Jayne Fresina (9 page)

She frowned. “No. He….” She stopped, leaning back. “Don’t touch me!”

“What happened to you, then?” he demanded, turning her face to the light. No longer grinning, he was deadly serious, as he examined the marks left by Lord Winton’s hand and the heavy ring on his finger.

She pushed him away, wincing as the effort caused another throbbing ache in her side. “Do you know the man of whom I speak or not? If you can’t help me, I waste time here with you. He mentioned your name and I…”

“Who are you?”

“Lucy,” she said simply. After all, she was not legally Collyer anymore and she couldn’t bear to say the name Winton.

He took her arm, drawing her away to a quieter corner of the parlor. “I might know this man of yours and I might not. What do you want with him?”

She wavered. What did she want with her mystery man? He was evidently poor, probably an indentured servant. He might even have a wife. She’d not considered that possibility until now. In all likelihood he wouldn’t welcome her reappearance, especially since she’d promised there would be no complications after their night together.

“Is he in trouble?” Captain Downing asked, eyeing her warily. “What has he done now, eh? Did he do that to you?” He gestured at her stiff, swollen cheek.

“Of course not!” Afraid she might burst into tears like a child, she turned her face away, swallowing.

She saw a flutter in her side vision and flinched, but he’d only raised his arm to signal for another tankard. “You look like you need a drink, young lady. Have this one on me. And if you tell me your troubles, I’ll do what I can to help. I don’t like to see a lady cry.”

Having thought she’d succeeded in holding them back, she was shocked to find her tears already spilled. Her bruised face was so numb she hadn’t felt them fall, but Nathaniel Downing wiped them away with his fingers. Irritated by her own weakness, she shook them off. “There’s no time to delay here,” she said. “Please take me out of Norwich now, Captain.” She showed him a bracelet of pearl and amethyst. “I will pay you for your trouble, but we must leave now, before curfew.”

* * * *

Captain Downing had a very understanding ear and, he readily confessed, a fondness for damsels in distress. When they stopped at a tavern on the road east, she finally lowered her defenses enough to tell him of the husband who’d struck her. Outraged, the captain was ready to return to Norwich at once, find Winton and beat him to a pulp, but she restrained him, both hands on his arm.

“No! I don’t want to go back there. I can’t. I just want to leave and forget. I want to go far, far away, where he can never find me.” She was not even certain if Winton was alive or dead. When she’d dragged his unconscious body up onto the bed and covered it, she’d thought she heard him breathing, but perhaps it had been merely her own gasps of exertion, for he was heavier than he looked, as well as stronger. She’d quickly extinguished all the candles and then sent the servant, who waited outside the door, for another bowl of water, claiming the first had spilled. She blamed her own clumsiness for the great clattering noise he must have heard. As soon as he left on this errand, she’d simply walked out of the bedchamber, and out of the house by the servants’ entrance. Most of the wedding guests had celebrated a little too heavily at the feast and were deeply asleep, or close to it. No one apprehended her and it might be some time before Winton was discovered.

If he were dead, she would be hanged. And the captain, so eager to defend her, had drunk rather too much ale, which, while granting him an overabundance of self-confidence, severely tested his balance, aim and eyesight. She didn’t want him embroiled in her troubles when he’d been so kind to her already. Fortunately, his desire to beat Lord Winton’s brains to a slurry could not compete with the need for more ale and she was able to distract him by ordering another jug.

“Perhaps, Captain,” she said, “you might tell me where I can find the man I seek. If you do know him.”

“Know him?” He blinked, swaying along the settle toward her and then away again. “Did he say I owe him money?”

“No. He thought you sent me to him, that you played a joke.”

The captain frowned. “Some men don’t know a good thing when it lands in their lap.” He smiled slowly. “Boy couldn’t get out of his own way. Too slow to catch cold, when it comes to women.”

“What boy?”

“One I knew once.” He lifted his hand to his waist. “So high. Little lad. Running in circles ’round the yard. Stark ruddy…” he burped, “…naked.” Clearly he was too soused to make any sense. He thrust a finger at the ceiling. “Name’s Harold. Aye, that’s it.”

