Kissed by Shadows (21 page)

As if aware that he was the focus of her thoughts, Lionel turned suddenly towards her. “What do you think of our
zarzuela,
Lady Nielson?” He indicated the bowl of fish stew before her. “You are not eating very much.”

“The flavors are most unusual,” she said, toying with her spoon.

He leaned closer and forked a piece of succulent eel from her bowl. “Try this?”

His plain gold signet ring glowed dully in the candlelight as he raised the laden fork. Almost absently Pippa realized as she took the offering that in general he wore very few jewels. Most unlike his Spanish friends, or even the majority of the English court. Tonight, for instance, he wore, apart from his signet ring, only one other piece.

She put the fork in her mouth, her gaze for the moment fixed to the strange serpent brooch of blackest jet that nestled in the ruff at his throat. He leaned forward to her bowl again and the candlelight caught the blue-white diamonds at the forked tips of the serpent's tongue. Two brilliant emeralds in the eye sockets blazed.

“A strange brooch,” Pippa said, aware of a thickening at the back of her throat.

“'Tis a family heirloom,” he replied. “I think
zarzuela
may not suit you tonight. I will carve you a little chicken? I believe 'tis cooked in almond milk. You might find it soothing to the stomach.” The prosaic statement was an acknowledgment of her moment of weakness. Once again she wondered how he could divine such moments in the very instant she was aware of them herself.

“Thank you.” She looked down as he placed a piece of white breast meat on her plate. “The brooch . . . did it belong to your father?”

“Yes,” he said. “And his father before him. Lord Robin, do you hunt?”

The conversation was turned but Pippa barely noticed. She was aware now only of an acute and unfocused unease. She could not take her eyes away from the sinuous jet-black shape, the diamond sparkle, the fire of emeralds at Lionel's throat.

Suddenly she had to get away, out of this house. She touched fingertips to her throat, aware of a mist of perspiration, a cold chill on her back. Her fingers quivered. Unease became panic. She fought it down, forced herself to keep her seat, toyed with the chicken, let the conversation flow around her, and slowly the terror faded.

“Pippa . . . Pippa, are you unwell?”

She became aware of Robin's insistent voice, and then of Lionel's hand warm over hers.

“I felt a little faint,” she said, withdrawing her hand swiftly and without knowing why. “Perhaps I should return to the palace.”

Dona Bernardina looked stricken at such an abrupt end to her elegant repast, and Pippa explained directly, “Dona Bernardina, forgive me, but I am with child, in the early months.”

She resisted a glance in Lionel's direction to gauge his reaction to her frankness, and was rewarded after a shocked instant by the duenna's response. “Don Ashton, my lord . . . pray take your wine into the parlor.” She waved her hands at them imperiously, sure of her ground here. This was women's territory and she had trodden it often with Dona Maria.

Meekly the two men took up their goblets and left.

Pippa endured the hand chafing, the fanning, the outpouring of sympathy and congratulation. An outpouring that came from the duenna not from Luisa, who could not imagine, after watching her mother endure one ill-fated pregnancy after another until she was worn to the bone, how anyone could empathize with Robin's sister's condition.

Pippa, strong again and as impatient now with Bernardina's attentions as she was with her own infuriating moments of weakness, rose from her chair. “You have been so kind, but I think I am best in my bed now, madam. . . . If a servant could be sent to summon my brother.”

She turned to Luisa as Bernardina, having rung a handbell with all the vigor of a fire alarm, hastened from the chamber when it was not immediately answered. “Luisa, I hope you will visit me in the palace one day. If Mr. Ashton can spare the time to bring you to see me.”

“Oh, that would be delightful.” Luisa met her gaze directly. “I would dearly love to be presented to the queen.”

Pippa grimaced. “Then you need someone other than myself. I am persona non grata with Queen Mary.”

“But why then is my guardian your friend?” The words fell from Luisa's lips before she had a minute to reflect.

“He is my brother's friend,” Pippa improvised. “I made a useful chaperone.” She watched Luisa and caught the blush. It was faint but there was no mistake. However, she had to applaud the girl's general composure.

“I am not averse to the role,” she said easily, aware but untroubled that she was trampling on Lionel's private daisy patch. Luisa would come to no harm with Robin, but there were predators and the most alert duenna could not compensate for a mentally absent guardian.

Not coincidentally it occurred to Pippa that she could repay some of Lionel's devotion to her own well-being by keeping an eye out for his ward's. It would be a pleasing quid pro quo.

A bustle in the doorway heralded the return of Lionel and Robin. “I have ordered my barge to take you back to Whitehall,” Lionel said.

