The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “The king’s exciting too. He’s almost an adventurer.” She peeped up at him, and wiped her eyes. “And the queen is exciting as well.” She discovered that he was holding a white linen kerchief out to her and she took it gratefully and blew her nose.

  “Keep it,” he said, grinning. “And I can assure you that the queen is desperately unhappy and in a virtually untenable position, while the king is a spoiled schoolboy with a collection of insecurities combined with a storm of arrogantly cruel attitudes, making him the ultimate tyrant and the first man to avoid. Yet avoidance is almost impossible. I should far sooner deal with your father.”

  “And will you do that?” she asked tentatively. “Will you – help him? He thinks he’ll be searched out and killed by Red Babbington and Lord Staines.”

  “I know of Red Babbington.” Richard frowned. “I am somewhat acquainted with Lord Staines, although not in any manner of friendship since I dislike him and avoid him almost as diligently as I do the king. Why does he plan to terrorise your father?”

  Jemima sat up a little. Her body was tingling and she remained breathless. The delight of such an unexpected embrace had somehow solved every problem and she did not wish to lose such a sensation of magical safety. Fear had evaporated. Loneliness had fled. She had never, even as a child, felt so protected, nor so enticingly comfortable and would have liked to stay there, snugly cradled, for the entire rest of her life. Instead she said, “If you will truly accept me as a friend, then I must be very fair, and tell you everything. You see, my father is not a good man and I’m not a good daughter. Even all my temporary mothers aren’t good women, and the only good person amongst us is my nurse Katherine, who is respectable and kind and took me in when I thought my father was dead and my cousin threw me out and I had no money or possessions or even a reputation to keep me happy. She is desperately poor too, but she shared her bed with me. She’s wonderful. None of the rest of us is any good at all.”

  “I had also considered sharing my bed with you,” Richard murmured, pulling her firmly back into his arms.”

  Her voice was muffled against his chest. “You said,” she reminded him, “you didn’t want me as your mistress.”

  “I don’t,” he told her. “the idea of taking you as my intimate companion, is a delicious one, yet I’ve no intention of doing so. That is something we will discuss at a later date. Now tell me about Lord Staines.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The snow pattered against the window but the warmth lingered within, held close by the thick oak shutters, and Jemima curled tight in the bed, eyes open and unsleeping, her thoughts wandering through sunshine on the grass and flowers sprigging the hillsides. Across the bedchamber, the embers of the fire remained, flickering like tiny demons in the dark. She could hear the bluster of the wind against the window panes, she could hear it whistle down the chimney, but her waking dream was as light and bright as any summer day.

  Three blissful days had passed. He had not kissed her again, but he had taken her hand, he had lifted her into the saddle, and he had ridden with her into the Lydden town square where the tailors and the seamstress shared a tiny shop, open even in the depths of a shivering winter, and still with his escort, Jemima had been shown lengths of material from which to choose, and had been assured of a quick delivery.

  “They’ll have little custom in this season,” Richard had informed her, even before entering the shop. “And although you will be presented with their finest quality, in such a place they cannot carry the choice or quality you would have been offered back in London or Westminster.”

  “She had gazed at him in excitement. “Anything. Flannel. Duffel. Anything will be wonderful. A new gown will seem like a luxury.”

  His smiled had been warm. “More than one new gown is needed. But luxury itself will have to wait, I fear.”

  Once within the shop, the proprietor, tailor and seamstress in eager attendance, Jemima had smoothed her fingers over the soft sheen of a pale bleached linen. “But this is beautiful. Expensive.”

  “The best we have, my lady,” the tailor assured her.

  Richard addressed the proprietor. “I shall leave my lady here for the time necessary, but the finished garments must be delivered to the Lydden Inn. A riding gown in heavy broadcloth, fur collar and trimmings. A plain day gown, suitable for cold weather. A cloak, waterproofed, and lined in fur. You have martin? No? Otter? Very well, whatever is your best and warmest.” He looked to the young female seamstress who was hovering, ready to take measurements. “And everything needed for accessories,” he continued. “Chemise, gloves, and stockings.” He turned then back to Jemima, and grinned. “Ah yes, and a bedrobe. Use the best you have there, but it must also be fur lined.” He strode to the door, his own gloves in his hand, and his boots leaving snow puddles across the boards. “The lady will give you further instructions as to details. All choices are hers to make. I shall be back shortly.”

