The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  His brow crumples and she thinks he is going to cry but he rams one fist hard into the opposite palm. ‘How could you – how could you have left her there?’

  Gifford and Margie are silent, both looking to Hope to explain that Hester gave them no choice. ‘She insisted.’

  ‘Surely you must have been able to see the idiocy of such a plan.’ He has begun to pace, like a caged animal.

  She tells him that they left a guard with Hester and that the lieutenant is in the priest-hole with a fire lit to prevent his escape. But nothing she says appears to soothe his qualms as he replaces the coat he has just removed and makes for the door.

  Before leaving he turns. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, Hope. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.’

  They watch over the banisters as the doctor descends the staircase and shouts for his groom to find fresh horses. The well-dressed guests milling about the hall of the Feathers turn to look at the ranting grime-covered man marching past them, barking orders.

  ‘Come,’ Hope says, trying to sound bright, ‘let’s go down to the yard and wave him off.’ Rafe glowers at her, slapping away her proffered hand, harder than is necessary, and stamps ahead down the stairs, his puppy following at his heel.

  She does her best to hold her patience with him.

  The yard is in a flurry of activity. An army of grooms is untacking and tacking up horses, brushing them down, pumping water into buckets, filling nosebags with oats. There is a metallic hammering where the smith is replacing a lost shoe. One horse is nervy, thrashing about, hoofs skidding on the cobbles, causing all the others to shift out of its way, and a dog is caught, yelping as it jumps aside.

  Ambrose is asking the landlord if he knows of any local men who might join the pair of armed men who travelled with him from Oxford. Hope doesn’t want to have to consider what he thinks might confront him on his arrival. Hester’s confidence had lulled her into a sense of security that she now realizes was false. ‘I need trustworthy men, who can leave immediately. And …’ Ambrose looks around, lowering his voice ‘… if anyone comes looking for me, I haven’t been here.’

  ‘Understood,’ replies the landlord.

  ‘Can’t I go with him?’ asks Rafe, yanking at Hope’s sleeve.

  She sinks to her haunches to meet his eyes. He ties his mouth into a rigid little knot. ‘Ambrose will bring your mother back here.’

  ‘He didn’t say that.’

  ‘You must stay here with me for the time being.’

  ‘You can’t make me stay with you, if I don’t want to.’ He remains tight and sullen.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘They’ll be riding through the night. It’s not safe.’

  ‘We rode through the night before. And if anybody tries to hurt us I’ll deal with them.’ He makes a thrusting motion with his fist and his face has set into a chilling sneer.

  It would be a wonder if he had come through so much hardship and not been affected by it, but there is something profoundly unsettling in his expression, which she has never seen before.

  Ambrose intervenes, crouching beside them, patting Rafe on the shoulder, as he might a comrade. ‘I need you to stay here. Who else will look after your aunt Hope? It’s a very important job. Do you think you’re up to it?’

  Rafe seems to thaw slightly. Hope is impressed by Ambrose’s handling of the child but reasons that he knows her nephew well. He tutored him almost daily. She is reminded, with an ache of longing, of their peaceful life at Orchard Cottage, wishing all this would be over.

  When the men are mounted and ready to leave, Ambrose beckons her, leaning down and cupping his hand to her ear, saying, ‘Make sure you stay close by him.’ He nods towards Will Carter, standing in the doorway to the inn, who nods back. ‘I’ll send word as soon as things are clear. But lie low here. Stay in your rooms and keep up the disguise, even in private, in case of gossiping maids. If you need anything, send the Giffords out.’

  She wants to ask him to give Lark a message but somehow can’t find a way to put it. Had she time, she would have sent a letter, a private word, but of course Lark cannot read and Hope wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

  Once they have left, she tries to distract Rafe by suggesting they go inside and watch them departing from the upstairs window. He shrugs, without looking at her, and her heart sinks at the thought of keeping up his spirits for she doesn’t know how much longer.

  It is busy inside, with a raucous table of men drinking and playing cards, laying down bets on a game, and a few more loitering about.

