"The child looks like you," confirmed Charles. "It's likely he's your son. So you planned to have me dead, and your son inherit my property?"
With a shriek of utter consternation, Piers stood, and the cup of deep red wine he had been grasping flew from his upraised hands, spilling on his feet and the rug below. Never, my lord, but what a terrible thought indeed. I never contemplated such a thing." Once again his eyes were indistinct with tears, rolling down his cheeks in shining streaks. "I am no killer -," and then he stopped, sinking back to his chair and staring down at the puddles of Burgundy. "Not true, not true, and I must confess. I am a murderer indeed, but I beg you not to declare me to the law. Should they throw me into Newgate I would surely die." He clasped his hands as though begging. "Let me tell the whole story, and this is the truth, I swear it. I longed to see my son. I believe him to be my son, but I cannot tell the child that, even when he grows, for he must believe he is the lawful offspring of a lawful marriage."
"Which he may well be."
"Of course. And I must accept that," Piers sighed. "But I long to see him. I travelled there several times but after dearest Alyson's funeral, the wretched old woman would have none of me. I accepted that. I have no power, no wealth, and no position. I knew I must disappear from young Richard's life. But it haunted me."
Charles leaned forwards, eyes narrowed. "So you did - what?"
"I ordered the killing of James Willis. That evil man was taking half my small profits. His threats and wickedness haunted me. I could be thrown in gaol at any time. I could be burned alive, even though innocent. I wanted him dead, and believed he deserved it. I was simply amazed that no one had already slit the fellow's throat. I hired a man, friend of a friend. I ordered the killing. So indeed, I am a murderer. But," and he looked up, wet eyed and desperate to Charles, "I feel no guilt. The world is a better place without the rogue."
"As far as it goes," Charles said softly, leaning back again in his chair, "I believe you tell the truth and I accept it. I am neither shocked nor angry and have not the slightest intention of delivering you to the sheriff. But why, my friend," Charles asked, voice even lower, "did you order this mutilated corpse hung in my stables? To amuse yourself? To pass blame? Or to incriminate me entirely for eventual execution?'
Mouth hanging open and eyes red rimmed, Piers stared. "Me? Your stables? Oh, no, Charles, I swear. It was no order of mine. Such a thing would never have occurred to me. And if someone else had suggested such a monstrous idea, I would have stopped it at once, or informed you. I may have known little of you in the past, but you are still my cousin, Charles, and I have nothing against you for any reason. I would not bring misery to an innocent man. I have known too much myself."
Charles believed him. And now, without any doubts, he knew the entire story.
He rode first to the docks. Now bordering deepest winter, the weather was not safe for sailing, and he knew he would find Captain Edmund Neville at the docks.
St. Katherine's near the London Tower and just downstream from the Bridge, was no less busy due to the wintery weather. The bustle and noise was a slip and slide of rain and hail, the crash and slap as sails were hauled down and folded, taken down below decks for safe keeping, and the screeching creek as the huge masts were lowered to lie flat on deck. Crates were unloaded and the crank and rattle of the cranes lifting their loads from deck to warehouse was almost as loud as the shouting of several hundred men, finishing their work and ready to stomp off to the nearest tavern.
Charles already knew the name of the small cob he was searching for. The Frail Lady bobbed alongside the quay, and Captain Neville stood on deck, balancing his stance as the small waves shunted the keel against the crack of the next boat's gunwales. The salt encrusted wooden gang-plank slammed down from ship to quay, and the red-haired captain left his men to clean up.
It was from behind that Charles took him.
Under his arms, wrenching them back and twisting them up to the back of his neck, Charles bent the captain over and held the point of his knife to the man's neck.
At once the sailors on deck shouted and several raced over the gangplank to their captain's rescue. But Charles smiled. "Come any closer," he warned, "and this man will be dead in an instant. If you want him left alive for your next voyage, then back off."
They obeyed. Backing, they stood for a moment, staring, then shrugged and wandered off. Only two stayed, hovering and watchful.
