Geoffrey Condit (17 page)

    “You seem very sure of yourself.”

    “I cannot allow myself to think of failure, to consider his death.  Too many people depend on him.  Through my foolishness I brought him to this point.  He must not suffer for what he has not done.”  She stood, preparing to go.

    Caxton walked her to the front door of his manor house.  “I hope you find what you seek, Lady Catharine.  The world would be a poorer place without Peter Trevor.  Bring me the evidence, and I will act in the King’s name.”

10

Terrified, Catharine raised her voice to a high unnatural shrill, “God is good, Father.  I am pleased my donations help his children.  I will return tomorrow.  You’re kind to say masses for my late husbands.”   She caught her foot in the bulky red velvet skirt, struggling.  The heavy wired butterfly headdress nearly slipped over her eyes.  She shoved it back with ringed fingers, hoping Nesbit didn’t  see them shaking.  Mother Mary, I’ll be glad to be done with this.

    Robin Nesbit shifted the mass of angels and half-royals coins into the poor box at the church door.  Lips tight, he let his open impatience and anger into his voice.  “You are very generous, Mistress Kelforth.  The poor are ever in need of the care of the more fortunate.”  He held the front door open, and Catharine stepped out into the harsh sounds and pungent smells of the city.  The bustling carts, horses, and people moved like a restless serpent below them.

    “Until tomorrow then, Father Nesbit.”  Catharine turned and raising her skirts, tripped down the stairs, and climbed into a well-attended horse litter.  She knocked on the wall, shifting on the cushioned seat when the litter jerked into motion.

    She wiped the thick makeup from her nose, cheeks, and chin, and lips.  Then tugging off the massive black wig, she heaved a sigh of nervous laughter.  “God-a-mercy, if there is penitence to be paid, Robin Nesbit certainly gone the limit.  He’ll never be the same after the things I said about my husbands.”

    Anthony Will, opposite her, barely smiled.  “You’ve taken an awful risk, my lady.”  The horse litter swayed, and they hung onto the chair handles.  A servant apologized, and berated someone ahead of them.

    “We needed to keep Nesbit out of his chamber,”  Catharine said.  “What did you find out?”  The litter came to a halt, and a loud argument began among servants.  Catharine pounded on the roof again and the voices died.  The litter swayed forward once more.

    “Nesbit is a prolific forger,” he said.  “Miles Northrop, Caxton’s secretary, was astonished at the scope of the man’s operation.”

    “Good.  Did you find any papers dealing with Buckingham and Lady Stanley?”  Her fingers  crushed the wig.

    “No.  We’ve gone through about three-quarters of the material in the last two days.”

    “Then what we’re looking for could still be there.”  Catharine made a sharp movement.  “I’m finished as Mistress Kelforth.  Nesbit will become suspicious if I continue.”  They traveled in silence, the sounds of the city moving around them.

    When the servants set the litter down in the courtyard of Trevor House, Anthony cleared his voice. “Miles says we have enough evidence to have Nesbit arrested by the Sheriff.”

    “Not good,” Catharine said, gathering her disguises while a servant opened the door.

    “Why?”  Anthony stepped out, and held his hand to help her step down.

    She faced him, shaking out her skirts.  “Nesbit and the evidence would be put in the Tower.  Buckingham is in control there.  He and his papers would disappear.”

    “What else do you have in mind?”

    “Don’t look so uncomfortable, Anthony.”  Catharine grinned.  “I’m not about to invade Nesbit’s quarters and strangle the man.  But I do want him terrified into confessing with witnesses.  I want him to realize how cheap his life would be if he was placed in Buckingham’s control.  Nesbit has a lust of life.  That is our key.  I want him to believe his only chance is with Caxton and the King.”

    While servants led the horses and litter away, they started toward the manor house. “He’d face certain death either way,” objected Anthony.  “From the King’s justice or Buckingham.”

    “Not if we guaranteed he’d be turned over to the Ecclesiastical Courts.”  She handed the wig to a servant, and headed for the red brick enclosed gardens.

    He whistled thoughtfully.  “You’ve given this a great deal of attention as you did with Mr. Hatch and the Hanseatic League.”