  She pushes Rafe ahead as they move slowly through the crowded hall towards the stairs. Captain, who has been following them obediently, is distracted by a cat under a table, giving chase, skittering and wriggling round the feet of the card players and away towards the kitchens. Will Carter, following close behind, offers to retrieve him while Hope and Rafe make their way towards the stairs.

  Beside them the landlord, a vastly fat fellow with a bulbous red-veined nose, is calling to someone, his voice booming through the busy hall. ‘We’ve managed to find you a bed for the night, Mr Smyth. A gentleman has had to leave unexpectedly.’

  A figure emerges from the shadows, walking unsteadily towards the host. ‘Finally, I can leave the godforsaken fleapit I’ve been staying in. I take it the linens will be clean.’

  Nausea sweeps over Hope and she stumbles slightly. She recognizes him instantly, the superior tone, the foppish get-up, the neat chestnut beard, the red jacket. It is not a Mr Smyth but Worley, drunk and swaying only inches away, between her and the stairs.

  She turns her head, so he can’t glimpse her face, hoping her male outfit will put him off the scent.

  ‘Of course the linens will be clean. What kind of establishment do you think this is?’

  ‘And I wonder,’ Worley is slurring and places a hand on the landlord’s arm, clasping it tightly, as if needing to steady himself, ‘is a Dr Cotton among your guests?’

  The landlord is umming and aahing, as he shuffles through the pages of a ledger. ‘I had to turn away a Dr something – the name was not Cotton, though. It was a few days ago so I doubt he’s still in the vicinity, even if he is the fellow you seek.’ Worley stumbles, righting himself on the landlord’s arm again. ‘You’re most fortunate that I’m able to find you a room at all, Mr Smyth.’ The landlord is trying tactfully to free himself from Worley’s grip.

  Hope grasps Rafe firmly by the hand, and while Worley’s attention is distracted, she inches past him to mount the stairs. But as they meet the bottom step, Rafe protests, with a loud ‘Let me go!’

  Worley’s gaze snaps round.

  His head is swaying, face ruddy and sweat-shining.

  Hope starts to climb but it is too late.

  He looks at her, gaze swimming, then away.

  Relief floods her as she hauls the complaining child up another step.

  But Worley returns his eyes to her, recognition alighting.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ He emits a breath that stinks of beer. ‘And this one.’ His smirk is triumphant as he chucks Rafe on the cheek.

  ‘Get off me.’ Rafe wipes the place where Worley has touched him and Hope fears for an instant that the man is going to smack him.

  ‘You can’t fool me with this.’ He pinches the fabric of her man’s coat. He is close, uncomfortably close, speaking at a low, intimate growl, and his foetid breath makes her want to retch. ‘You were all woman last time I saw you. If only they knew …’ He throws out a lecherous laugh. Hope remembers his fingers asserting themselves beneath her skirts and she hates herself for her previous credulity.

  Not any more.

  Not any more.

  Drawing herself up to her full height, and standing a step above him, she invests her tone with all the disdain she can muster. ‘Mr Smyth, is it? I can assure you I have never encountered you before in my life and I think I’d likely remember a fellow who turns himself out in the way you do.’ She runs a derisive look up and down his lur
id clothing, then turns to the landlord. ‘Would you kindly ensure that this drunken oaf keeps his distance from my family and me?’

  She starts to climb the stairs, head high, perspiration simmering beneath her clothes. Halfway up she becomes aware of a tussle below: the landlord is insisting that Worley not follow her up the stairs.

  ‘Run.’ She lets go of Rafe’s hand. ‘Fast as you can. To the room. Shut yourself in.’ He flies up, Hope trailing behind.

  She is almost at the top, dares not look back, can hear now, someone, Worley, hammering up behind. Rafe is swallowed into the dark corridor off the landing that leads to their rooms.

  She turns momentarily. Worley is almost close enough to touch. The fat landlord lumbers in his wake, wheezing loudly.

  Worley grabs her wrist. His grip burns. ‘Got you!’ Spit showers her and the stink of his breath mingled with her fear makes her feel faint.

