Constant Heart (47 page)

I had closed my eyes to wish for sleep, but upon Joan’s pronouncement, they had flung themselves open. “If you go back, ’tis not as Joan Hybby. It is as the Countess of Lytham’s lady.”

She laughed, but the sound was tinged with derision. “I am no lady.”

“Perhaps not by birth—”

“Marget! Did you never wonder how my father kept hold of the Green Griffin Tavern when he could not keep hold of a penny?”

“Joan, do not—”

“Did you never wonder how he could operate selling watered beer and bowls of rotten stew for a half-penny?”

“I do not—”

“Nay. You have never wished to know, but I will tell you. ’Tis because he also sold poor Joan at a penny a feel.”

Nothing she said could have stunned me more. “I never knew it.”

“Nay. You never did. ’Tweren’t such a bad life. The boys we grew up with could never do me wrong. ’Twas the
gentle
men that came to town that used me bad. Like dirt under their feet. And still I might have stayed but for John Stump.”

“Of Fisherfleet.”

“Aye. That one. Being
paid
for what I did . . . well, that was one thing. But being expected to do it? That was another. I prayed to God that He would find me a way out of it, and He did: He rescued me through you.”

“If I had—”

“Do not pity me. I only say it for one reason: the man you have is a good one. There is not one like him among a hundred. I have only ever found one other.”

She had? Whom? And then I remembered the New Year’s Day at Holleystone. Had she and Falconer come to a sort of understanding? In fleeing to King’s Lynn had I taken her away from her only hope of happiness?

She clutched my arm with a vengeance, ridding my mind of all thoughts but the pain. “Marget, listen! Lytham loves you. If you let yourself be drawn from him on Lady de Winter’s advice, then you do not deserve him. And I will tell him that myself. I will not go any farther with you.”

“You have to come.”

“I do not. I break my contract with you, here and now.”

“You cannot break your contract! Not until Lady Day.”

“You break yours. Was it not you who stood in that church and took vows? Was it not you who pledged to the earl to be his wedded wife, to have and to hold, from that day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, to cherish, and to obey, till death you depart? If you can break your contract before death, then I can break mine before Lady Day. And I do. Now.”

“I did not know him then. I did not know myself.”

“Neither did you know me. Not truly. So for ignorance, I leave you.”

“Why did you never tell me, Joan? I could have . . . I might have . . .”

“I did not tell you because you could have done nothing. And if I did not tell you, I could pretend to be the person you thought me. I did not wish to lose your love.” She turned her back to me, pulling the coverlet with her. “Seems as if I was right to worry.”

I did not sleep that night. I thought of Joan. Of what she must have endured throughout our childhood. I thought of myself. Of Lytham. Of what choice love would make.

I had chosen sacrifice. But had I not chosen it for myself? Had I not made a choice so that I would not have to hear that same decision come from Lytham’s mouth? In making my choice, I had made myself out to be brave, stout-hearted, ever-faithful, a good wife. But had I not also chosen to protect my heart above all else?

Lytham himself might have asked me to return to King’s Lynn, but in hearing those words from his lips, I would gain only humiliation. In fact, I had chosen my pride over the possibility of humiliation. I had not chosen sacrifice at all. If I had taken an easy path, it was only to make the road easier for myself. Not for him.

I had been traveling like St. Paul on the road to Damascus. I had been bent on doing those I ought to love great harm. But now that the scales had fallen from my eyes, I could see. I could see that those who had commanded me, whom I had let command me, intended only great evil. But knowing it now, there was only one thing left for me to do.

55

M
y great joy on gaining Holleystone was soon turned into frustration. Marget had gone.

“Where?”

“I do not know, my lord.” The steward looked as if he would rather have been caught sleeping than be called to address me in my chamber.

“How could you not know?”

“She did not tell me, my lord.”

Odd. “Perhaps . . . did she go to visit a neighbor’s estate?”

“She spent three days in packing, my lord, and then when she left, she took Joan and two of your men.”

Three days? “Did she mean to join me in London?” But if that had been the case, then why had we not crossed in our journeys?

“I do not know.”

“Had she word from . . . East Anglia?”

“Nay, my lord.”

“Any visitors?”

“Only the Lady de Winter, my lord.”

The Lady de Winter? Then my plans had just been turned into one merry mess! “The Lady de Winter came and . . . ?”

“And then my lady began to pack, my lord.”

That witch had tried ever to part us. It seemed as if she may have succeeded. I would not leave for the Continent without Marget. And if I could not leave before the week’s end, then I was Towerbound. For all eternity.

“She left no word? None? No message? No missive?”

“Nay, my lord.”

I ransacked my room in spite of the steward’s words. And then I ransacked hers. I learned nothing but that she had left her best gowns, best ruffs, best gloves . . . best
everything
here at Holleystone. But she had taken that which mattered most: she had taken the coffer she had been given upon our betrothal, the astrolabe, and Nicholas’s sonnet. The one she swore I could have written.

If she took what she loved best, she did not mean to return in haste. And if she did not take clothes for court, it only meant one thing. She was headed for King’s Lynn. She was returning to her home.

