Jemima led Richard up the staircase and along a short corridor to a large and candlelit bedchamber, its windows unshuttered, and its bed heavily curtained. She sank down onto the mattress and smiled up. “This used to be my own little paradise when I was a child,” she said. “I felt safe here. Katherine used to sleep beside me. We shared everything.”
The great open skies were black but dazzling in night’s creamy maze of stardust gazing down over the whisper of leaf and the reflections in the river. “Don’t close the shutters,” Richard smiled. “I want you naked, and lit only by the moon.”
“But I should call for a hot brick. The bed will be cold.”
“Not once I have you in my arms. Then I shall take you to our own cavern, with the bed curtains enclosing us in shadow and the moon through the window just a gleam over your breasts. And I shall light the fire myself.”
Jemima whispered, “But you said it was warm enough. Must I call a page?”
Richard laughed, “That was not the fire I meant.’
The bed itself was a swelter of purples and lilacs with curtains of velvet, embroidered in cream. Butterflies and birds were coloured painted patterns across the high tester, almost seeming to fly. The pillows were piled, and Jemima, well cushioned, gazed up.
“But you know, don’t you, who told the sheriff about Papa and got him thrown into Newgate?” Richard did not answer. Finally, as he untied his shirt collar and began to unhook his doublet, he nodded. Jemima waited, then whispered, “Was it Alba, before she died? Was it Ruth? She swears it wasn’t but the others think it was.” She paused, waiting, then, voice sinking lower, “Oh my darling, was it you?”
Richard looked up immediately, leaving the dark skirted doublet half open. “Could you believe that?”
Jemima stared into her lap. “No. Yes. You might have thought it was right.”
He sat beside her, taking her into his arms, one hand clasped over her breast and the frantic beat of her heart thrumming against his fingers. He spoke softly. “My step father was intrigued by Alba. He had a notion of taking her as his mistress, Recently he spoke to me of it. I advised against such a thing, and told him of my suspicions. I informed him that the woman was almost certainly a murderer.”
On a gulp, “So it was Sir Walter?”
“No. Peter. Your childhood friend.” Richard pulled her closer. “He overheard me speaking to my step-father. Peter no doubt will grow into a grand courtier with a place on the royal council and an eagle eye for advancement, since he enjoys the suffering of others, and is experienced in spying and listening at key holes.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“Indeed. The sheriff himself informed me.” He kissed her suddenly, The tingle and the tickle shifted, the heat of his breath moving deeper. His hands clasped her buttocks, pulling her up closer to his mouth. She tasted the wine on his tongue.
Wriggling, Jemima moved away, pushing back against the pillows. “I want you too, beloved.” She gazed into her own reflection, silvered by moonlight in the depths of his eyes. “But we have to talk first. I don’t care what you do to my father. I always adored him and I suppose I still do. But he’s a dreadful man and I’ve only just realised that. So now I have to know the truth and not just be the fool in your arms, ignorant and besotted as all those daft women out there. So tell me. Tell me everything.”
Richard sighed and stood almost immediately. He continued undoing his laces shrugged the doublet from his shoulders, pulled the shirt over his head, and stood, naked to the waist, looking down at her.
“Let me tell you a story,” he said as he continued undressing, his eyes on hers. “It starts with Margery Smith, a poor wretched girl who climbed into bed with your father, besotted by gratitude. You know that Alba discovered them and dragged the girl out into the corridor. There she strangled her and hid her until she had the privacy and ability to haul the body up into the unused attic. Your father found Alba’s jealousy alluring and made no attempt to help the girl.”
Looking back at Richard, Jemima said. “Papa told me all that. He didn’t hide the truth.”
Nodding, Richard unhooked his codpiece and rolled down his hose, stepping out of each leg and pulling the dark wool from his feet. Finally he stepped from his braies. “Perhaps.” Richard was quite naked now. “But the story continues. Still during the partnership with Alba, the daughter of the bishop’s chef was attracted to the wild adventurer living three houses along the Strand, and she flirted with him.”
“I know.” Whispering. “And the same thing happened. Why are you telling me this, Dickon darling, when you know I’ve heard it before?”
He sat again on the mattress edge beside her and embraced her tightly. “Because,” he told her, “the next part is new to you.” Richard’s skin was smooth in the darkness. Jemima was still clothed, but with her skirts now up around her waist, she felt as naked as he. One fur-trimmed sleeve had loosened and the stitching had unravelled, so that the heavy material wrapped around her arm, imprisoning her. Richard held her so tightly, it was another prison. A gaol of pleasure. Jemima kissed his neck and his eyes and the fingers that brushed against her cheek. He spoke very quietly and directly to her ear. “The chef’s daughter had a close friend named Sybilla, a young woman of some character, who was determined to discover the cause of the other girl’s sudden disappearance. Sybilla approached Alba, who was furious and threatened her, hoping to disguise her own guilt. Instead, this reaction made the girl suspicious, and Sybilla then questioned your father. He was puzzled, remembering the girl in question. Over the next days he followed the threads of the story and after hearing that none of his servants had ever seen the wretched girl leave his premises, he finally searched the house. He noticed that the trapdoor to the attic was a little awry and he climbed up to check. Finding both dismal corpses, he then spoke to Alba, who confessed, since she had small opportunity to deny it. Your father threw her from the premises, but the second girl’s friend persisted with her investigation and eventually told Edward that she would go immediately to the sheriff if he did not tell her the truth.”