Charles said softly, "Well, my brave captain, do you know who I am?"
"I do." Neville grunted, in pain and barely able to stand. "Piers' cousin, no doubt, the rich bastard from Cripplegate."
"The Earl of Chilham,"
"My lord," grunted Neville. "Much honoured."
Charles laughed. "Indeed. "My aunt does not approve of you, and I see that you do not approve of me. You have a good deal to answer for. Now, if I am to permit you to live, where can we go for absolute privacy?"
The hail lost its ice and now a steady sleet pounded its silver curtains across the docks. Both men were soaked but Charles did not slacken his grip. Captain Neville staggered, nearly falling. "Cabin," he muttered.
The ship emptied. Grabbing their bundles, each sailor wandered off to tavern and home. The salt had been sluiced from deck and keel, the hatches had been closed and battened, mast lowered and roped, sail stored, and all traded goods hauled off to the warehouses. Two men remained, watching, and standing poised for action. But Charles ignored them and pushed Edmund Neville back on board, down the steps, and into the one dark cabin, little more than a cupboard, but with a door that could be shut and locked from the inside.
With a slam and a grating latch, this was done and both men sat in the lengthening shadows, with the steady patter on the deck above their heads from the rain creating a strangely rhythmic accompaniment.
"You wanted me killed,' Charles said at once. "Why?"
"You can't prove nothing," spat the captain. "And I ain't admitting nothing."
"What a shame," Charles sighed. "So I shall have to kill you after all."
"Then will be you the murderer."
"But cheerfully so," Charles smiled, "and safe in the knowledge that no more assassins will be creeping into my bedchamber at night. And killing you, after I explain that you are responsible for James Willis's death, will be easily excused."
"Bugger," muttered Neville.
The cob's hull, straining against it cords, tipped and creaked. Charles sat at ease on the narrow bed, his knife in one hand and his sword across his knees. The captain slumped on the one bolted stool, staring down.
"I've been called that before," Charles said. "But if you tell me everything, and since I know most of it, I shall know if you are lying, then I will consider letting you live, go free, and return to your trade. Otherwise, your dear son Richard will naturally miss you as he grows."
"Swear it."
"On no account," Charles answered. "But I swear that I'll kill you here and now should you refuse to speak, or attempt to deny what I know to be true."
So Captain Edmund Neville began to speak. Grunting and hoarse, his throat in pain, he admitted the actions and motives of the past few months. "The old sow up at the grand house, she wouldn't let me come near my boy. Wicked old trout. But I seen how she loves my boy, and wanted to do right by him, but without a farthing to her name. My Alyson were dead. I misses her, but not so much. It were a mistake, and I knows that. She knowed it too, but she wanted to hurt her ma. I went along. A pretty girl - why not? And at first, I never knowed she were so poor."
"And now?"
"I got near no money. Nor does the old crow. Nor Alyson. What little I could get was stolen month after month by the bastard James Willis. Piers and I planned to have the vile liar and sinner killed. And we did it. I paid someone I know. But I wanted more than that. Piers didn't know, for I done it for Richard, and naught else. I kept it secret."
"You planned to get rid of me?"
"Yes. You had the money and Richa
rd would've took the lot. My little lad, an earl and a grand rich earl at that. Why not? I didn't know you. You might have been a wicked bastard. You might not. No matter. With you alive, there weren't gonna be nothing better. With you dead, it would be a great life for the rest of us. But it were my little lad what mattered most."
"First you planned to have me incriminated for the Willis murder, to be arrested and executed for slaughtering one of the queen's trusted officials."
Edmund Neville nodded, staring at his knees. "But it didn't work. So I thought I'd try one further and get rid of you meself. I paid the fellow what did in James Willis."
Charles leaned back against the planked wooden wall, curving inwards. "I appreciate your honesty, if not your sentiments," he said. "I imagine you paid Master Ned Pars for both murders, and told him to hire others to overpower me. They failed, as much through their own stupidity as my superior intelligence. And you realise, I hope, that I should kill you for what you tried to do, and would be exonerated for doing so since it would be simple justice, to annihilate the creature who tried to do the same to me."
