The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Having no idea where either is, I am,” he told himself, “reduced to the inadequacy of inexperienced infancy. But even though I must admit inadequacy at this late stage, I cannot use it as an excuse. My wits are neither lost nor impaired and ignorance does not preclude the acquisition of sense.”

  He had been speaking partially to the horse, which plodded patiently, gazing down at the many round black prints spoiling the pristine white. Leaning forwards over the horse’s neck, Richard permitted the dizzy nausea to swim and puddle in his head, but did not allow it to hinder his pace. At least, he thought, he might cover some of the ground between himself and Thomas’s kidnappers before the pain took him. The tracks in the snow were clear enough and there was a trail so easy to follow while daylight continued, that Richard had no fear of missing the way. Only the possibility of arriving too late concerned him. But the passage of six of more horses along the country path was etched like an arrow to wherever Thomas was being held.

  The girl, God grant her safety, would have to wait.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The girl was more than a day ahead. Arriving as night deepened in the huddle of Mossle Village, Jemima, Gerard, Alfred and Samuel found a small tavern in the village square, ordered a hot supper, wine, and beds. There was a chamber for the lady, they were advised, but only the straw in the half-empty stables was available for the men. There was no objection. The stable and the heaped hay and straw was no doubt warmer than one chilly little bedchamber with a knotted palliasse, one thin feather mattress, and no fire in the hearth.

  When they woke, the church bells were ringing.

  “There ain’t no time for no pretending nor churching,” Alf shook his head. “We keeps going today, we’ll be at Dover tomorrow.”

  “Christmas doesn’t matter.” Jemima eased her back, stretching her knees as she pushed her feet into the stirrups and spread her skirts. “But my friends will be together, feasting and laughing. And wondering where I am, I suppose. And Papa will be throwing Cuthbert out of the house, and – just maybe – thinking of me too. Then of course there’s Richard. He’ll be at court and he won’t be thinking about me at all.”

  “Tis not a time for all that,” Alfred warned, leaning over to scold, low voiced. “We needs to be getting on. With you having to stay in fancy inns ‘stead o sleeping under trees like we does, this journey is taking a good deal longer than it ought.” He regarded her a moment. “At least you ain’t one o’ them females as wants to ride side-saddle – or not at all.”

  Jemima sniffed. “That’s for ladies. I’m not a lady.”

  They rode hard into the shimmering pastels of a lemon dawn. The unspoiled snow before them turned a hesitant rose-petal and lilac beneath the first glimmer of sun. Through the lanes of one tiny village they followed the beat of a drum and the procession of the villagers singing their way to church. Another township had filled its square with a miracle play and puppet show watched by a cluster of laughing children, too happy to shiver in the cold. But the men refused to wait for anything and they galloped the open roads between farmlands empty for all except the snow, the scuttle of hungry mice and a small herd of deer, noses pushing for the last of the grasses beneath the freeze. Then there was the thrill of brine in the air and the sky grew huge. A robin was singing as they came within first sight of Dover and the great colourless ocean beyond.

  Some miles north west, Richard woke for the second time, and found the pain had gone. He was far too frozen to feel it.

  His horse had wandered and was grazing beneath the trees, rummaging for acorns beneath the frost. He supposed that it was dawn since the light was little more than a sheen across a pale white land. He whistled and the horse, with the pleasure of finding his one friend again alive, returned to his side and stood patiently while he mounted, hoisting himself into the saddle with more difficulty than he could ever remember experiencing. It had not snowed in the night, therefore there was still the faint sliver of a trail to follow.

  It must be, he thought, Christmas Day. He would be expected at court and his king, never a man of patience, would be angry at his unexplained absence, if this was noticed amongst the throng. Having always disliked the atmosphere of enforced merriment at court, Richard was not sorry to have missed it. But a solitary trudge through unknown country, frozen to his shattered bones, in search for the two people whom, probably in all the world, he cared about most, did not seem the ideal manner in which to celebrate The Lord’s anniversary.