  He had come back with a smile of contentment, and two beautiful horses. “You cannot continue to ride a sumpter,” he laughed at her when she gazed in wonder and shook her head at his generosity. “Both of the blacksmith’s horses must be returned to him, and the old clothes you borrowed should go back to the girl who kindly supplied them. I shall send a gift of appreciation.”

  Jemima had reached up, patting the hunter’s glossy brown neck. “Which one is mine?”

  “Whichever you choose,” Richard told her. “One for you and one for Thomas. And now for a hot dinner back at the inn.”

  That had been four days gone. Four days in which she had sat close beside him at table, had walked with him, laughing as they kicked their way through the snow, and had ridden with him into the surrounding forests and into town for further shopping, bringing back shoes, boots and a smart headdress. They had talked of many things, of royal duties, of court gossip, of English trade, of religious quarrels, and even of the winter weather. But Richard had avoided any personal discussions, and would not speak of matters too close to her heart, or to his. He had entertained her and helped her forget that any problem existed within her own future. Four days which she thought might have been the happiest of her life.

  There had also been four nights sleeping alone in the snug two-posted bed in the little bedchamber in which Richard had installed her. Lydden’s only inn was not a hostelry catering for nobility, but it was comfortable enough. The cramped space contained a chamber-pot and no garderobe, one window overlooking the stables, and a hearth so tiny there was space only for faggots and twigs. There was neither chandelier nor sconce, but a small oil lamp and a tinderbox stood on a stool near the bed, and the light from the fire was brighter and more vividly alive than any cheap tallow candle. There were pegs on the wall for Jemima’s proud new clothes, and her glorious new bedrobe lay across the bottom of the bed. She was well wrapped, propped by a bolster, a cushion and a pillow, and the eiderdown was snug beneath a stretched woollen blanket.

  Bliss! She cuddled there, peeping over to the last of the embers in the hearth, and dreaming of smiles and the touch of strong fingers, a velvet doublet against her cheek, and warm breath on her mouth.

  A knock at the door made her shiver, and the dreams scattered. Barely admitted, even to herself, the horror of the Babbington abduction still terrified her in the night.

  But it was the inn’s chamber maid bringing a bowl of warm water for washing, a jug of breakfast ale, a hand to help her dress, and another to empty the chamber-pot.

  “Tis a good morning, mistress,” the girl said, heaving to bring down the window shutters.

  Jemima stared out at the flurry and whisper of snow outside. “So good? It’s freezing. Will you light the fire?” But she smiled to herself, for it was, quite definitely, a good morning. And as long as she was not yet required to ride back home to her father and collection of mothers, it might be the best morning of all. A basic breakfast would shortly be served in the little private dining chamber downstairs, and Jemima knew she would sit beside R
ichard Wolfdon for at least half an hour by the clock or even longer. That was the happiest start to any day that she could imagine, and she hurried to dress.

  In a slightly larger chamber further along the inn’s upper corridor, Richard reclined on the bed and leaned back against the wall, cup in hand, ankles crossed. “Now,” he said softly to the flames spitting across the small hearth, “having discovered both friends and secured the well-being of both, I shall begin to plan the next step. Time is passing and matters must be cleared, organised and arranged to our benefit. It will be most interesting.”

  From the bed’s wide shadows, Thomas regarded him with faint suspicion. “You mean the journey back home?”

  “Certainly not,” Richard replied, looking up, but with the firelight still in his eyes. “Some matters of considerable importance must be achieved before any expectation of a placid trudge back to dull respectability.”

  Waiting some moments for an explanation which did not come, Thomas finally said, “And will I be considered both rude and crude if I suggest the first matter is surely bedding the woman you’re clearly in love with?”