  With a sharp downward movement of her arm she breaks from his hold, astonished by her own strength.

  Worley sways, almost losing his footing, and rights himself but wobbles drunkenly again, reaching out to clutch at her, a silent, petrified plea scrawled on his face.

  Hope steps back minutely.

  He is grappling at thin air, arms floundering.

  He teeters, wavering, for an elongated moment, on the lip of the top stair.

  She watches in appalled anticipation as time seems to falter.

  Then he tumbles backwards, past the landlord, who can do nothing.

  He plummets over and over, head colliding with the edge of each wooden step, an ominous thud, thud, thud, thud as he falls, finally to slump on the floor at the bottom.

  The hall is silenced, and a crowd gathers around the broken shape in its crimson jacket. His head is haloed to match his coat, as a pool of blood expands on the flagstones.

  Empty and numb, Hope sits on the top stair, her face sinking into her hands, not wanting, not daring to look.

  ‘He’s dead,’ someone announces.

  The landlord has reached her, places a big sweaty hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry, sir,’ he is saying, clearly shaken. ‘I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have … I should have stopped …’

  ‘It’s not your fault. He was drunk.’ She knows, her voice surprising her with its steadiness, that had she not taken that minute backward step, she could have grabbed his collar and pulled him in. He might have fallen forward instead of back and suffered nothing more than a bloody nose and a sobering dent to his dignity.

  ‘I could have caught him.’ She realizes, with a heavy feeling, that she shouldn’t have said this.

  The landlord looks at her for what seems an interminable time. ‘And have him pull you down, too? A slight fellow like you? There was nothing you could have done. And, as you say, he was completely soused.’

  But Hope is thinking back to the broken balcony, the strange symmetry of events, and how she had instinctively reached out to haul Hester back, with no thought for her own safety.

  Her conscience jabbers.

  Only she will ever know whether her infinitesimal backward movement, the difference between life and death, was deliberate.

  Hester

  It is the dead of night but I am up, sitting in the dark, thinking of what I have set in motion, willing the lieutenant on, when the yard-dog starts barking. I hear horses, heavy footfall on the stairs, voices, imagining a consignment of guards sent by George.

  The priest-hole is beside me, gaping, ready to suck me in. But I cannot make myself move.

  The latch rattles, the creak of the door, a scrabbling sound and something jumps onto me. I push it off. Wet slides over my face.

  ‘Leave it,’ comes a command. ‘Here, Caesar!’

  I cry out, paralysed with fear, believing myself in some kind of waking dream in which the dead have returned to haunt me.

  ‘Hester. It’s Ambrose.’

  The dark shape moves towards me. My breath is shallow and I am shaking uncontrollably. ‘It can’t be you.’

  A yellow glow leaks into the room. Jem Carter is in the doorway, holding up a lamp. I rub my eyes, repeating, ‘It can’t be you.’

  ‘It is me.’ He reaches for my hand. I expect his to be cold, but it is warm and alive.

  Ambrose is alive! I am lost for words. There is nothing to say when someone you love has returned from the dead.

  ‘My letter didn’t reach you, then?’

  ‘I thought it a forgery.’

  ‘Even with the quotation? I was sure you’d know it was from me … I’ve been out of my mind with worry ever since Bloor’s murder was reported.’

  I am remembering the lieutenant’s horribly vivid description of sinking a knife into Ambrose’s torso. I had believed him. Everything, my plans, my future, my son’s safety, now seems built on quicksand. ‘The lieutenant was sure he’d killed you. Why would he have lied about that?’

  ‘He tried his damnedest. Left me for dead with a blade in my breast.’

  ‘That was the delay you spoke of in your letter? And Rafe, have you seen him? Is he safe?’

  ‘All safe at the Feathers with Hope.’

  I allow myself a small ration of optimism and, rising from the pallet, I wrap my arms round him. He winces, bringing his hand to protect his chest. ‘I’m so very sorry,’ he is saying, ‘about Melis.’

  I wish I could cry but I feel completely dried up.

  ‘Where is he?’ Ambrose’s tone is suddenly rigid: he has noticed the open entrance to the priest-hole.