  The pain at the back of his head was noticeably less. Not a cracked skull, then. Simply bruises and befuddled wits. The knife-slice running along the edge of his jaw was simply a flesh wound. It would heal, leaving a scar as pale as the snow. It was unimportant. The injury between his ribs troubled him more. It remained painful, wept continuously although the scab of black frozen blood remained to partially close the hole. The sword thrust, Richard presumed, had not cut into internal organs or surely he would be feeling worse. Instead he felt better. Not better enough to convince himself that the wound was unimportant. But he could ride, and sat easier in the saddle as the miles passed.

  His mount, a fighting destrier, was a horse trained to anticipate its master’s needs, moving to just a tightening of his knees, or a soft spoken word. But Richard was not using a battle-saddle, and regretted it. Such a supportive saddle would have held him firm and upright, permitting him to sit safe in spite of the pain.

  It was sometime before he rode into a village, and was able to ask if a group of mounted men had recently ridden through. But the villagers shook their heads. This was Christmas Day and a play-actors had set up a travelling theatre in the square. Folk had been enthralled. No passing band, if quiet and fast, would have been noticed.

  Some hours later, a child in another village told a different story. “Six men, sir, leading another gent on a limping horse. The one they was leading looked sick, I reckon, and were tied to his horse. T’was strange to see and I watched for I thought it were another pageant, and clapped when they went by.”

  She pointed a stubby finger to the road by which the group had left the village, and Richard took that road, and travelled on. When absolute darkness descended, he heard the bells ringing and knew there was a church nearby, but he could not tell by which lane, nor judge how far. He thought it was too late to try and reach a place of comfort and risk losing his direction. So he dismounted and sat a moment on a rough bank of sodden grass and snow with his back to a hedge. He stretched out, gazing up at the stars where a milky swirl embraced the dazzle, pricked with moonlight. Then he unsaddled his horse, pulled off the sweat damp horse blanket and laid it beside him, tethered the horse where it might graze, wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, and shut his eyes.

  It was not the first night he had ever passed in the open. He had never been much concerned for comfort, although accepted it as the normal state of his life and his home, and arranged it both for himself and for others. But it was the first time he had slept in snow, and in considerable pain, with the conviction of eventually waking – if he woke at all – half frozen. Yet exhaustion and lingering pain, dizziness and confusion combined and he slept quickly, entering a dreamless and unconscious blackness through which the bitter world could not impinge. Not a Christmas Day he might hope to repeat, should he ever survive this one. But, as far as his brain assured him, it was neither tedium nor indecision which would trouble him in the immediate future.

  So it was that Richard woke refreshed. The ache in his head was barely noticeable. The pain along his jawline troubled him not in the least. Even the wound in his side had stopped oozing and the pain was less. The only discomfort which troubled him was the insistent ache in his stomach, reminding him that it was nearly two days since he had eaten. At first nausea had frozen his appetite, but now the need for food flooded his mind and he could think of little else. The night had been cold enough but he was becoming accustomed. Hunger, on the other hand, was not a problem he had ever previously had to contend with
. So in spite of his need to hurry, he decided that he would stop at the first inn or tavern he passed, and enjoy a hot breakfast, a hot bath, and a cup of heated wine. He would then pack his saddle bags with food and drink before riding on,

  His horse was waiting, kicking a little at the softened ground. Even the snow had started to melt.

  The great national celebration of the Lord’s birth on Christmas Day, being now over, must now, he remembered, have given way to the Day of St. Stephen. This made little difference to a man on the road who gave himself no choice but to continue until he reached his goal and rescued both the friends he had lost. But, he considered, it would be interesting one day to discover what their majesties had said about his continued absence.

  It was a small tavern, and quite empty, with a tired girl of about ten years sweeping the snow from the front step. He dismounted and walked up to her. She smiled, delighted.

  “Be you a paying customer, sir?”