  The smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Merely mistaken, Tom.”

  “You’ll not touch the girl, then? I’ve never known you to be so proper and so reticent,” Thomas said, half blushing.

  Richard shook his head. “The first business is to send a message to Edward Thripp informing him that his daughter is well and safe. This should be addressed to the nurse, so avoiding any difficulty should the message be read by others before reaching its destination. Master Thripp clearly wishes himself incognito for now.”

  “Easy done.”

  “The second matter might also be considered easy,” Richard said, “although I have my doubts. Jemima has been re-clothed and the horses and rags brought from your stay in Little Fogham have been returned to their original owners. The medic has treated the wounds on her feet from her barefoot escape, they are well bandaged and the doctor has assured me that healing is virtually complete. But replacing the trust, security and confidence the poor girl has lost may be a far harder prospect.”

  “My dear Dickon, “Thomas smiled, “you have no idea, do you! You have already brought her all the security and confidence she needs. Have you not seen her face? She is happy as a daisy.”

  “Are daisies happy? I had not thought it.”

  “Why not? They have everything they need. And that’s exactly how your young woman feels.”

  “My young woman.” Richard smiled slowly. “We shall see. But the third business will not be easy at all,” Richard’s voice sank low. “It involves finding and eliminating the brigand known as Red Babbington, and slaughtering as many of his companions as can be arranged. Not only do Jemima and her father need this assurance, but the rest of the country will be a deal safer without the man. I daresay you would prefer to see him more dead than alive yourself.”

  “I’d sooner never see him at all. Or do you expect a respectable and clean-living lawyer to dream of vengeance?”

  “Vengeance,” Richard said, “is invariably a waste of time and can rebound on the angry activator waving his temper around. But ridding the country of a dangerous and vicious brigand seems ultimately sensible.”

  “And this Staines we’ve heard of?”

  “That is also one of the matters I shall attend to,” Richard continued. “But it may be better managed once I return to Holborn. Once Babbington is gone, I have something else in mind.”

  Thomas sighed. “No doubt you’ll have some other crazed gallantry intended.”

  “Gallantry? Perhaps not quite.” Richard laughed. “I simply intend discovering this mislaid treasure, and returning it to Edward Thripp.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” snapped Thomas, “more foolhardy danger. So you really are in love?”

  “I’m afraid so,” smiled Richard. “It is most inconvenient. But also deliciously invigorating. Life, my friend, has never been less tedious.” He kicked away the bedside stool which clattered, tipping over on the floorboard, and stood abruptly. “Which is why every one of these tasks are mine alone. You’ve no need to be involved Tom. I won’t pretend I wouldn’t value your help and companionship. But there’s no reason beyond that for you to feel involved.”

  “Not like you to be so polite,” Thomas grinned. “You know quite well I’ll not be running away at this stage.”

  “I was considering using you as the message boy,” Richard responded. “Take my message to Thripp with you. You could return home with a clear conscience. I might even supply the horse to take you there.”

  “How flattering, Dickon. Treated like a page being sent into oblivion.”

  “A page,” Richard decided, “would also fetch wine, quill, ink and paper. My cup is empty and I should write this damned letter and get it sent.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Thomas sighed. “I suppose I can do all of those. But you’re not sending me back to the Strand, my friend. We’ll face Babbington together. But buying your mistress a corset and a pair of shoes might be beyond me.”

  “I have no mistress,” Richard reminded him. “Nor do I intend taking one. But discovering the camp of Red Babbington and setting fire to it will be the task where I’ll most appreciate your companionship. Not alone, I might add. I shall involve the local sheriff, the constable, and any number of local men who’ll come for a price. In the meantime, that letter to Edward Thripp needs to be written.”

  “You know what day it is?” Thomas demanded. “You want to start a war during Epiphany?”

  Richard grinned, something which was happening more often. “I shall wait until tomorrow,” he said.

