Geoffrey Condit (12 page)

    “Mildly infuriated,” he said.  “You had me worried out of my head when I discovered you at the Green Tower.  That was madness.”

    “Are you going to forbid me to do such a thing again?”

    Peter couldn’t help smiling.  Exasperating, interesting woman.  What did I do before you came?  “Lady Trobridge, you’re not a child.  You’re my wife.  Lord and Lady Trobridge work together.  How can I forbid you?  What I’m doing is pleading for common sense, and a joint interest in our survival.”  He put out his hand.

    “Let’s put away our differences,” she said, reaching for him.  “Enough for one night.”  When their hands touched, he felt her warm increased energy.  He took a deep breath.

    “I know,”  she whispered.  “You’re hurt.  But with care, we can create a spring thunderstorm of sorts.”

    He smiled, and used the music of his voice.  “And the droplets became a torrent, and the torrent a flood ... ”

    She put her fingers over his lips.  He kissed them.  She smiled.  So they came to each other without shame, or the baggage of unwanted ideas to cloud the mysteries of love.

7

Flickering torch light illuminated chain mail, surcoats, dark robes, and pleased faces.  A cool breeze washed across Catharine, refreshing her.  A retainer settled her Persian chain mail cloak over her miniver lined robe.  Excited, pleased from the good company and better food, she reined in her restive palfrey.  Horses stamped their feet, tails flipping.  Grey Harold whinnied, wrinkling lips over huge teeth, eyes wide.  Peter shortened his reins, and spoke softly.

    He turned to Catharine.  “We’ll meet you back at the Great House.”  He ran a hand over Grey Harold’s neck.  “I’ll take Mark, John, and Richard.  James and the others will see you and Bess safely back.  It shouldn’t take long.  The captain of the Endevour insisted on seeing me.”

    Catharine listened to the hooves of Peter’s horse and escort echo on the wet cobbled paving stones and fade into the dark evening.

    “Sir Edmund Shaa sets a fine table,”  Bess said, face flush.

    “Yes, I got the recipe for the woodcock’s sauce.  Would you believe it includes oranges?”  Catharine marveled.  “I’ve only seen one before tonight.”  She gave a low giggle of disbelief.

    “My lady?”

    Catharine looked over at James. “Yes?”

    The nervous squire stared around as though trying to pierce the dark beyond the torch light.  “We’d best be on our way, my lady.  London after dark is not safe.”

    They moved off, horse hooves hollow on the paving stones. Saddle leather creaked. Torches wavered, lighting only a few feet into the gathering gloom.

    James’ nervousness spread to Catharine.  Shadows jumped, and even the horses walked wide eyed and edgy.  They’d gone about four blocks when they slowly began to relax.  James made a joke, and they laughed.  Catharine’s throat, constricted and dry, made her laugh forced and harsh.

    The scramble of clicking nails on stone, low growls, and the heavy running bodies of dogs shied the horses ahead of her.  Two cats shrieked at each other beyond the light.  A cursing man hurled something banging into the dark.  The shrieking stopped with the scurrying of small bodies. “Night demons,” muttered one of the men and crossed himself.  Catharine’s hand stole to the jeweled cross at her throat.

    The acrid smell of horses, the stench of the street closed around them.  Two story houses and buildings revealed themselves, tall and menacing, alleys empty in the half-lit shadows.  Silent apparitions moved in candle lit windows.  Metal rang on metal setting their nerves on edge.  Animals grumbled in their sleep.  Catharine wished herself at Trevor House.

     Without warning two crossbows whined. One retainer slumped in the saddle ahead of Catharine, and fell to the cobblestones.  Another man cursed holding his shoulder, torch falling hissing on the wet pavement.  His horse danced away from the sputtering flame.  Dark figures swarmed at them from the alley.  Catharine’s heart skipped a beat, and the terror began.

    James cursed and shouted.  “Harry, go for help!  Get rid of the torches.  Circle on the women! Now!”  Harry spurred his mount, racing into the night.  Torches flew into the darkness.  Sparks flew from clashing weapons.  Hoarse shouts echoed around them.  A dark figure reached for Catharine.  She slashed with her metal tipped whip.  A terrible scream shivered in the air.  The figure disappeared.

    A blow from behind stunned Catharine.  She slipped from the saddle, seeing violent moving shadows. Her left foot caught in the stirrup.  Twisting, she managed to free her foot.. The wet gritty road greeted her. She lay trying to make sense with what was happening.  Highway men.  Outlaws.

