In a small, unsteady voice she said, “Hugh, I love you. I didn’t mean what I said before. I can’t sleep with Aldous. Please, Hugh...”
Gritting his teeth, Hugh latched his satchel with abrupt movements. Be strong. Rise above it... “You can and you should. Perhaps tupping Aldous will take some of the mystery out of sex and help you to stop mooning over me.”
Hugh turned to find her staring at him, looking very small and utterly stricken, her arms wrapped around herself. As he watched, a shimmer of tears pooled in her eyes.
Before they could spill over, he stalked to the door, whipped it open and left.
Chapter 21
Aldous was dressing for supper the next evening—substituting a tunic of gleaming black Florentine silk for the Sicilian wool he’d worn during the day—when a knock came at his bedchamber door. “Come.”
It was his sister’s maid, that sturdy, straw-haired peasant with the Poitevan accent. “The lady Clare’s askin’ for you in her chamber, Master Aldous.”
Hunching down slightly to peer into the silver looking glass on the wall, Aldous adjusted his satin skullcap and primped the thick, dark hair that was his secret pride. “She’s back already?”
“Aye—dismounted out front and went directly to her chamber. Asked for some wine and that bird of hers. And you, sire.”
It had been just yesterday morning that Clare had left for her visit with some “old and dear friend,” taking along two of King Louis’s men as an escort and saying she’d be gone a few days. Why had she returned so soon? “She’s only just arrived, then?” Aldous asked, curious as to whether she’d been informed yet of the extraordinary events of yesterday.
“Yes, master.”
Yes, master... Two of Aldous’s very favorite words, especially when spoken by a comely serving wench. Turning, he eyed this one a bit more thoroughly than he had in the past, wondering why he hadn’t thrown her skirts up yet—for on those occasions when Marguerite had simply untied him and walked away after seeing to her own pleasure, leaving him aching with lust, it had been his practice to seek out the nearest maidservant for relief.
He shivered, thinking about Marguerite and what she could have done to him had she been so inclined. With a mental effort, he swept aside the image of Istagio’s bloated, reeking corpse and returned his attention to the wench standing in front of him.
“What’s your name again?” He inspected her up and down, noting with interest her substantial bosom and broad hips. He actually grew a little stiff, thinking about stripping that kirtle off and getting a good look at her.
“Edmee, sire.”
“Edmee.” She had big hands—big, capable hands. He rather liked that. But there was something about the breadth of her shoulders and the squareness of her jaw that displeased him. And then there were her eyes, small and squinty, like those of some ratlike little forest creature.
Still, there were those tits. Aldous was on the verge of telling her to open up her kirtle so he could get a look at them when he remembered about Phillipa.
And smiled.
Phillipa, so pale and lovely, so exasperatingly unattainable; Phillipa, whom he’d been wild to bed for seven long years, who had inflamed him deliberately in Paris only to turn her back to him again and again, taunting him, beguiling him, driving him to the quivering edge of madness in his desire for her...
Tonight, she would at last be his.
He’d sought her out in her chamber yesterday afternoon—which he felt safe in doing after seeing her husband saddle up and ride off—to ask why she hadn’t been at dinner, only to find her sitting wanly on her bed, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. She and Hugh had suffered a serious falling out, she’d told him; Hugh was gone and would not be returning. Aldous hadn’t been able to erase the grin of anticipation from his face even as he took her in his arms and comforted her, offering gentle words of solace while his mind’s eye conjured up images of her prostrating herself naked before him, offering herself in complete abject submission.
What I wouldn’t give for the chance to make amends for how I acted toward you in Paris, she had once said.
Aldous’s liaison with Marguerite had awakened in him an appreciation for the erotic potential of punishment. How would it feel, he’d wondered, to take the whip hand himself? Imagining Phillipa bound and vulnerable and completely at his mercy had aroused him intensely. So inflamed by the possibilities was he that he’d begged her to come to his chamber that night.
Distraught, Phillipa had begged off, saying her heart wouldn’t be in it. Aldous, loath to admit that he was far more desirous of her body than her heart, had expressed his complete understanding. He’d waited this long, he’d told her; he could wait one more night.