  It was, he presumed, less obvious to a child that his clothes were worn, grimed and snow patched, and that he looked exactly like a man who had slept in the bushes for two nights. “I am,” he said, and followed her inside.

  Within half an hour Richard ate, drank and sat back, watching the scullery boys haul up buckets of boiling water into the bathtub he had ordered. Set before a small fire in the hearth of an empty bedchamber, the steam sizzled up to the rafters and although there were no herbs or perfumes as there would have been in his own home, the steam smelled unutterably sweet to him. He could not ever before remember enjoying the sweet ease of a hot bath so exceedingly. His clothes felt glued to his body with sweat, grime and blood. The water was a boon. The heat was exquisite.

  The doctor, he was informed, would arrive as soon as possible, but the timing was uncertain, being a busy man who lived on the far side of the village. Richard stretched, winced, and closed his eyes. After the stab of increasing hunger had been replaced by the churning complaints of a stomach re-adjusting to food probably eaten too quickly, there was now the insistent reminder of the pain in his side. The gentle scent of heat, the reassurance of plentiful wine at his elbow, and the rising steam before a crackling fire, carried the temptation for sleep. It was a temptation he resisted.

  Richard felt no guilt, contemplating the delights of bath and rest, food and drink, and the attentions of the medic. His search for Thomas was urgent, but his own death along the way would help no one, and if he fainted from pain or starvation, it would simply waste the time they all needed. Yet it was the bath which proved the greatest pleasure, a rich ease of heat in which he seemed to float. But it was the arrival of the local doctor which, Richard knew, was the most important of his arrangements. Examining the wound in his side as he sat naked in the tub, Richard breathed deep, shrugged off pain, and decided that it was not so serious or he would now be unable to stand, unable to stand the heat of the water, and unable to envisage a hard-riding afternoon once the doctor had bandaged the injury. The hole was partially closed but the water washed away some of the dried blood, and fresh blood leaked. Once again Richard closed his eyes and concentrated on the road ahead and his chances of finding both Thomas and the girl. It was safer to think more on Thomas.

  But climbing from the tub, smiling at the grime and blood streaks he left behind him in the water, Richard found he was no longer tired. Determination and anticipation invigorated him. The food had been good and the remainder was wrapped in threadbare linen and packaged into his saddle bags. He refilled his drinking sack with ale and bought another of wine.

  A small stuttering man was shown up to the little chamber, and bowed, announcing himself both doctor and barber. He confirmed Richard’s hopes. Not a fatal wound, then. It might have become so, had infection taken hold, but it had not. The wound was clean, and the doctor bandaged it, encasing Richard’s lower chest in a wealth of linen. The pain continued. The worried doubt diminished.

  Having been overlooked in the dark by the thieves who had taken Thomas, his full purse was safe enough and now having paid the doctor, he spent lavishly, ordering his clothes to be brushed clean with Fullers Earth while he bathed, and sending out a scullery boy to obtain a new shirt, new hose, a comb and a thick under-cape. The horse blanket was dried off and the horse scrubbed down, given a full bucket of over-ripe apples and oats, clean well water, and a cheerful scratch behind the ears.

  Finally dressed in clean clothes and fully in control of his wits at last, Richard prepared once more for the road to Dover. The delay had been longer than originally intended, but he did not regret the time lost. He felt delightfully rejuvenated, an experience new to him. Energy and purpose reclaimed, he was already in the saddle when he questioned the girl he had spoken to previously.

  “Yes, they was here,” the girl told him, clasping her broom in one hand and the two shining pennies he had given her tightly in the other. “Six ugly fellows and one poor skinny lad looking green around the nose and so sick he couldn’t sit his horse without being tied on.”

  “Where did they go when they left? And did you overhear anything at all they said?”

  “They was going to Dover,” the girl nodded, “cos they said it and reckoned it would take just one more day. Business in Dover, they says, with Red Babbington. They said other stuff too but I didn’t understand much. Something about Babbington’s lair. And selling Dickon for a high price.”