"You promised," grumbled the captain. "You gave your word."
"And amazingly," Charles nodded, "I intend keeping it. But you, my foolish friend, must also give your word."
"I does, and I do," said Neville, looking up at once. "Now I's met you, and reckon you'll tell on me to Piers and he'll be mighty angry, well I couldn't do you in no more, could I? So I gives my word. You let me live, and I lets you live."
"You swear it?"
"On me life. On the Bible. On the queen's throne."
"Unfortunately you have no control over the queen, but I accept your word. I shall not only permit you to live, but I intend making an allowance for your son, and should Lady Sweet die, which presumably one day she will, I shall take your child into my household, and permit you to see him when you wish. Perhaps Piers should teach the little boy how to play chess."
"You means it?" He was delighted.
"I do, although for the sake of the child and for my cousin Piers, rather than for yourself. Also for my future wife who has taken a liking to your small Richard. But if you fail to keep your word I will have you tortured and thrown into the Thames, and your child after you."
Edmund Neville gulped. "I trusts you, m'lord. And I thanks you from the bottom of my heart."
"Nor shall I take any revenge on your Ned Pars," continued Charles, standing abruptly as Neville scrambled out of his way. "I may even wish to hire him myself at some time. But you will inform him that I know his sins and could hand him over to the law at any time. In exchange I expect him to keep well away from myself, my friends, my family, my bride, and my homes. He may continue to watch over your son on your orders, but he is from now on to consider himself a protector, and not a murderer."
The captain, nervously brushing back the sleek red hair from his forehead, nodded vigorously. "I swears it, m'lord."
And Charles strode from the shadows of the tiny cabin, up the narrow steps to the one deck, strolled over the rickety hang plank, nodded to the two watching sailors, and retrieved his horse from the temporary stables. He mounted, and with a faint smile to himself, he rode into the sleet and made his way to Cripplegate.
There he retrieved the note that had been tucked between the headless corpse's plump buttocks some considerable time before. A fire already blazed across the hearth in his bedchamber, and Charles threw the crumpled paper to the flames. In less than a moment, it was ashes.
The short overnight stay. then spent in his own bed, before riding out the next morning for the Sweet Estate. There were still the final matters to be organised, but above all else, Charles wished once again to be with Katherine. He thought of Fortune, and smiled. But there were no longer doubts, only certainties, and he would be wed to the woman he adored.
Chapter Eighteen
Late in the afternoon of the 17th of November, her majesty Queen Mary of England, died. She was forty two years of age, and looked considerably older. She had been dying for some weeks, and had been ill for even longer. Her body was pocked with internal tumours, and her stomach swollen, not with pregnancy, but with malign growths. Miserable, bitterly lonely and in great pain, the queen did not fight her passing.
Her heir heard the news with no flicker of sorrow for her sister. The queen frequently threatened her life, had arrested her and put her in the Tower under lock and key, accusing her of treason.
Now Elizabeth was queen of England. Although equally as vindictive as her sister, she was neither religious zealot nor as blind to the needs of her people and country. Neither queen had been entirely stupid but Elizabeth was the wiser, with the advantage of ruling during better weather which drained away the flooding and encouraged the crops, bringing England's famine to an end. She did not continue with the religious tolerance she originally intended, but at least she stopped the fervent accusations of heresy which had burned so many poor souls alive, and she attempted to bring justice to the land.
Charles, Earl of Chilham and Lady Katherine, his bride-to-be, attended the coronation at Westminster Abbey, and then returned to the estate in Kent. His personal staff, and the lady's personal maid settled in contented patience, awaiting the wedding.
"It is," said Fortune, leaning back against the tapestried back of the settle and gazing around her with blissful contentment, "the most beautiful, the most comfortable and the most astonishing house I have ever seen. I am honoured to live here. I should love it if I was a scullery maid and had to scrub the kitchen floors. But as my lady's maid, I enjoy almost as much freedom and comfort as she does."