    She sat on a marble bench by the rock lined pool, and patted the place next to her.  “I want to get Nesbit to Caxton’s house.  I want him caught red-handed, trembling with the evidence.”  She took a deep breath to control herself. “And I want him begging for his life.  I want to hear him babbling everything he knows, and everything he’s done for Buckingham and Lady Stanley.”  She looked down -  her hands were shaking.

    “And how do we accomplish this?” Anthony sat next to her.

    “Don’t be so tense, Anthony.”  Catharine smiled trying to disarm her serious steward.  “Let me do the tensing since I’m already doing it.“  She swallowed, hoping the plan she had in mind would work.

    “My lady, this would be the worst time for you to place yourself in jeopardy.  Your death or injury would weaken Lord Peter, and could lead to his death.  I beg you to think again.”

    “So you think Caxton could arrest Nesbit, and convince him of his error?  That wouldn’t work.  Nesbit needs his feathers ruffled, his emotions driven to a fever pitch.  He needs to see the abyss.”  She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, watching the rings work out from the center.  She could sense Anthony’s anxiety.  His fingers whitened on the marble seat.

    “You must at least let us take precautions, my lady.  For Lord Peter and the House.”

    Catharine bowed her head.  There was no other way.  “Agreed.  Bring yourself, Jacob and Hugh to dine with me this evening.  There we will plot what we must do.”

    The next morning, an hour after sunrise, the door to Nesbit’s chamber at St. Anne’s slammed open from the antechamber, leading into the church.  Catharine whirled from studying the papers on his desk.  “Sometimes God answers prayers.”  Nesbit chortled, face ugly with anger and pleasure.  “Welcome, Lady Trobridge.  Still meddling in other people’s business.  I shall put a stop to that permanently.”  His crooked black rimmed fingers reached for her touching her shoulder.

    Caught by surprise, Catharine recoiled, then bit his hand, and tasted blood.  Nesbit cursed, and leaped back.  “You little ... ”  He grabbed again and caught her by the hair.  She struck at his face with her left hand, and felt the crunch of nose cartilage under her wedding ring.  When he staggered back, blood spraying out of his nose, she grabbed the papers, and rushed out the door onto the street.

    The street bustled with humanity, the bright sunshine blinding.  Nesbit stood on the steps of the church, face splashed with blood, eyes searching.  Catharine ran, papers clutched in her hand.  Nesbit raced down the steps after her.

    I’m too close.  God-a-mercy, he’s going to catch me.  She darted out on Cheapside, heading west to Newgate, past the goldsmiths and jewelers.  Swift back glances showed an angry Nesbit hard on her heels.  Twice he reached for her and missed.  A third time, she felt her shawl stripped from her head, and several strands of hair went with it.

    She dodged through a herd of pigs.  They ran squealing, crashing into Nesbit, knocking his down.  He leaped to his feet, and continued after her.  She ran through a tangle of parked wagons, past a shop rich in jeweled caps, and colored feathers.

    Close to Newgate, she dashed inside a postern gate into a manor house courtyard.  Face lit with triumph, Nesbit was only two steps behind her.  His fingers grazed  the edge of the papers she held.  She threw herself to one side.  Seconds later Nesbit was slammed against the wall by capable hands.  She watched his amazed face when the gate shut, and an armed retainer rested his sword point against his throat.

    “What is the meaning of this?”  Nesbit sputtered.  “I am a priest, and nephew of Bishop Morton.  This woman is stealing from me.  The papers she has are mine.”  His indignant voice rang true.

    A grim middle-aged man, impeccably dressed, stepped forward.  “I’m Miles Northrop, steward of this manor.  You are quite sure these are your papers?”  He retrieved the fistful of papers from Catharine, who stood silent to one side.  A servant appeared and handed her a light shawl.  She accepted it gratefully, the air was chilly.

    “No question,” Nesbit said.  “She invaded my quarters, and stole my papers.”  The priest glared at Catharine, and pursed his lips.

    Northrop held up the papers.  “You keep copies of Crown documents?”

    Nesbit licked his lips.  “There must be some mistake.  I ... ”

    “Why didn’t you raise the Hue and Cry?”  Northrop arched his thick eyebrows.

    “I thought I could catch her.”

    “Forged Crown documents and no Hue and Cry.  You run an interesting business, sir.  Give me your name again?”  The sword point dropped to Nesbit’s belly.