“Harold?”

“No. No,” he chided her, “not the one who burned the cakes. Algernon. You know, old Algy with the squint. Breath like a rotting carcass. “

She was silent, lips pursed.

“Married the glassblower’s daughter from…Ipswich. Or was it St. Ives?” He stopped and looked at her cup. “Not drinking?”

“Thank you. I’m not thirsty.” Better keep her wits about her, she mused.

Watching the captain drain her cup, Lucy decided not to press him any further on the subject. After all, her mystery man wouldn’t want her turning up again in his life. This predicament wasn’t his problem, it was entirely her fault. She couldn’t make all this trouble and then run to him, like a feeble creature, hoping he might get her out of it.

But what could she do now? If she ran to her brother what would he do? Lance was employed as bodyguard to the Earl of Swafford and, as such, he traveled a great deal. He had no home of his own where she could stay and, if he tried to help her, it would only get him in trouble too.

Captain Downing exclaimed, “Best come with me, young lady. I’ll take care of you.” Perhaps reading the shadow of doubt on her face, he laughed, tweaking her chin playfully. “You’re too young for me, girl. You could be my daughter! No matter how tempting you find all this manhood before you, best put that out of your mind.”

Lucy made the decision to place herself in his care. What other choice did she have? If she wrote to her brother, he wouldn’t receive the letter until he returned to London, and who knew how long his journey might be delayed. Even then, once he knew what she’d done, how would he react? He had a tendency to believe men were always right and he might make her go back to their father’s house.

She’d made a scandalous mess of everything and it would be far better for all involved if she were never found again.

Chapter 7

July 1588

What items would an unmarried fellow of more than half a century in years, a man who spent most of his adult life at sea and never enjoyed more than the most transient of relationships with place or person, leave in the hands of his beloved cousin? This was the bemusing question on John’s mind as he tore open the seal on his cousin’s missive that morning and studied the uneven scrawl penned there. Captain Nathaniel Downing was not a great scribe, this being clear from his misspelled words, but his story might be told as much by what his list excluded, as what it contained.

One stool–two legs mended, third stuck in another place, but if that cheating fishmonger should ask, I deny all responsibility

Chest with lock–damaged by vengeful hussy

Pottery wine jugge–cracked, over my head by other vengeful hussy

Goose-down mattress–much abused, hey ho

Splendid Hat–chewed, straynes the rayne well enough

Best cloak trimmed with coney–ripped and stayned

Sundry pewter vessels–dinted

One brass pot–with hole, handle, none

Knyves–blunt

Turkish carpet–slightly worn

Goats two–ill-tempered unless fed timely

Wall tapisstry–moth-bit, good for spying through

Paire of very fine Italian leather boots–one half of, other lost over roof of the Pig and Whistle in the High Street

Comb of ivory–teeth, none

Friday winch–on loan, handle at own risk

Nathaniel had departed the shores of England to fight the Spanish Armada, and since he always assumed, each time he raised anchor, that he wouldn’t return in one piece, and as he was now getting on in years, having lived considerably longer than most folk thought he had any right, he left these sundry items in the charge of his cousin for safekeeping.

Or possibly for a good bonfire, as John commented dryly to his mother.

Reading down the list again, they were unsure as to the meaning of a Friday winch. No doubt it would be revealed in good time.

* * * *

Captain Downing had set sail the night before and she was supposed to have risen early to make a dawn exit before the landlord came for the rent. Sadly, she woke late and to the heralding barks of his bloodthirsty dogs in the hall.

Pounding his great stick so hard on the door of their lodgings that the boards rattled beneath her bare feet, the landlord paid no heed to her pleas for patience. The past-due rent might have been any amount more or less than a penny. It made no difference as she had no coin left whatsoever. Her jewelry was all pawned, except for a bracelet that once belonged to her mother, a pretty silver comb Lance gave her on her birthday and one half of an exquisite pair of pearl earbobs. These things were all she had left now of her family and she refused to give them up, however dire her circumstances.

“I come anon,” she yelled, hurriedly seeking her shoes under the bed, while the ill-tempered landlord thundered away at the door.

