner of his mouth. ‘But at least you would not die hungry.’ He raised the knife. This time I did flinch. I could not help myself.
He sliced cleanly through the ties at my wrists. The rope fell away. Even in the dim light I could see the skin chafed red. So could he. For a moment he did not move. I watched the shadow of his eyelashes against his cheek, each lash spiky as a sharp-edged leaf. Then without a word he stood and moved away and I released the breath I had not realised I had been holding.
‘There is a plate,’ he said briefly, over his shoulder. ‘We are not short of our comforts here. Come closer to the fire.’
I had originally thought to run away if he untied me, but given time to cool my heels, I had realised what folly that was. I had no idea of where we were—somewhere below the northern Downs, I supposed. Will and I had been riding towards Kingston Parva on the Sugar Track and the Robbers’ Track, so we must be near Ashdown Park. That was a long way from home, especially since Will had taken both horses.
Take the horse. Leave the girl. Only one is valuable.
I could easily imagine his thoughts. I knew he had deliberately pushed me from the saddle in order to take the horse and also to slow Thomas down.
‘What is in the stew?’ I asked. ‘More rabbit?’
‘Chicken,’ Thomas said.
My stomach rumbled. ‘Stolen?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ Thomas said. ‘You have fallen out with one thief and in with another, Mar
y whatever-your-name-is.’
‘Seymour,’ I said. ‘And I am not Will’s mistress. I am his cousin.’
He had been rummaging in his knapsack, pulling out a plate and spoon, but now he paused with them forgotten in one hand.
‘Cousin to me too, then,’ he said, in an odd tone, and I had the sense that the news displeased him.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Very distantly, if at all. I do not even know the precise relationship to the Fenners. It may be cousinship three or four times removed, I think, but you know how it is with kinfolk. When they wished to find me a new home they insisted there was a connection and so your brother was obliged to take me in.’
‘A Seymour of Wolf Hall,’ Thomas said. He was staring at me, his gaze moving thoughtfully over my face as though considering each feature. I could feel my skin grow hot, though that might have been simply because the fire was fierce so close. ‘My father’s kin,’ he said slowly. Then: ‘Why were they looking for a new home for you?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
‘Are you in a hurry?’ He had recollected the plate now and was ladling some stew onto it. The smell of the meat mingled with herbs—wild garlic and chives—and it was delicious. My mouth watered.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Am I?’
He passed the plate and the spoon to me. ‘We have all night,’ he said.
‘We have all night…’ I remembered Will and his woman, the door closing, the laughter and the whispered words. My face flamed.
‘What are you going to do with me?’ I asked.
I had not meant to blurt it out. It felt too much like begging, even more so when he subjected me to one of those long stares of his and did not answer immediately.
‘Would anyone pay to get you back?’ he asked. He spoke through a mouthful of stew. He was eating it with the ladle since I had the plate and spoon. I smothered a smile. At the back of my mind I could hear Liz Aiglonby scolding:
‘Manners, Lady Mary!’
‘No,’ I said truthfully. I took a spoonful of stew myself. It tasted so good I wanted to gulp it down in one go. There were turnips and mushrooms too and other things I did not recognise, but as they tasted so fine I did not question them.
‘And yet you are a Seymour of Wolf Hall,’ Thomas said, ‘and the Seymours ride high.’
‘Not as high as they have done before,’ I said. ‘Their time is gone and I am an orphan with no place in the world. When my mother’s kin did not want me I was sent to the Seymours and when they needed to be rid of me I came to Middlecote.’
He nodded. His gaze was inward looking now and I wondered whether he was thinking of the Fenners and their fractured family. To be unwanted, unloved, rootless was so common a matter. Why else would Thomas make his home here in the ruins of a tumbledown manor and steal chickens and vow vengeance on his half-brother? I wondered about him then; I knew his mother was dead, for Will had harassed her endlessly for the restitution of his lands and rents. Thomas had nothing. How did he live? What did he do?
His voice recalled me to the circle of firelight and the lure of more chicken stew.
‘Why did the Seymours need to be rid of you?’
‘You ask a deal of questions,’ I said crossly. My anger was directed more towards myself than to him. I had already said too much. I did not know him; I could not trust him and I did not understand why I should want to confide in him. I only knew that here, now, for the first time in my life, I wanted to share everything about myself with a complete stranger. My own folly made me angry.
Thomas seemed unaffected by my antagonism. ‘How am I to know if I can profit from you if you tell me nothing of yourself?’ he said. He sounded damnably reasonable, but I was sure he was teasing me.
‘I have told you there is no profit to be made,’ I said. ‘No one will pay a ransom.’
‘Then do you have any skills?’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘Can you pluck a chicken or make medicines or grease a saddle?’
‘I was never taught to do so, but how hard can it be?’ I said. ‘I was brought up a lady.’
‘That is not a great deal of use,’ Thomas said.
‘I know.’ I thought of Alison. She had been brought up a lady too but she had skills and cunning, sufficient to survive. I was an innocent abroad.