And that meant that she would be his tonight.
Now fully erect beneath his clerical robes, Aldous gave the maidservant another swift perusal, his gaze lingering on those plump, red little lips. The temptation to order her onto her knees was almost irresistible. It wouldn’t take long, given the state he was in; he wouldn’t leave Clare waiting more than a minute or two.
But no, best not to dampen his lust before tonight. The randier he was when he took Phillipa to bed, the better the tupping. There would be plenty of opportunity to have a go at this Edmee when Phillipa’s luster had worn off a bit, perhaps in a few days.
“If I may be dismissed,” Edmee said, “I’m needed to help put dinner on the—”
“Go,” Gesturing her away with a wave of his hand, Aldous left and made his way to his sister’s chamber.
He found the door open, and Clare, dressed in a dusty brown riding tunic with that blasted hawk on her fist, pacing back and forth with a grim determination that instantly gave him pause.
“Shut the door,” she bit out.
Aldous did so. She yanked the window shutters closed, plunging the chamber into semidarkness.
“He’s a spy.”
“I beg your—”
“Hugh of Wexford, or Oxford, or whatever the bloody hell he’s calling himself these days—he’s a spy! He’s King Henry’s goddamned spy!”
Aldous stared at her.
“I knew it. I knew it!” Her eyes were wide and fixed, showing the whites all around the irises. Salome pumped against her restraints, but Clare didn’t seem to notice. “From the moment I saw him slither down into the cellar that night, I knew something wasn’t right with that conniving whoreson. So I paid a little visit to his father.”
“William of Wexford? You went to Wexford Castle?” Aldous sought out the ewer of wine on the table next to Clare’s bed and poured himself a cup. “Ah, yes, Hugh and Phillipa had been visiting with him before they came to Southwark to stay with—”
“Lies!” She wheeled on him abruptly; Salome screamed. “Lord William told me hasn’t seen his son in years. They’ve been estranged since Hugh was eighteen years old and left Wexford to turn mercenary. William didn’t even know Hugh was married.”
“They lied?” Aldous downed his wine and poured himself another.
“Yes, Aldous,” Clare said, her frantic tone giving way to weary disgust at having to explain things to him, as usual. “They lied about having visited Lord William in order to trick you into asking them to stay with you, which I don’t imagine was all that difficult, given how utterly witless you can be in the presence of a perky pair of tits. They lied about being in sympathy with Queen Eleanor, they lied—”
“Are you sure?” Aldous asked, finding it inconceivable that Phillipa could have looked him in the eye and spoken untruths.
“He lied,” Clare said, transferring Salome to one of several freestanding hawk perches set up around the room. “According to Lord William, all he knows about Hugh’s recent activities is what he’s heard from Richard Strongbow, with whom he has a passing acquaintance. Apparently, Strongbow was so impressed with Hugh’s valor during the Irish campaign that he recommended his services to Richard de Luci.”
“King Henry’s justiciar?”
“
The same.”
“What kind of services?”
“Lord William seems to think he’s just some sort of armed retainer, but it couldn’t be more obvious that he was sent here to ferret out information about the queen’s rebellion.”
“And...Phillipa?”
“What about Phillipa?”
“Is she a spy, too?”
Clare snorted scornfully. “That absurd, bookish little prig? Honestly, Aldous.”
“But she herself told me that they’d visited Wexford—”
“If she went along with some of Hugh’s fabrications, well, that’s the sort of things wives do as a matter of course. But I’ll wager she knows naught of his work for Richard de Luci—such work requires the utmost secrecy, even from one’s own wife. No doubt he would have left her at home, as he did when he went to Poitiers—which, of course, was just another spying mission—but she was needed this time to serve as unwitting bait. He dangled her in front of you, your cock sprang up, and here we are.”
“Did Lord William ask you why you were cutting your trip so short?”
“Nay.” Clare sat heavily on her huge bed, its curtains tied back to reveal mounds of silken pillows in shades of plum, scarlet and bloodred. Morosely she said, “He was probably glad to see me go.”