But if I had not met her on the road, that meant she had not traveled through London. So which way had she gone? At this date, riding constant, switching horses, I might be able to overtake her. And if I did, there still might be time to make the ship. But how was I to know which way she had gone?

“Next time you decide to run away from home, could you not do it in the summer?”

“I do not intend for there to be a next time, Joan. The earl will take me to Polonia or he will leave me at Holleystone.
Together
you and I will do as he decides.”

“Now is not the time to become docile!” She pulled the hood of her cloak further over her head, but not before I saw her smile.

I followed her example. I had grown tired of the snowflakes’ game: first following the gusts of the wind down my neck and then melting to join the stream of drips cascading down my chest.

“Could we not find a place to stop?”

I dared to lift my head and gazed at the snow-covered fields around us. Tried to peer through the gray blanket the flakes had made of the sky. I thought I saw the blink of a light, but it was far off and bobbing like a ship through the driving snow. “I cannot even see! How can I find a place to stop?”

One of Lytham’s men suddenly appeared beside me, his cheeks flushed with cold. “My lady? The road will soon be covered. And then we will lose the way. There is a light ahead. We must find some place to stop or risk becoming lost.”

“Can we not go one more mile?” In fact, I was hoping for two. Now that we had turned our horses south toward home, toward Holleystone, I could not get there fast enough.

“We could, my lady, but then we might not live to see another. And we are far from any grand estate.” I heard the rebuke in his words. If I had allowed us to use proper roads, then we might not have found ourselves in such dire straits.

I consented to stop and soon the horses crunched up to the door of an inn. We must have been the only people foolish enough to have traveled that day, for we were their only customers. We were served some beer hardly worth drinking and some stew hardly worth swallowing, but a fire roared from the hearth and soon the meal had warmed our bellies.

Lytham’s men played at cards for a while and Joan and I played chess. But soon the snow-dampened dark and a day spent riding through the cold made my eyes grow heavy. The next morn we set out once more upon the road. It took some time and an enormous amount of energy for our horses to wade through the snow. The storm began again in earnest, and so we were only able to reach Ware that night. We took refuge at The Anchor Inn.

I had to travel light and fast. I chose Nicholas and two of my men to accompany me. We were joined at the stables by Falconer. But he was an unwanted guest. He barred the door, blocking us from leaving.

“I have no need of a bird, man!”

“If you search for the lady and find her, then what I search for will be found at her side.”

“I must travel fast.”

“And so must I.” He did not look as if he were planning to move.

“Who will take care of the birds?”

“You cannot think that I would not leave them without provision.”

He had better not. I ground my teeth and then nodded at Nicholas.

Nicholas ordered up a horse for the man. And then together the five of us rode back the way I had just come.

Knowing that Marget must have passed London already, I decided the quickest route was to head straight for the city and then turn north on the postal road toward Huntingdon. We made quick time in gaining London, but our pace slowed once we turned north when we rode into snow. By the time we reached Ware, our horses had grown weary.

“We will leave these horses in the city and exchange them for others.”

“We had better stop altogether, my lord.” I could barely hear Nicholas’s voice for the wind.

“We cannot stop.”

“We cannot proceed, my lord.”

“If we stop, then I might as well just offer myself up to the Keeper of the Tower this instant.”

“Better him than the Keeper of Hell, my lord.”

I paused. “Then where would you like to stop?”

He pushed back the hood of his cloak and looked round at the street we were on. “ ’Tis either The Anchor Inn or The Albion, my lord.”

I wanted a drink more than I wanted sleep. “The Albion.”

“As you wish.”

While the men saw to our horses, Nicholas and I warmed our boots and bellies beside the fire.

“Are you certain of this course, my lord?”

“Aye.”

“You are leaving the Queen, you are leaving the court, you are leaving . . . Holleystone.”

Holleystone. Though I had made my decision with much deliberation, it had not truly hit me until now. I was leaving behind everything. Everything I had ever wanted . . . everything I thought I had wanted.

“The Queen cannot live forever, my lord.”

“But then neither might I. And what sort of life would I have without Marget?”

The question was not asked of him, but he answered it with one of his own. “The marriage did not turn out as you feared, then, my lord?”

“Nay. It turned out much worse: I fell in love with her. As you might have predicted had you not wished to keep your position.” He hid a laugh with a cough. “But for that, I will ever praise God.”

“Amen and amen, my lord.”

I shifted positions to better warm myself. “There is one thing that lies heavy on my mind.”

“My lord?”

“The young William.”

“What of him, my lord?”

“I pray God might bless me with an heir, but Elinor’s lad might be my only hope. Have you found out anything of him? Does it go well with him?”

“As well as it can, my lord, for a young servant at a grand estate.”

I mulled over that thought as I gazed into the fire. Young servants were never treated very well. And Elinor’s brother had never been known for his patience. If God did not grant my prayer, then I would have need of this son. And would it not be better that he be raised where I could get to know the look of him? “Perhaps . . .”

“My lord?”

“Perhaps in the spring, once the weather opens the Channel once more, I might find myself in need of a squire.”