‘I do have one talent, ‘I said. ‘I see visions. That was why they sent me away from Wolf Hall. I saw things that they did not like.’ I scraped the last of my stew off the plate and licked the spoon. ‘So perhaps you could set me up in a booth at the fair,’ I said. ‘The Middlecote Witch. I might make you a few crowns before they burn me.’
He laughed at that. His teeth were very white and straight and a crease ran down his cheek when he smiled.
‘Were the visions true?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So you should beware.’
I head it then, the whisper through my mind, as though in speaking of visions I had opened the door a crack.
‘Cat… Catherine.’
I ignored it ruthlessly, closing my mind. I did not want to talk to Darrell now.
‘Have you had visions at Middlecote?’ Thomas was saying, cutting across my thoughts.
I thought of the fighting I had witnessed and the flashes of light and the machines flying in the air. He would think me mad if I told him. I shook my head.
‘No.’
He was looking at me intently and it was as though he knew I lied but he did not pursue it. Instead, he gestured towards the pot. ‘Would you like some more before I eat it all?’
I did not even pretend to think about it. I got up and walked over to the fire. I sat down beside him, holding the plate steady, and he tipped half the remaining stew out onto my plate.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and he smiled.
‘You are a proper lady, aren’t you, Mistress Seymour?’
‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Are you a gentleman, Thomas Fenner?’
He shook his head, a secret smile tilting his lips. ‘I don’t aspire so high.’
‘What do you aspire to be?’ I asked. ‘The owner of Middlecote? Is that why you seek to displace your brother?’
He looked up sharply and I felt a shock in my chest at the intensity in his eyes. ‘I love Middlecote,’ he said. ‘I always did.’
‘Will loves Middlecote too,’ I said, though to tell the truth Will had never spoken of the place with even half Thomas’s passion.
The scorn in his eyes seared me. ‘Will cares for nothing but himself and the income his estates can bring him,’ he said. ‘He has mortgaged every piece of land he owns, stolen others, lied and tricked his way into a fortune and lost it through his own profligacy.’
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ I said, smarting under his contempt. ‘Perhaps you do not know him well enough to make that judgement.’
‘And perhaps your judgement is flawed,’ he said. He spoke evenly now but I felt cold. I knew I had lost his good opinion. I did not know why it mattered that I had.
‘A woman—a girl—’ he corrected himself, ‘who rides about the country at night with a man who is plotting robbery, who thinks it is mere sport… is hardly a good judge of character. And a man who encourages her to do so, who puts her in the way of danger rather than protecting her—’ his voice had hardened ‘—he is worse still.’
I jumped to my feet, upsetting the plate with the cooling remains of the stew, which was a terrible waste.
‘What do you know of it?’ I demanded. ‘How could you possibly know what I think, how I feel?’
My voice trembled. I remembered how Will and I had laughed together as we had ridden out from Middlecote and how it had seemed the finest adventure of my life. I had been so proud to ride with him, so excited, whereas now I felt chastened, guilty and ashamed.
‘I know,’ Thomas said, and I stared at him, struck dumb, because it did indeed feel as though he knew me through and through.
‘Have you engaged in such escapades with Will before?’ He s
ounded implacable, like an inquisitor.
‘No,’ I said. I knew that in contrast to him, I sounded like the sulky child I was as I stood there scuffing my boot in the earth and avoiding his eyes. ‘We went to the fair once,’ I admitted, ‘and it is true he got into a fight—’
‘I heard about that.’ Thomas was watching me. ‘So you were the woman he was with that night.’
‘I was,’ I said. Before I might have felt a thrill of pride. Now I felt miserable.
‘It was just the once,’ I said. I tried to forget the incident in the stables when I had learned that Will had robbed and beaten a man, and all the nights when I had lain awake listening, wondering what other villainy he was involved with.
‘I would not tell you anything anyway,’ I added. ‘You will not persuade me to incriminate your brother, Thomas Fenner.’
‘Your loyalty to him is misplaced.’ Thomas sighed sharply. ‘Not that telling you so will make any difference to your feelings. Do you love him?’
‘I…’ I hesitated. There had been a time not so long ago when I would have said yes without question and I would have believed that I loved Will Fenner with a great passion. Now though I felt battered and sore at his abandonment of me. It had been the final blow that had forced me to confront my naivety. So no, I did not love Will Fenner any more. Not that I was going to share that with Thomas.
‘At the risk of sounding repetitious,’ I said, ‘I would not tell you if I did.’
He stood up then, and came towards me, catching hold of my hand to draw me closer.
‘Shall I test your loyalty?’ he mused. ‘Test whether you love my brother?’
For all that naïveté, I understood exactly what he meant.
‘Half-brother,’ I said. ‘And you would not be testing my loyalty to Will but indulging your own whims.’
He smiled. ‘How wise you are for one so young, mistress. It seems your judgement may be better than I thought.’
He dropped my hand and turned away. Conversely, I now felt very disappointed that he was not going to kiss me. I hoped it was not too obvious.
The Phantom Tree Page 21