Henry Dayford stood, hands behind his back, and looked down at Fortune, his smile fading. "Her ladyship loves you, Fortune. You are more friend than maid. You don't need me to protect you. I should not be - insulted - nor puzzled, should you decide to cancel our plans. I cannot hope to offer more than you gain here."
"But Harry," Fortune looked up with sudden disappointment, "you don't mean when we marry that you'll want me to leave here? Surely we can still live here together?" Then her face suddenly went white as she said, half whispering, "Or do you mean you don't want to marry me at all?"
At once he dropped to one knee, clasping both her hands. "Oh, my love, neither of those things. My greatest desire is for us to marry, and to live here together in service to those we already admire. But," and his own voice faded, "I can offer you nothing more than you already enjoy. I fear my own pleasure may interfere with yours."
Leaning forwards, Fortune flung her arms around Henry's neck. "Oh Harry, how wrong. I need you more than ever." She kissed his cheek, then smiled into his eyes. "I used to be shy. So timid. I used to be very ignorant as well. Even with my husband John, he was more preacher than husband, you see, and I knew no different. Then I learned - something." She blushed, and hid her face against his shoulder. "I spoke to other women, you see, and they told me. I realised how wrong I'd been." Sitting up quickly, she inhaled deeply, blushed again, and said, "If you want to, Harry, I want to as well. I mean, I wouldn't object. Even though we aren't married yet, it doesn't matter, does it? We will be soon. Or we could swear it now with hand fasting. I want - I really want - your bed."
With a slight gasp, her future husband stared back. "Before wedlock?"
"I've shocked you?"
He sat beside her on the cushioned settle and took her fully into his arms, speaking softly to her cheek. "My beloved, no, not shocked. But I feel I must do these things honestly. I'm sure my Lord Charles would agree."
Fortune sniffed. "Your Lord Charles has been bedding my Lady Katherine for weeks."
A little embarrassed, Henry looked from her eyes down to their entwined fingers in his lap. "I want to marry you respectably, my beloved, in church, as I should. And then I shall carry you to my bed and prove how much I love you."
Which made Fortune smile. "A friend once told me how her lover watched her bathe in front of the fire. He helped to wash her with the sponge, his hands al
l over her body, quite naked. Then he dried her, slowly and carefully. And then he made love to her. My friend made that sound so - breathtaking."
"I shall do that, then," Henry whispered, "on our wedding night. I promise to bring that dream alive. And it won't be long. The first week of the banns has already been called."
Fortune murmured, eyes alight, "I shall look forward to that, Harry my love."
Upstairs in Lady Katherine's bedchamber, the fire was blazing. The December weather was bitter, but it was no longer raining. Outside, frost painted every corner of the mullions, but the raised wooden shutters blocked out the draughts. The woodland creatures were creeping out to find food beneath the silver moonlight, but the cobbles were rimed, the tree branches hung with tiny icicles, and the spiders' webs, decorated with diamond droplets. Foxes left paw prints in the crusted frost, but the night was silent.
Within Katherine's bedchamber, the world changed from white hush to the cosy golden cave of sweltering intimacy.
Through the rich velvet bed-curtains drawn tight around them, the fire crackling across the marble hearth could be seen only as a living light, its flames dancing high but unable to pierce the heavy purple curtains.
Both Katherine and Charles lay naked on the bed, the covers thrown back and the pillows in a tumble. Looking up at him as he leaned over her, Katherine opened her eyes wide, whispering, "Do that again. It felt wonderful."
Charles laughed, bent and kissed her breasts, teasing the nipples, then kissing lower. "In a week, I wed you," he murmured. "Perhaps by then, you'll be tired of me. I shall have to think of other adventures to bring you."
"I adore everything you do, my love," she told him. "I'd never be tired of a single touch."
He traced the swell of her breasts down to the curve of her belly, then twisted his fingers into the small tight curls at her groin. "I must learn how to plait hair, as your maid does," he told her and she giggled.
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