Jemima was crying. “You mean Papa killed her? The last poor girl in the attic was murdered by my own father.”
“Are you sorry I told you?” Richard asked her.
Jemima whispered, “I can’t breathe. I can’t think.”
“Perhaps you already suspected a little of this.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure.” She snuggled tightly as if afraid to face anything alone. Then she said, “Can I ever forgive him?”
“In time, I imagine,” Richard told her, “since forgiveness helps both the forgiven and the forgiver. But tomorrow I shall take you to my own house in Holborn. We’ll stay there a few days to recover from the rushed journey here from Wiltshire, and prepare for our return. There are a few small legal matters yet to be arranged. Then I’ll take you home to the country, my adorable beloved, and make you my wife.”
“My love.” Jemima gazed up at him as his fingers slipped below the blue hems of her skirts, and she shivered with the small coolness over her belly and legs. “Must you tell anyone else the truth about Papa? Can we keep it secret? Or is that wrong? Am I simply a coward?” The tingle had become a rush and she was dizzy with it.
But he answered her without pausing. “I’ve no need to tell a soul, little one, since the story is not mine to tell. I shall keep your secret, even from Socrates.”
Not sure if she was crying and not sure even if she was thinking straight, Jemima huddled like a frightened kitten, moving away from Richard’s caresses. “My own father. My laughing Papa, who kissed me and told me he loved me. And Alba, whom I loved nearly as much, and thought of as my mother. Killers. Murderers.”
“Their guilt is not your guilt.” Richard lifted her chin, looking deep into her eyes. “I shall kiss the memories away each night and every morning.”
But she shook her head and sniffed into the tangle of her hair. “My horrid cousin Cuthbert tried to steal my h
ome from me. Papa used to despise him. Yet now finding Cuthbert is as much a thief as he is, Papa is accepting him as a friend.” And she burst loudly into sobs. Richard smiled, and offered a kerchief.
“The world thieves, and the world kills. Our precious sovereign is a bastard who slaughters at will. Hush, little one, and forget the wickedness around us. I swear I shall make you happy from now on.”
She heard his voice like the echo of the shadows, but could not smile. The moon had dipped behind the clouds and even its slender sickle had blinked out. With the bedcurtains pulled snug around them, they lay in black warmth. Even the depth of darkness was a dazzle. Small voiced, she mumbled, “I just want to forget about everything. I never want to see Papa again.”
Tracing the narrow curve of her hip, fingers gentle, he said, “Then think not on him, little one, nor on any of the bitterness of life and the hatreds of kings and other men. We have each other, and the love we share. This is, after all, the greatest adventure.”
Dear Reader,
You have now completed the Mystery journey (or at least, if you have gone through this series). So where do I turn to next? I hear you say. I have a Time Travel fantasy book, which I think you’ll love.
What? You don’t like fantasy or time travel? But that is exactly what you have just been reading, although you have been the traveller. Now you can go back even further with Molly in ‘Fair Weather’…
As a professional author, Molly spends her days escaping into other people’s realities. So it is no surprise that she does the same in her recurring dreams.
But In her dreams, she sees into a medieval past. If she doesn’t take control, she'll never see her future.
Take another trip with me in this fascinating Gothic tale of mystery. Fair Weather
And do remember that when a reader leaves a review, an Author Angel gets their wings!
About the Author
My passion is for late English medieval history and this forms the background for my historical fiction. I also have a love of fantasy and the wild freedom of the imagination, with its haunting threads of sadness and the exploration of evil. Although all my books have romantic undertones, I would not class them purely as romances. We all wish to enjoy some romance in our lives, there is also a yearning for adventure, mystery, suspense, friendship and spontaneous experience. My books include all of this and more, but my greatest loves are the beauty of the written word, and the utter fascination of good characterisation. Bringing my characters to life is my principal aim.
For more information on this and other books, or to subscribe for updates, new releases and free downloads, please visit barbaragaskelldenvil.com
Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Historical Mysteries Collection
Blessop’s Wife
Satin Cinnabar
The Flame Eater
Sumerford’s Autumn
The Deception of Consequences
The Stars and a Wind Trilogy
A White Horizon
The Wind from the North
The Singing Star
Box Set
Crime Mysteries
Between
Time Travel Mysteries
Fair Weather
Future Tense
Children’s Bannister’s Muster Time Travel Series
Snap
Snakes & Ladders
Blind Man’s Buff
Dominoes
Leapfrog
Hide & Seek
The Deception of Consequences Page 48