Robin had Pippa's cloak over his arm. Immediately she felt a tension between the two men and guessed regretfully that they had passed an awkward time together. Robin had made no secret of his dislike and distrust of Lionel Ashton, both of which were based upon Lionel's Spanish affiliation, but Pippa had hoped that he was beginning to overcome his prejudice and see some of what she saw in the man. A fond hope it seemed at present.

Robin draped the cloak over Pippa's shoulders. She drew on her gloves. Robin made his bows to Dona Bernardina and Dona Luisa, who received hers with a tilt to her chin that threw back the green folds of her mantilla to reveal the dark coils of her hair.

Very pretty,
Pippa thought appreciatively. She put her hand on Don Ashton's proffered arm and they walked down the garden to the quay.

Lionel stepped into the barge and held up his hand for Pippa, who took it and stepped beside him. He squeezed her fingers, said quietly, “I will visit you tomorrow,” and returned to the quay.

“Lord Robin, I look forward to continuing our talk. The scarab is a fascinating creature.” His voice was soft and conversational. A smile flickered over his mouth, but his gray eyes were sharp and cold and calculating.

Robin felt as though they were reading his very soul. It took all his years of experience to keep his own expression bland, his own eyes calm. It was Ashton's second reference to the scarab. The first when they were alone in the parlor could have been accidental, the second was not. Robin's thoughts were in turmoil. Was Ashton attempting to ensnare him? Were the codes now known to the Spanish ambassador and his spies? If he showed any recognition, would he be betraying himself to Spain? And if the codes weren't known to Simon Renard then who and what exactly was Lionel Ashton?

“I daresay we shall meet at my sister's side, Mr. Ashton,” he said with a formal bow. “Since I assume you will be there in your position as jailer.”

“I would prefer not to call it that,” Lionel said with the same smile. But his eyes had not ceased their intense scrutiny. “Companion, perhaps?”

“Robin, it grows chill,” Pippa called from the barge, puzzled by this inaudible yet clearly strained conversation between the two men.

“I'm coming now.” Robin bowed to his host. “A most pleasant evening, Ashton. I thank you.”

“And I thank you.” Lionel returned the bow.

Robin joined Pippa. The boatmen pulled away from the quay and Pippa huddled into her cloak.

“What were you two talking about on the quay?”

“Nothing of any importance,” Robin replied. “Just the courtesies.”

Pippa looked at him closely in the swinging light from the cresset. “There seemed little of courtesy in your manner, at least to an observer.”

Robin stroked the silky plume of his hat that he now held in his lap. “I wonder if your friend is what he seems?” he said, watching her now as closely as she was watching him.

“Which of us is?” Pippa said without batting an eyelid. “I find myself questioning everyone these days. 'Tis too dangerous to be honest, Robin. We must all dissemble . . . adapt to whatever company we find ourselves in.”

Robin did not respond, merely sat staring over the black water, stroking the plume of his hat.

After a minute, Pippa said casually, “I invited Dona Luisa to visit me at Whitehall if her guardian would escort her.”

Robin turned to look at her. “Did you now.”

“You seemed to enjoy her company.”

He shrugged.

“You don't think she's too young for you?”

“Pippa, what nonsense is this?” he demanded, stung finally.

“Sauce for the gander,” she replied with a grin. “You questioned me about Lionel earlier, making all kind of assumptions. I am merely giving you your own again.”

Robin had been debating whether to let Pippa into his secret, but now decided irritably that she didn't deserve the confidence, however much it would amuse her. He would save it for some other time when he wasn't so preoccupied.

He went over in his mind the conversation with Ashton in the parlor. Looking for a topic of conversation he had commented on an unusual chess set where the ivory carved pieces were all insects. He had been fascinated by the queen, a wonderfully whimsical bee, and the king, a giant stag beetle. It was Ashton who had drawn his attention to the pawns, ordinary beetles to Robin's eye, but his host had described them with great deliberation as scarabs. Egyptian scarabs.

It was the one identifying word known only to Elizabeth's supporters. Or it had been. But now maybe it was known to the enemy, who could use it to identify traitors to the queen.

He had been very careful to show no reaction, Robin was sure of it. The answering identifier had not come close to his lips. But he needed to talk with de Noailles without delay. If there was a traitor in their midst then Elizabeth and Thomas Parry must be warned.

“Do you mind returning alone to the palace?” he asked abruptly.

“Why?” Pippa leaned forward, her eyes now serious, no hint of teasing in her manner. “Is something wrong?”