Aldous frowned. “I thought you and he were...”
“That was twenty years ago.” From her purse she withdrew a little ivory case and flipped it open, examining her image in the looking glass it held. Stroking her cheeks, her jowls, she said softly, “Time doesn’t weigh on a man the way it weighs on a woman. Sixty years old, and William of Wexford is still the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. He looks much like his son—tall and lean, with that bearing of easy authority to him—but with a rapacious glint in his eye that’s always made my heart quicken.”
“So I take it you and he didn’t...”
“Not for want of trying on my part.” She snapped the mirror closed and leaned back against the pillows, gazing at nothing. “He got married last month to this dewy little twelve-year-old—Blanchefleur. The girl’s mother took one look at me and kept an eagle eye on him. Still, he could have sneaked away and come to me if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t.”
Never had Aldous heard his sister sound so melancholic. He almost felt sorry for her—until she sat up and growled, “It’s all your fault, you driveling fool, you and that greedy little piglet that hangs between your legs!”
Aldous choked on his wine. “Greedy little piglet?”
“That—” she pointed a trembling finger at his groin “—is what got us into this fix! If you hadn’t been so blinded by lust for the Brilliant Little By-Blow, if you hadn’t welcomed her and that duplicitous knave she’s married to into your home...and mine—”
“I seem to recall your harboring a fair measure of lust yourself for the ‘duplicitous knave,’” Aldous observed. “In fact, you refused to send him away when I begged you to.”
“This is not,” she snarled, “a good time to try and get clever, Aldous. We have a problem to deal with now, a very serious problem. If the queen’s agent finds that we’ve welcomed the king’s spy to Halthorpe and given him virtually free run of the castle—”
“Clare...” Aldous interrupted, realizing she didn’t know about Marguerite.
Tossing her looking glass aside, Clare got to her feet and resumed her rigid pacing. “Once I suspected who Hugh really was, I should have had King Louis’s men take care of him and bury him in the woods. ‘Twas a mistake to simply have Orlando hide his weapons and let Hugh steal the key to the cellar. I’d just wanted to put Hugh off the scent in case he was working for the king, and before the queen’s agent caught wind of what he was—”
“Clare, I think you should know—”
“But now I realize it would have been far better to have turned him over to Louis’s thugs the moment I saw him sneak down into that cellar. It’s what I should have done then—and what I intend to do now. Queen Eleanor will find out, of course, but it needn’t go badly for us—in fact, it might even raise us in her esteem, knowing that we had the bastard instantly dispatched once we found out for sure that he was working for the king. Yes...yes...” Clare paused, her eyes glittering with newfound hope. “Eleanor doesn’t think we can ‘handle the situation’ here—that’s how she put it in her letter, that’s why she sent her agent to keep an eye on us. But if we prove that we can handle—”
“Eleanor’s agent is dead,” Hugh interjected.
She stared at him, raised an eyebrow as if to say, Go on.
He licked his lips nervously. “‘Twas Marguerite who was spying on us for the queen, Clare. Yesterday morning—”
“Marguerite? Impossible!”
“Yesterday morning we found her dead. She’d poisoned herself after killing Istagio. Apparently she’d never killed anyone before, and she found she couldn’t live with—”
“I...I don’t understand. I was almost certain the queen’s agent was...” Clare lowered herself onto a trunk against the wall, her eyes glazed. “‘Twas Marguerite? Why would she have killed Istagio?”
“He must have compromised the secrecy of their work, let something slip. You know how he is.” Aldous crossed himself, envisioning the monstrous corpse that had once been Istagio. “How he was.”
“Dear God.” Clare shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense, though. Marguerite never gave a fig for politics, and she didn’t even like Eleanor. And...and she was my closest friend in the world. I can’t imagine her spying on me. It can’t be true.”
“Believe me, I find it as incredible as you do, but what other conclusion can we draw? Look at it this way—at least she’s dead now, so we know neither of us will be smothered in our beds.”