  I falter. ‘Gone.’ I am glad the dim light means he can’t read my expression. ‘Escaped.’

  ‘How? From there?’ He is pointing at the hiding place. ‘Did he force his way out? Did he hurt you? What was your guard doing at the time?’

  ‘No one was hurt.’ I can’t bring myself to tell him that I deliberately allowed the lieutenant to leave, furnished him with supplies for his journey even. He would think me a fool for placing so much trust in what seems now little more than a hunch. I know what I saw in the lieutenant’s eyes, but it defies logical explanation.

  ‘We must get out after him. How long since he escaped?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was already dark.’ I glance at the clock. It has said the same time for several days now. I don’t know how long I have slept, don’t know if the lieutenant has had enough time to get well away.

  He makes for the stairs, calling his men to feed and water the horses, arm themselves and prepare to return to the forest, girding them for a manhunt. ‘Make yourself ready, Hester. Fast as you can. It’s not safe to stay here. If he was on foot, we’ve a chance of catching him.’ He races down ahead of me.

  ‘But what about Rafe?’ I call down the stairs, desperate to delay them. ‘Shouldn’t we get to Ludlow and be sure of Rafe’s safety before hunting down the lieutenant?’

  ‘We’ll split up. My men can search for the lieutenant and the rest of us will make for Ludlow. We’ll have to move on from the Feathers.’

  ‘Wait.’ I am insistent but he is already at the bottom and out of the door. ‘It’s so dangerous at night. And you, you …’ I don’t know how to stop them, can’t tell him that the lieutenant is the arrow I have aimed and fired at George. ‘You cannot be well enough. You’re wounded.’

  I envisage my whole plan falling apart. ‘What will you do with him when you’ve caught him?’

  ‘We’ll worry about that when it comes to it.’ He is brusque and musters his men. ‘Be sure your weapons are loaded.’

  Felton

  The lieutenant stalks through the leafy gloom. He had been desperately weakened by his incarceration but freedom is intoxicating and has invested him with renewed vigour. The moon is up and almost full, but the light barely penetrates the canopy of trees. It is mercifully cool, after the infernal heat of the priest-hole, and the ground gives off the scent of loam and fresh decay. He is sensitive to the vibrations of the earth, nose primed for the whiff of tobacco smoke and sweat. Nothing must prevent him from his new miss
ion. He will get retribution for his sister, if it is his last act on earth.

  He travels light – his only weapon the blunt penknife that the child had stolen from him and returned to him at the gate by Jem Carter. He had precious few belongings before and has fewer now. Hester had packed him a parcel of food and drink, and given him a few crowns, more than enough to get him to Whitehall.

  He feels their approach first, as if something is altering the shape of the air. A squirrel interrupts its nut gathering to sit upright, tufted ears twitching, before scampering away. Soon he becomes aware of the unmistakable thrum of horses at a canter. It fast becomes louder. He relies on all his old instincts to tell him how many riders there are: three, four, perhaps.

  Scrambling up a nearby tree, he watches the dark shapes of the party of riders heading towards the lodge at a pace. He wonders if perhaps it is Worley with a band of men come to his aid. What he would have given, only a few hours ago, for Worley to appear. How things have changed.

  He jumps down from his perch and hurries on, running twenty paces, walking twenty, stopping only to read the stars for his direction.

  It is not long before he hears horses approaching once more, a larger party this time, from the direction of the lodge. He tucks himself behind a dense thicket of brambles, alert. They are close.

  One shouts, ‘You go on. My horse is lame.’

  He hears the thunder of hoofs as some continue towards Ludlow. But others, four at least by his assessment, have halted right beside his hiding place. He daren’t look but feels he could reach out his arm and touch them. He hears the thump as one dismounts.

  Fear sharpens him. He holds his blunt little blade in his fist. Sunk home in the right part of the neck, it might cause some damage. He has surprise on his side, should he need it. He knows he can’t fight them all off. He might have done once, when he had the use of both arms and his body was primed for combat. He hardly dares breathe.