Face Down among the Winchester Geese (6 page)

"Aye.” The twenty-fifth day of April. “What of it?"

"'Tis a date seared in my memory. Think, little one, was it exactly a year ago that the other woman died?"

"It could have been. I do not remember."

He stood and began to dress, his manner distracted and his movements erratic. When he was clothed save for his boots, he went to stand at the window and stare morosely down at the street. Petronella could feel his uncertainty from across the room as she began to struggle into her own clothing.

"You must tell me what troubles you. Diego.” She came up beside him and turned so that he could tie the laces that held her sleeves to her bodice.

When he had attended to her, Diego seated himself in the room's single chair, a sturdy box-seated, joined piece of furniture padded with a squab cushion. As he pulled on his high leather boots, he spoke without looking at her.

"I knew a woman once. Years ago, when King Philip shared this country's throne with Queen Mary. I was her first lover. Lora looked a good deal like you, with dark hair and dark eyes and pale skin. She was tiny, so small 1 could span her waist with my hands."

Petronella did not like this talk of another lover. She frowned into a small polished metal mirror on a stand as she used the reflection to adjust her neck ruff. “What happened to her?"

"She was murdered in Whitehall Palace. Her neck was broken.” Abruptly Diego stood. He stared hard at Petronella with his one good eye. The other was covered by a black velvet eye patch. “The murder took place on St. Mark's Day."

A chill passed through her. Two women. Both murdered on St. Mark's Day. And with Ambrosia, perhaps a third. “You think these women were slain by the same hand?"

"I think you believe it, do you not,
querida
? But if ‘tis true, then you are no longer in danger."

"Not for another year,” she whispered, following his logic. So much for her hope that he would make light of her fears.

He paused in the act of pushing a previously missed doublet button through its hole.” ‘Tis not your time yet, nor mine to lose you."

The comment increased her uneasiness, but piqued her curiosity. “Was the woman at court a whore?"

"She was a chamberer to the queen."

Another question occurred to her. “How could someone be killed at the royal court and no murderer caught?"

"There were reasons no one looked very diligently.” A long pause ensued. Then Diego seemed to speak more to himself than to her. “Lora's death changed me."

Petronella felt her uneasiness return, but she told herself that Diego's feelings for a long-dead woman were not her concern. And in her profession, she could not afford to feel any emotion, least of all jealousy. She had learned long ago that the only way a woman could gain control of her own destiny was to avoid becoming attached to any one man. Diego was the best of his kind, but he was naught but a paying customer. To allow herself to dream he could become anything beyond that was the worst kind of folly.

Sir Robert Appleton traveled by water downriver from Durham House, the Spanish ambassador's residence, to Blackfriars Stairs. Once a great friary, before King Henry dissolved all the religious houses, the enclosed precinct now housed tenements, private houses, and shops. Sir Walter Pendennis's lodgings were in what had once been the friars’ buttery. Robert entered from the former cloister, passing through a door near its north end, and climbed narrow stairs to the two upper rooms his old friend used when in London.

Pendennis sat at a writing table, reading what appeared to be a lengthy message. He glanced up when Robert entered, cast a speculative look his way, and went back to his task without speaking. Robert poured himself a cup of ale from the jug on the table by the window, then turned to study the other man.

Pendennis had a new hat, a fantastic creation of buff-colored doeskin slashed to reveal salmon-colored satin and decorated with a braid band and an embroidered badge. Robert was not close enough to see what design had been worked upon the latter, but he'd wager ‘twas both intricate and beautiful. His friend had a weakness for fancy clothes.

Before they'd embarked on their present employment, providing invaluable services to the queen, unfortunately for little reward, Robert Appleton and Walter Pendennis had been young men together in the household of John Dudley, the nobleman who'd eventually become duke of Northumberland, then been executed for treason because he'd tried to prevent Queen Mary from succeeding her brother Edward to the throne of England. Northumberland had meant to disinherit Elizabeth, too.