    “It’s done,”  a harsh male voice spoke,  “One man escaped.  He’s sure to raise the town watch.  Everyone is dead or unconscious.”

    A hard boot landed in Catharine’s stomach, sending the breath out of her.  “Lady Trobridge is dead,”  a rough masculine voice said.  Almost paralyzed from the stomach kick, she could only struggle to breathe.

    She heard Bess whimper.  “Oh, God. Noo. Nooo.”

   “Shut up, brat,”  the harsh voice said.  Bess’s loud sobbing subsided.

    Harsh light from new torches rent the night, hurting Catharine’s eyes where she lay bloody and crumpled on the rough cobblestones.  She fought a losing battle to rule her body.  Mother Mary, don’t let them see me alive.  They’ll take me too.  Her legs twitched.

    “We have Lady Bess Trevor,  Lord Trobridge’s niece.  She’s perfect for our needs.”  Carnahan.  The voice, directly over her, and familiar from a vow to a dying man, startle her.  Her body tightened like a steel spring.  A chill ran through her.

    “Too bad Trevor wasn’t here,”  the other man said.

    “Just as well.  I want to kill him in public.”  Carnahan’s voice held a gleeful anticipation.

    “He’s above your rank.”

    “A duel can be provoked.  Men who harbor grievances are emotional pawns.  With his lady dead, Lord Trobridge has plenty to grieve about.  Take the girl to Johnny’s.  She is not to be touched. The ransom will be royal.  The Trevor’s are worth a dozen crowns.”

    Catharine squinted through her scattered hair at two masked men armed with bloodied swords.  Between them, Bess stood bound and gagged, eyes wide with fear.  Catharine moved her fingers in tiny signal, and saw Bess respond with relief.

    A man ran up, panting.  “The town watch is coming,”  he got out.  “The people have raised the Hue and Cry.”

    “Break off.  Get out of here,”  Carnahan ordered.  The sound of running feet faded into the distance.

    Catharine felt cold on her head, and she knew it was an open wound.  The pounding in her head made it hard to concentrate, and her stomach began to feel nauseated.  But she held herself still.  Running feet and shouting men surrounded her in the dark.  A sputtering torch thrust close blinded her.

    “This one is alive,”  a concerned male voice said next to her.  “Fetch a leach.  Get the Sheriff.  This is a massacre.”  Catharine tried to rise, found dizziness taking her, and fainted.

    Catharine opened her eyes to Peter’s concerned face.  “Catharine, what happened?”

    “Highwaymen attacked us.”  She tried to sit up, but dizziness forced her to fall back amid the pillows.  “Jesus wept, they have Bess.  The one in-charge was Carnahan.   They want ransom.”

    “God’s Blood!  If Buckingham has a hand in this,  I’ll ...”

    “No.  Think, Peter.”  Catharine reached out her hand to catch his white shirt.  “The duke may not even be aware of what Carnahan is up to.  Carnahan swore he would give you all the pain he said you gave him the night you killed Castor Breckenridge.”

    Peter clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling.  “God, If he hurts her...”  He strangled on the words.  “Never did I think this would happen.”

    Catharine felt a terror grow within her.  Golden Bess with the laughing voice and twinkling eyes - in the hands of that mercenary.  “Surely someone will come forward with information about Bess.  This city is all eyes and ears.”

    “I hope we get the information in time.”

    “What do you mean?”  Catharine’s terror would not go away.

    “I can’t imagine Carnahan not hurting Bess if he thought he could damage me.  Carnahan practices pain like a religion.  We can only hope his appetite for money is greater than his desire to inflict pain.”  He dropped into a chair and rubbed his eyes.

    Catharine thought she’d never seen him look so tired.  “What about Sir James Caxton?”

    “His agents are scouring the city,”  Peter said, with a grimace.  “The Sheriff, the Lord Mayor, and our  people are out.”  He stood and began a forced pacing.

    “With all these people out, something will come to light.”  She tried to sound hopeful.

    “Thank you.  Perhaps.”  He stopped, facing her.  “Abby says you’ve a nasty gash, but you’ll  be as good as new.  Thank God.”

    “The Persian cloak saved me.  Now what?”

    “You heal.  We wait, and see what money can buy.   We’ll talk to every beggar and criminal in the city, and pay any price.  We may find something.”