It wouldn’t hold much longer.

As well as her shoes, she grabbed the small wooden box in which she kept her remaining possessions, and then ran to the window, hitched herself up, swung her feet around and searched for a place to land.

Curious fortune was on her side, it seemed, for the dung-shoveler’s cart waited below. Had she been in any position to choose, she might have preferred soft hay or woolsacks, but dung would have to do in this desperate situation. At least it would be a soft landing. With one deep breath, she leapt.

A scant few seconds later, the cart pulled out of the inn yard, carrying Lucy, slightly bruised, breathless and homeless, but with limbs, neck and spirit quite unbroken. She asked the startled dung-shoveller to drop her at the Pig and Whistle Tavern in the High Street, for this was where the next stage of her life awaited. Hopefully she was not too late.

As it turned out,
he
was late.

* * * *

For half an hour, she waited among Captain Nathaniel Downing’s abandoned articles, left in the courtyard of the Pig and Whistle, slowly getting wetter, her temper piqued. Now, at last, here he came, the country cousin Nathaniel had promised would come for her.

He rode bareback astride a massive carthorse. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed two arms as thick as the hind quarters of the beast upon which he sat. His hair was dampened by the fine drizzle. The pace of his journey having rendered his skin much warmer than the air itself, a slight mist rose from his head and shoulders.

Trotting up to where she sat, her long-awaited rescuer squinted at her through the rain and said, “I’m John Carver. Who the devil are you? My cousin didn’t say anything about a wretched woman.”

His puzzled gaze inched over her in a methodical fashion, while she glared back at him.

And gleeful anticipation of rescue quickly turned to shock.

They’d met before.

Not that he would know it, thankfully.

Recently she’d dyed her hair with henna and indigo powders, but she’d already discovered a tendency for the color to run if she was caught out too long in the rain. Today she wore a linen cap over her bound hair and, because of the weather, she’d also raised the hood of her woolen mantle. She felt quite safe from any chance this man might recognize her. Nevertheless, her heart was beating too fast. Had Captain Downing known? He did have a slightly mischievous sense of humor and had been adamant she stay and wait for his cousin.

Her lips, formerly pressed tight, now snapped open in a gasp. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. Neither do I care.” He’d already formed an opinion of her, evidently. That flamboyant gown, low-cut bodice and frilly petticoats must have told him all he needed to know. Nathaniel’s taste in fashion ran to gaudy. Anything bright and lacy caught his eye and he would bring it home for his “ward.”

Panicking, fearing he might leave her there, she snatched Nathaniel’s letter from his hand, scanned it quickly and jabbed a gloved finger at the pertinent item on the list.

“Friday winch?” he read slowly.

“That’s me.”

His discerning gaze slowly swept upward again.

“He meant ‘wench,’” she explained wearily. “His penmanship leaves much to be desired.”

“Friday…wench?”

She nodded. “I’m Lucy Friday.” Nathaniel called her that because he found her on a Friday. Rather than elaborate further, she’d let him draw his own conclusions.

“What happened to the other days of the week? Or was it only Friday he had the strength?”

She remembered that impudent mouth all too well. “Why not ask your cousin?”

“He’s not here, is he?”

“Are we going to sit in the rain arguing? Or are you going to take me home?”

Still mounted, he eyed her stormily, one hand on his thigh. “Home? Where’s that, then?” The rain had dampened his shirt so that it clung to his shoulders and chest. She tried not to look, but as she’d seen it all before it seemed petty to resist. He was built like a solid oak, no part of him soft or under-used.

“Your home, of course,” she answered.

“Nah. You’re not coming with me. I haven’t time for all that jiggery pokery.” Inferring, in a sly manner, that he was much busier than Captain Downing and couldn’t be bothered with female company.

“He was once a merry rogue,” Nathaniel had said, somewhat scathingly, “but now he binds himself up with responsibilities and thinks himself above me.”

The memory flashed through her, startling, inconvenient and unpreventable as a chain of hiccups: the heat of her mystery man’s skin, the perspiration on his back, the ale on his lips, the stiff bristles of his cheek against hers and the hard lines of his chest under her hands.