“I don't know. But I must talk with de Noailles. His water steps are before Whitehall. I would like to get out there.”

“Is this to do with this evening?” she pressed.

Robin hesitated. Pippa was as loyal to Elizabeth as anyone was, and had risked as much as anyone in that lady's cause, but now she was entangled in some way with Lionel Ashton. Now Robin didn't know what he could tell her.

“You think Lionel is not what he seems?” she prodded, still leaning forward with a penetrating gaze.

“I don't know. What do you think?”

Pippa sat back. Would she be betraying Lionel's confidence if she told Robin that Lionel himself had said he played a deep game?

She sighed. “I believe he is not what he seems. But I do not know what he is.”

Robin nodded. Whatever was between Pippa and Lionel Ashton, it had not affected her essential honesty. “That's where I stand too. But I need to talk to de Noailles without delay.”

“I believe Lionel can be trusted,” she said after a minute, her voice now very low. “But don't ask me why I believe that.”

“I must make up my own mind on that score,” Robin responded soberly.

“Yes,” Pippa agreed. “In that case I wonder if it would be wise to have Lionel's own boatmen leave you off at the French ambassador's water steps.”

Robin whistled through his teeth, cursing himself for such an elementary mistake. Lionel Ashton had thrown him completely off course with his scarab talk. “You're right. I'll take you to your bed, and make my own way after.”

Pippa sat in frowning silence for the remainder of the journey. It was unheard of for Robin to make such a tyro's error. Whatever had disturbed him about this evening must be very serious. It had certainly taken his mind off the fair Luisa.

Seventeen

Gabriel adjusted the leather strap around his neck. The lyre was heavy and the strap that held it was too tight, cutting into his shoulder. In his haste to make his rendezvous he had not taken the time to position it properly.

The evening star showed bright above the glistening gray river at the end of the lane. Gabriel hummed softly to himself, a melody that he had composed for Stuart. Tonight he would play it for him in the welcome anonymity of the tavern.

Stuart had agreed to spend tonight in the tavern instead of in the little chamber in the palace. Gabriel could not relax there. Even though Stuart had installed a strong lock and a heavy bar across the door he was jumpy and afraid, hearing footsteps in the corridor outside when there were none, imagining ears pressed to the door, eyes that could pierce the heavy oak. In the tavern there were no spies, everyone had their own secrets and kept them.

They would sup in the chamber under the eaves that Gabriel considered their very own. Unlike Stuart he did not allow himself to think of all the other couples who also used the chamber. He knew it troubled Stuart but for him it was an irrelevancy. There would be a fire in the grate, wine in the flask, wax candles in the sconces. And Gabriel would play the music of his soul.

Something struck him in the middle of his back. The melody died on his lips. He spun around, bewildered. A group of men stood about twenty feet from him. They stared at him with hard, red-rimmed eyes from beneath pulled-down caps. Their mouths were twisted, their faces rough. One of them raised a hand and a stone flew through the air, hitting Gabriel in the shoulder.

He cried out at the pain. A second man raised his hand; the stone this time hit Gabriel on the cheek. He felt warm blood trickle. But for a moment he could not move. He could not understand what was happening. Other men emerging from doorways and alleys along the lane converged on the group as if drawn by invisible string. They stared at Gabriel with the hungry eyes of a predator. Some bent to pick up stones from the muddy lane.

Another missile flew, striking Gabriel's lyre. He heard the gilded wood crack. And the sound brought him to his senses. He turned and ran. He knew there would be no help. This was London, where the mob ruled the streets. Even if one of the rare city watchmen happened upon the scene he would look the other way and hurry past lest he too become the focus of the rabble's violence.

Gabriel heard them behind him, a steady trot of booted feet on the cobbles. Another stone hit him in the back, winding him. He tripped, fell to his knees in a muddy puddle, and they were upon him. He covered his head with his hands and waited for the blows, but none came. Instead a low vicious chant of obscenity beat down upon him. In the vile language of the gutter they called him what he knew himself to be in their eyes, a perverted, unnatural beast. Someone bent over him, pushing him down onto his back. He spat into Gabriel's face.

Gabriel closed his eyes against the leering hateful faces staring down at him. The stale, fetid odor of their clothes and bodies and breath was overpowering. Gobbets of saliva soaked his face, spattered his clothes as they chanted their obscenities. A boot made contact with his ribs and as if from a great distance he heard himself moan. Now it would begin . . .