Clare winced and crossed herself. “We will still incur Eleanor’s wrath if we don’t deal with Hugh of Wexford. Not only that, but we could end up being exposed as traitors. Do you know how King Henry punishes traitors, Aldous? The best we could expect, the very best, would be imprisonment for the rest of our lives. We might even end up tied to stakes and—”
“Jesu!” Aldous tossed back the rest of his wine and poured himself another cup. Once, in France, he’d seen a heretic burned. He’d gone to watch out of curiosity and ended up vomiting his guts up as the poor bastard writhed and screamed, the charred flesh bubbling and peeling from his bones. “What do we have to do?”
“We have to eliminate Hugh of Wexford as soon as possible. God knows what he’s found out, especially if Istagio was indiscreet.” Clare muttered a foul oath. “You don’t suppose he’s managed to pass any information on to his superiors, do you? Has he sent any letters out?”
Aldous swore himself as he remembered watching Hugh ride over the drawbridge yesterday. “Er...Clare...”
She stood and began pacing again. “We’ll have to find out how much he learned and whether he’s shared it with anyone. I’ll leave it to Louis’s men how they want to handle it. They’re a bloodthirsty pack of mongrels—they’ll get it out of him.” She smiled. “They could strip him down and cook him for a while on that iron chair downstairs—that might do the trick. Then, after he’s talked, he can be taken out to the woods and—”
“Clare, Hugh left yesterday.”
She ceased her pacing and stared at him in the keenly focused way that reminded him of her damned bird. “And when, precisely, were you planning on telling me this?”
Aldous fortified himself with a gulp of wine. “He and Phillipa had some sort of row, a bad one. He’s gone—for good, she says.”
“You don’t,” she said tightly, “by any chance, know where he went.”
“Nay.”
Clare closed her eyes and stood absolutely still for so long that Aldous began to wonder if it was possible for someone to die standing up.
“Clare?” he began tentatively. “I...I’m sorry. I would have mentioned it sooner, but—”
“Do shut up, Aldous,” she said without opening her eyes, and then she lapsed into sile
nce once more.
Aldous sat on the edge of her bed and sipped the rest of his wine slowly.
At long last she opened her eyes and looked at him. “Here is what we’re going to do.”
Chapter 22
“Have you ever wondered what’s going on in the cellar?” Aldous whispered in Phillipa’s ear toward the conclusion of supper that evening.
Phillipa paused with her spoonful of rose pudding halfway to her mouth and glanced at the deacon, who had stuck to her like a leech since Hugh’s departure yesterday—and tonight, God help her, he expected her to come to his chamber for their long-anticipated tryst. It remained to be seen how she would maneuver her way out of it; she’d exhausted every excuse she could think of, and she was still so emotionally ravaged by Hugh’s departure yesterday that she couldn’t think straight. “The cellar?” she said carefully. “What do you mean?”
“You know—those booming noises.” Aldous looked about as he sipped his wine, as if wary of being overheard by their tablemates. “There’ve been quite a lot of them today, in particular.”
“Your sister told me those sounds were produced by barrels of wine falling over.”
Aldous cast her a skeptical look. “If it had happened only once or twice, I might believe that, even though it doesn’t much sound like barrels falling over.”
Phillipa swallowed her pudding thoughtfully. “You must know what’s going on down there. After all, you escorted Orlando and Istagio here.” She declined to mention that he had also transported two cartloads of mysterious cargo here from Paris, under armed guard, for he would wonder how she’d come to know this.
He shrugged. “Clare enlists me for various errands, but she only tells me as much as she thinks I need to know. I asked her once to let me into the cellar, but she refused—said I wouldn’t understand it, as if I were a child. Really got my hackles up, I can tell you. But now, with her off visiting that friend of hers, and me in charge of the keys...” He patted the lump on his chest where Clare’s keys hung under his tunic, then leaned closer, sliding an arm around her waist; it felt like one of those serpents she’d heard about that kills its prey by squeezing it to death. “What do you say?” he murmured seductively, “Care to do a little exploring with me?”
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