How would it have been if he'd succeeded? Robert often wondered. The duke had wanted to proclaim a royal cousin, the Lady Jane, queen in Mary's stead. Most conveniently, that young woman had been the wife of Lord Guildford Dudley, Northumberland's son. As king, he'd have advanced his friends, including Robert. Privy Council? The peerage?

Thwarted ambition made Robert bitter as he swallowed his drink. He studied. Pendennis again with a speculative gaze. It was not so easy to read him as it once had been, but Robert supposed that was true of most of them who'd survived. Pendennis. Himself. Francis Elliott. Peregrine Marsdon. And Lord Guildford's brother, Lord Robin.

Pendennis refolded the paper he'd been perusing and tipped back in his chair. “What brings you to Blackfriars at such an early hour?” he asked, blunt as always.

"Diane St. Cyr.” He knew her surname now, for all the good it did him. He also knew considerably more about her relationship with La Renaudie.

Pendennis did not blink.

"She said you were the one who told her where to find me."

"Aye. Yesterday. She came to me looking for you. A contact in Paris provided her with my direction. She would not say what she wanted, only that she preferred to deal with ... an old friend.” He looked wryly amused. “And find you she did, it would seem. What did she want?"

"Of that I am still uncertain. She spoke of her need for money. Asked for a loan, claiming to be destitute, though she had good clothing spilling out of the traveling trunk in her chamber and could afford to demand wax candles of the innkeeper. She hinted at wanting introductions at court, as if she sought a patron or a powerful lover."

"Did you oblige her?"

A double meaning there, Robert thought, but let the barb pass. “I promised to consider her request. In truth, I did wonder if she might be in England hoping to beg, borrow, or steal weapons for the Huguenot cause."

"Or money for the same?"

"Aye."

"I doubt we will ever know now.” Pendennis indicated the folded letter. “She is dead. Murdered. Her body was found just after dawn. Only a short time, I think, after you left her bed."

Robert threw himself into the Glastonbury chair that was the only truly comfortable piece of furniture in Pendennis's rooms. He did not like the sound of this. “Did anyone else know she'd come looking for me?” he asked.

"Francis Elliott was with me when she arrived,” Pendennis told him. “He offered to help her find lodgings. They left together."

"Elliott took her to an inn in Southwark?” Robert's surprise stemmed as much from the fact that Elliott had not seduced the woman himself, before he let her go in search of Robert, as from the location he'd chosen. Robert frowned. Perhaps Elliott had. In Northumberland's household, he'd always been a great favorite with the ladies.

"You forget,” Pendennis said, “Elliott's father lives in Bermondsey. He was on his way there, through Southwark. Why? Was the place not respectable?"

"Well enough, but perilous close to some of our old haunts. You remember the Sign of the Smock?"

"Long Nell's place?” A fond expression came into Pendennis's face.

They had nights in Southwark in common—Robert, Pendennis, Elliott, and Lord Robin Dudley. During that perilous time spent at the court of Mary Tudor, they'd visited many a brothel, together with other lusty courtiers, English and Spanish.

Did Diego Cordoba ever think back on those halcyon days? Robert wondered. He'd encountered the one-eyed Spaniard earlier, just leaving Durham House as Robert was arriving. Cordoba was his primary contact there.

"That was along time ago,” Pendennis said. “What concerns me now is Mistress St. Cyr. Her Majesty's government will wish to know why she was killed. And if her death will have any effect on English diplomacy in France."

"How do you know for certain she is the one who is dead? Who found her? And when? Who identified her?"

"The watch stumbled over the body. Your lady wife named and claimed it."

Robert had been prepared for the first announcement. The second both stunned and infuriated him.

"Susanna? God's teeth, how did she come into this?"

Pendennis explained, revealing that the letter he'd been reading when Robert arrived had come from Susanna. “After telling me all that transpired in Southwark since dawn, she asked me to locate you as quickly as possible."

Silently, Robert cursed, painfully aware that his carefully laid plans might be about to unravel.

"Lady Appleton told them the body was that of her cousin, Diane Leigh,” Pendennis continued. “She felt she could not let the woman be buried as a nameless prostitute. On the other hand, she supposed that knowledge of Diane's true identity might endanger some"—he glanced at the letter—"current enterprise concerning the safety of the realm."