  Early on the following morning, Richard Wolfdon and Thomas Dunn rode out and cantered quickly down the country lane leading to Dover. It had started to rain although the drizzle was little more than a sheen of steel grey mist over the horizon. But it was turning to sleet by the time they saw the sea.

  Avoiding The Sleepy Oyster, the large fronted Pier Tavern overlooked the coast, and served those sailors arriving at the port. One short stocky man, shrouded in oiled broadcloth, stood outside with his ale tankard in his hand. He nodded when he saw Richard and Thomas, and walked up to them as they dismounted.

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “Did you find them?”

  The short man grunted. “Found one of the buggers, I did. There was three at first, they says. But two is dead now, after the battle with Red Babbington. You want to see the one what’s left?”

  Richard shook his head at the ostler who had hurried up to take charge of the horses. “Keep them saddled and ready,” Richard advised. “We shall be leaving again shortly.” He turned back to the short man. “Well, Ned, take me to him, this one survivor amongst Thripp’s henchmen. Have you told him I’m coming, and that the lady he’d been ordered to protect and did not protect so well, is now in my care, and safe?”

  “I did,” Ned said, and led both Richard and Thomas into the tavern’s depths. The public room was alight with torches and busy with a dozen men squashed in and talking, laughing and drinking heavily.

  “That’s him.” Ned pointed.

  It was Alfred who came forwards, and bowed briefly. “You’re the gentry taking care of Mistress Jemima, and wants a cock-fight with Babbington?”

  Richard smiled, and ordered beer. Thomas stood close behind. Richard said, “I am Richard Wolfdon, and Mistress Jemima is indeed in my care and will continue to be so. But I am preparing to finish the reign of Red Babbington in these parts and I need the largest crowd of men you can muster to back me.” He held up one finger. “I will pay one pound to every man who gathers here tomorrow at my call, and one more pound to every man who survives and gathers back here after Babbington is entirely removed from the land, sent either to gaol or to his coffin.”

  “There won’t be no one prepared to pay fer his coffin.”

  Richard smiled. “You know this area and you know the men. Can you enlist such a crowd?”

  “I can, sir.” Alf
drained his tankard. “And I’ll be paid the same?”

  “Should you continue in my service after our victory, then I shall pay you considerably more,” Richard said. “Including discovering this treasure of your captain’s, in which you have some share, I believe. So it will be very much in your interests not to get yourself killed. Agreed?”

  Alf grinned suddenly. “It’s a deal, sir. Some of Captain Thripp’s coin is my share right enough, and a bigger share now seeing as Gerard and Sam is gone. So there’ll be me and a bountiful gang of ready men will meet you here tomorrow, sir. At dawn, then?”

  “Dawn tomorrow,” Richard agreed.

  It was that same afternoon, in preparation for the following morning, that Richard rode to the small dark chambers of the local mayor, where he had arranged to meet the Sheriff of Kent. The arrangement had been made some days previously with a messenger sent to Canterbury, and a reply received two days later. At first the sheriff had been perplexed. Babbington’s nomadic gang of criminals, louts and occasional seafarers was ever-changing. Few authorities had made any effort to control such brigands and outlaws. Often they had secret backers amongst the land-owners and even the nobility. When threatened, they either overpowered the smaller groups without mercy, and without the slightest respect for title or official warrant, or, if faced with a power too great, they slipped away in the night like a dissolving mist into the hills.

  But with the name of Richard Wolfdon scrawled prominent at the end of the message, Sheriff Kander felt obliged to ride the cold and wearisome road to Dover, and present himself at the Mayor’s office. Avoiding intimidation, he was wearing his best. Richard, who had no travelling chest of clothes in his wake, was wearing his worst. Yet the sense of authority did not diminish even when the velvets were dirty and the fur trimmings bedraggled.

  “He is a blight on the land, sir.” Richard regarded the shorter man across the table, the ale jug untouched between them. “Babbington has been permitted to roam freely for too long. He attempted to take me prisoner upon the road before Christmas, he abducted my friend in the hope of obtaining a ransom, and he has threatened another friend.”