  Richard shook his wet hair back from his face and smiled. “Did they indeed,” he murmured. “They may be right. The price will be high indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The women grouped around the hearth, staring at each other. Their host had left, but his largess remained. They drank good Burgundy and small silver platters of dried figs, raisins and dates lay half empty on the floorboards between them. It was not, therefore, their host that they missed.

  “I miss my dearest Jemima,” sighed Alba, leaning back in the one large cushioned chair, “but I can hardly claim to miss Master Wolfdon. Since we never saw him when he lived here, it makes not one flicker of difference now that he is gone.”

  “I call it rude,” Ruth said. “And I am much accustomed to Richard Wolfdon’s appalling manners. But Jemima? I would have expected better. There can be no excuse for running off in the middle of the night. Not a word. Not a whisper. Not a single message has come to us since. For all we know, she might be dead.”

  “She has, I believe,” decided Elisabeth, “run away with Dickon the Bastard. She’s his mistress by now, out somewhere in a grand castle with swans on the moat.”

  “Good. And I wish her luck. I hope she’s as happy with him as I was with dearest Edward.”

  Ysabel shook her head. “He had no idea where she’d gone. He came and asked me everything. But of course I knew nothing, so he went away. I believe he’s gone after her.”

  “He never took the slightest notice of her while she was here. Why should he care now she’s gone?”

  “I care,” said Alba with severity and a frown at the other women. “I care not a flick of my fingers for our host, except that I thank him for his hospitality. I am interested only in our little dove.”

  “Nurse has gone with her.”

  “Katherine,” Alba nodded, “is a woman of sense. As an excellent judge of character myself, I can assure you that Katherine is both capable and willing to protect Jemima. That they are together is the one good piece of news.”

  It was a discussion they had repeated many times since Jemima’s disappearance, and there was still no conclusion.

  Elisabeth was once more speculating, when Sir Walter arrived, unannounced, Richard’s half-brother trailing behind his father. Every woman stopped speaking, swallowed whatever particle of dried fruit remained in their mouths, and straightened their backs, pulling crumpled gowns quickly down over dimpled knees.

  “You are very welcome, Sir,” Alba said, rising slowly with a half curtsey. “And we must all hope you have news to tell us.”

  Peter pushed past and sat close to the f
ire. His face appeared more blue than pink, and he held out his hands to the hearth, addressing the flames. “You mean do we know where that idiot brother of mine has gone? Definitely not. That’s why we’re here.”

  “We are here,” interrupted his father, “to discover what we may of Richard’s disappearance. But madam, also to hope that you have passed a Christmas of good cheer and comfort. I see that no decorations, no greenery and no holly-bow have been raised here. Did Richard make no allowance for such things before he left? The yule log? Singing? Dancing? A celebration and feast? Midnight Mass?”

  “No mistletoe,” sighed Philippa. “No carols or miracle plays.”

  “But,” said Alba with the continuing frown, “we attended Midnight Mass in the cathedral, sir, on the night of Christmas Eve, and of our own choice. So grand and beautiful it was, and the choir were angels from Paradise indeed. Even without our host, we had no wish to abandon the proper conventions.”

  “Most commendable, madam.”

  Peter sniggered. “Doubt if Richard ever did anyway. No private chapel here, you’ll notice. No priest or personal chaplain tucked away either. Doesn’t care for traditions unless he’d invents them himself. Besides, at Christmas and Easter he’s always called to court for the feasting.” Peter ignored his father’s scowl. “But where‘s the wretched man gone? He behaves with as much arrogance as the king half the time, but he’s never downright disappeared before now. Until now, if he goes away he’ll tell my father first and make an official apology to the king. And he can’t go away at Christmas because no apology would be enough. His majesty will be furious and as far as I’m concerned, Dickon deserves it.”

  “A furious king is a dangerous king.” Penelope looked into her lap, and blushed. “I hardly know Master Wolfdon, sir, but he’s been kind and patient with us. I’d hate to see him in danger.”