"Susanna should not have involved herself,” Robert said through clenched teeth.

"It may prove fortunate she did. Mistress St. Cyr's death could cause trouble for us. I must ask you, do you know aught of her murder?"

To gain time, Robert refilled his cup, a large, two-handled container made of dark brown lead-glazed earthenware. He could scarce tell Pendennis the whole truth. He took another comforting sip of a particularly well brewed ale. Confessing where he'd been after he'd left Diane, even if he invented a convincing reason to explain his presence, could ruin everything. But how many lies could he reasonably expect to have believed?

Pendennis had concluded from Susanna's missive that Robert had not spent the night at home. No doubt he was outraged on her behalf. Pendennis had what was to Robert an inexplicable soft spot where Susanna was concerned. He even admired her intelligence.

Fool.

"I know no more than I have already told you,” he said.

"When did you leave Mistress St. Cyr?” Pendennis asked.

"Shortly before dawn."

"To go where?"

"Does it matter?” He leaned back against the linenfold paneling and met Pendennis's eyes. “The woman was still very much alive when I last saw her."

Pendennis was the first to look away, busying himself with the papers on his writing table. Robert drained his second cup of ale right down to the dregs.

It would be fatal to his plans to admit he'd gone to Durham House to attend mass as a means of ingratiating himself with the Spanish ambassador. Although it was legal to celebrate the Papist ceremony in the embassy, English citizens were expected to attend Anglican church services. Those caught hearing mass and convicted were fined one hundred marks for a first offense, four hundred for a second. For a third offense, a man's goods were confiscated and he was confined to prison for the rest of his life.

Even if he argued that he'd only gone to gather information, Robert knew his actions would be frowned upon by those in power. If they learned his real reasons, he'd be hanged, drawn, and quartered for a traitor.

No, he was not prepared to tell Pendennis where he had been, not even if remaining silent made him a suspect in Diane's murder.

His old friend regarded him with a sad-eyed stare.

"How did she die?” Robert returned his empty cup to the table and resisted the temptation to fill it again.

A guilty man would know the manner of Diane's death. His question might allay Pendennis's suspicions.

"I have no details beyond the fact that ‘twas clearly murder."

"It might be wise to confiscate her belongings. We may find answers there."

"Aye. As you say. And they may as well be delivered to Catte Street, since your lady wife had the body taken there."

"Shall we adjourn to Catte Street, then?"

A curt nod was his only answer.

Robert brooded while Pendennis gave orders to his servant, sending the fellow off to the Falcon Inn. Susanna might have done them a good turn, he conceded. In giving Diane an identity, she had hidden the fact that the dead woman was French. The local authorities would not pursue the matter. With luck, any lingering questions could be buried right along with the remains.

Lady Appleton had just finished washing the mysterious stranger's body with perfumed water and was wrapping it in a winding sheet when her husband and Sir Walter Pendennis arrived at the house in Catte Street, entering the great hall through the central opening in the floor-to-ceiling pierced wainscot screen.

That screen was supposed to block drafts from the street door. It did not, in Jennet's opinion, do a very good job. Then again, ‘twas not much of a great hall, nor was this simple dwelling the grand house she'd hoped to find when she'd been told they were going to London.

'Twas plain both men expected the sight that met their eyes. A temporary table, a board supported by trestles, had been set up so that Lady Appleton could prepare French Diane for burial. Would she be chested? Jennet wondered. Even a plain wooden coffin was costly, though she'd heard rumors that such things could be rented here in the city—used for the funeral service, then returned to the coffinmaker at graveside.

Why even bother with a funeral? She wondered who Lady Appleton thought would attend. No one knew this woman ... except Sir Robert.

Both men doffed their bonnets for a moment to show respect for the dead. They replaced them as they approached the table, faces solemn, to examine the body more closely.

When her mistress stood aside to let the two men look their fill, Jennet slipped into the background, blending with the shadows beneath the stairs, retreating to a position from which she could watch and listen without calling attention to herself.