    Catharine shivered.  The mixture of helpless rage and desire of revenge in Peter’s face turned her to a desperate prayer for resolution.  Mother Mary, where is she?  Keep Bess safe, and deliver her home without harm.  Where will his vengeance end?   At the end of rope executed for murder?   At sword’s point in a duel?  Mother Mary, help him see another way.  I do not want to lose him.  Keep them from all harm.   And then she surprised herself by realizing they were her family.  To keep them from all harm.

    Three tortured days passed.  Bess vanished as thoroughly as if she never existed.  Great fear pervaded the underworld of the city, and no amount of money or even rougher persuasions could pry open a single mouth.   All questions met excuses, denials, and schooled stares set with fear.  Peter slept only in forced snatches when exhaustion decreed he must.  Catharine watched him refuse food, and pace the bed chamber, oblivious to everything around him.  He would leave to tend to estate duties, and those dealing with his trading enterprises when his stewards required his attention.  

    “How long has Bess lived with you?”  Catharine asked on the third morning.  She sat before a warm fire in the first floor solar drinking catnip tea sweetened with honey.  The effects of her injury appeared gone.  Hair covered the wound. 

    Peter stopped his pacing.   “Since she was a baby.  My younger brother and his wife died of fevers two months after she was born.”

    “Then she is your daughter in every important way.”

    “Yes.  That is the truth of it.”  His eye lighted. “She has all the willful spunk and humor a father could want in a child.   Utterly delightful except when her mischief gets the better of her.  Once she disappeared into a mummer’s parade, and played tricks on me until I recognized her.”

    His impotent rage spilled.  “The Devil take Carnahan!  I’ll kill him if he harms a hair on her head.  God, that she’s in his power.”   He swallowed.  “I’m sorry.  I’m usually better self contained than that.”

    “The Devil take your self-containment.  It needs to spill lest the bile of rage makes you ill,”  she said, reaching for his hand, feeling the warm callused skin beneath her fingers.

    He raised her hand to his lips.  “I must go for a short time.  Caxton and the sheriff are meeting me in the Great Hall in a few minutes.”

    Agnes curtsied to Peter and waited for him to exit, then she stalked over to the blazing hearth.  “I know where Beth is located,”  she whispered.

    Catharine stood, knocking her comb in the floor rushes.  “Where?”  Mother Mary, you’ve answered my prayer.

    “A brothel called The Sow’s Ear.  Should I tell Lord Peter?”

    “No.”  Catharine was pleased with her strength and steadiness.  “He’d have armed horsemen surround the place.  Carnahan would kill Bess.  I think he’s more interested in revenge than living.  We’ll try another way.  Get me some servants clothes and a shawl for my head.  We’ll go ourselves.”

    Agnes stared at her in disbelief.  “This is utter madness, girl.  You ...”

    “I’ll brook no insolence from you, Agnes.  I know London.”

    The old woman scowled.  “You may know London, but ye be no obedient wife.”

    “Like you were with Jack?  By the Mass, you led him a merry chase, Mistress Scoville.”  Catharine felt the rush of blood to her face.

    “My husband and I enjoyed an exciting marriage before he fell at Tewkesbury.”  Agnes’ lips curled.  “Dying for what?”

    “How dare you.”  Catharine glared at the woman who’d wet nursed and raised her.

    “So other men might rise over their fellows by slaughter, and for what?”  Her lower lip trembled with anger.  “It made no difference to my dead Jack or to the ones that survived.”

    “If Lancaster had won, we’d be on our manor again.”

    “And Jack?”  The old eyes glittered with tears of resentment.  “My lady forgets the dead and poor are disinherited so matter who wins.”

    Catharine lowered her gaze.  “I know,” she said.  “So are we going to stand here and fight the past when we can go out and find my niece?  Get me some clothes.”

    “I will,”  Agnes grumbled, and stomped off muttering under her breath.

   “Who is this child?”  Catharine examined the filthy boy who grinned back with unabashed curiosity.

    “Who’s the wench?”  he drawled, wiping a runny nose on a mud colored sleeve.

    Agnes smiled without humor.  “Yer both impertinent creatures.  This is Lady Catharine.  She provides the money, so mind yer tongue, and be handy with the information.”  She raised her hand to cuff him, but he boy dodged out of reach.

    “As you say, Mistress Scoville.  I truly will.  The girl you seek is inside the Sow’s Ear.”  His composure never wavered.

    “You will take us there?”  The boy’s confidence unnerved Catharine.  She wasn’t used to this type of bravado.  A street urchin used to living by his wits.