    “Robin Nesbit,”  Nesbit replied.  The manor gate opened, and a cart rolled in piled high with papers.  Nesbit’s mouth fell open.  “I demand to see the sheriff, and to be turned over to the Lord Constable.”

    Coolly, Catharine said, “I don’t think you want that.  It’s most ill considered.”

    Nesbit hesitated, mouth working.  Finally he blurted, “What do you mean?”

    “Little people,”  Catharine said, “with dangerous big secrets tend to disappear when they become a threat to those who employ them.  You are a threat to the Duke of Buckingham and Lady Stanley.”

    Nesbit blustered.  “I demand to see my uncle.”

    “You think that Bishop Morton, a man suspected of treason by the King, will help you?  Little man, your life is in your hands.”  Catharine turned toward the manor house. “Bring him inside, Miles.”

    In short order the papers were sorted on top of trestle tables.  A stunned Nesbit was escorted the length of the tables to see  the extent  of the evidence.  “So I am brought to this.”  He grimaced.  “What do you intend?”

    “That depends on you.”  When Caxton entered, Nesbit swallowed, eyes large in recognition.  Caxton turned to Northrop. “Are there any papers dealing with Buckingham or Lady Stanley?”

    “No, sir.”  Miles brushed the papers.

    Caxton frowned and turned to Nesbit.  “Time to talk.”

    “Why talk?”  Nesbit shrugged.  “I’m a dead man.”

    Caxton eyed the priest.  “To clear your conscience.”

    Nesbit laughed. “Of course, my conscience.  I’d forgotten.  And when the rope is around my neck, what good will my conscience do me?”

    Caxton moved behind  his desk and sat down.  “There are lots of way to die, Nesbit.”

    “Meaning?”  A cornered Nesbit stared back with stricken eyes.

    “You can be drugged before you face the rope.”

    “But I’m still a dead man.”

    “True.  If we turn you over to Buckingham, he’ll kill you for your knowledge,”  Caxton said.  “If we turn you over to the sheriff, you’ll hang.  I can offer you an easier death.”

    Nesbit grinned, shakily.  “I’ll talk if you let me go.  I’ll tell you everything about Buckingham, and Lady Stanley.  Their clever meetings, and drooling avarice over Lord Trobridge’s wealth.”  The uncertain grin continued.  A fleck of foam touched the corner of his lips.  “All this for my life.  Every greedy deceitful detail.”

    “There is another way,”  Catharine said, frowning at the paper in her hand.  “We could turn him over to the Ecclesiastical Courts.  Bishop Morton might be useful in influencing the outcome of his trial.  Say get him confined to a monastery for life.”

    Nesbit blew out a sigh of pure relief.  “Jesus God,” he ejaculated.  “But I can’t talk.  They’d find and kill me.”

    “Care to speculate how long you’d live if we turned you over to His Grace of Buckingham?”  Catharine said.   “Butcher Carnahan  is in charge of pain and persuasion.”

    “You guarantee I’ll be turned over the Ecclesiastical Courts?”   Nesbit’s crooked fingers tipped together, speculating.

    “I can,”  Caxton said, distaste for the man evident in his eyes and tone.  “But it depends on every question answered, and how much we can verify.”

    Nesbit was shoved into a chair, and lashed immobile by two armed retainers.  His eyes rested bright on Caxton’s bearded face, and shifted to Catharine.  “You’ve bested me, Lady Trobridge.  What do you want to know?”

    He told a great deal, then waited.  Miles took notes.

    “You wrote these letters the Duke of Buckingham are using against Sir Peter Trevor, Lord Trobridge?”

    “Yes.”  Pride edged his voice.

     “Did the duke and lady Stanley know these letters were forgeries?”  Caxton’s bearded face darkened.

    “Yes.”  Nesbit began to naw at his lower lip with his teeth.

    “You did it for gold?”

    “Save your righteous indignation, Lord Caxton.  I’m beyond that.  Yes, for gold, but as much to see if I could do it.  I’m an artist.”  His dark eyes glittered, the defiant pride remained.

    “Who first approached you on this project?” Caxton asked.  Sunlight from the east facing window fell across his massive desk.  Miles Northrop wrote down everything being said.

    “Reginald Brey,  Lady Stanley’s steward, at Buckingham’s request.”

    Caxton stared at the ceiling, face pale.  “Did you ever see the duke holding the letters in question?”