But it didn't. The chanting ceased. They still stood over him, but he felt them move back a little, giving him room. He could hear them breathing. He didn't dare to open his eyes and yet his body moved of its own accord, like an injured mouse who thinks the cat has forgotten about it and tries to crawl away.

He staggered to his feet, and they let him. He opened his eyes a slit, just enough to see how to push his way through them. And they let him go.

Once free he broke into a stumbling run. Behind him the chorus of obscenities began again, but his tormentors didn't follow him and the mocking chant faded away as he reached the end of the lane and turned the corner.

Two men in black cloaks, black caps pulled low over their foreheads, moved away from the upstairs window of a house that hung over the narrow lane.

“Good enough,” one of them observed.

“Aye,” agreed the other, picking up a pile of coins from the table. “Not a message to be ignored.” He returned to the window and leaned out. “Here,” he called down to the street, and dropped the coins in a shower of copper and silver.

The rabble fell upon them, and then upon each other. The man above shrugged and stepped away from the window. “Animals.”

“They have their uses,” his companion commented with an indifferent shrug of his own. “Let us make our report to Renard.”

Gabriel staggered in through the doorway of the Black Bear and fell to his knees in the passage. His body ached, a deep throbbing pain that was as much mental as physical. He was soiled with saliva and the filth of the kennel where he had fallen. His clothes were torn, his lyre cracked beyond repair. In his ears rang still the vile chanting of the mob.

But he was safe here. He would just rest here in the dim passage until he had the strength to climb the stairs to the chamber where Stuart would be waiting.

The landlord emerged from the taproom and nearly tripped over the huddled figure in the shadows. “Eh, what's this then? What d'ye think y'are doin' 'ere. Get out!” He raised a foot to kick the disreputable, filthy beggar back into the street.

“No . . . no . . . wait!” Gabriel straightened himself against the wall and the landlord recognized him.

He whistled. “What 'appened to you, sir?”

“An accident,” Gabriel said.

“I'll fetch Mr. Brown to ye.” The landlord hurried away upstairs in search of Stuart, who was known to him only as Mr. Brown.

Gabriel stood leaning against the wall. His face felt swollen and when he put his fingertips to it he felt the jagged edge of the cut crusted with blood. And then Stuart was beside him.

After one shocked oath, Stuart moved swiftly, issuing a stream of orders to the landlord as he helped Gabriel up the stairs. Hot water appeared, bandages, arnica and witch hazel. Within half an hour, Gabriel, his filthy garments consigned to the midden at the rear of the tavern, sat by the fire wrapped in a blanket, a tankard of mulled wine between his hands.

“Now tell me what happened,” Stuart pressed gently. Now that the urgency of action had passed he was filled with shock and horror at his lover's condition.

At the end of Gabriel's halting narrative, Stuart's shock and horror had yielded to a deep cold rage. He knew what this was about. He had been given a warning. There would be no reprieve. Regardless of Pippa's pregnancy, they still held him in a noose. He would not be permitted any leeway. Put a toe wrong, and Gabriel would suffer.

“I don't know how they could have known, Stuart,” Gabriel said, stretching his cold bare feet to the fire. “Those obscenities they screamed at me . . . how could street rabble have known what I am? Is it apparent just by looking at me?”

“No, of course not,” Stuart said, turning away to hide his expression. He poured more wine for himself. “You fell foul of a mob, love. They were looking for trouble and you came along. What they shouted meant nothing. It was just words to them.”

Gabriel bent down and picked up his lyre. “I was going to play for you tonight.” He plucked a string and the instrument's note was harsh and discordant.

“I will get you another, the finest lyre in London.” Stuart knelt down in front of him. He rested his head on Gabriel's knees and the musician stroked his hair with his long, delicate fingers.

He could not go on like this.
Stuart knew that he had reached the watershed. He had been a coward too long. He would find a way out of this . . . whatever it took to obtain their freedom, he would do it.

Antoine de Noailles regarded Robin with a considering frown. “We have to change the code,” he said. “We cannot wait to discover whether Ashton is with us or against us. You must go to Woodstock with the message. Go by Sir William of Thame and take it also to Sir William Stafford. They will know how to disseminate it from there. I will alert our people in London.”

“I will go as soon as may be,” Robin agreed. “But how are we to discover Ashton's purpose? You have heard nothing about him . . . about his inclinations?”

The ambassador shook his head, looking chagrined. “I would have sworn that if he was playing some deep game I would know of it. But I am not infallible, Robin. My network is not infallible.”

He pulled at his beard, wrinkling his nose. It had a rather comic effect but Robin, who would ordinarily have been amused, was not so now. “It pains me to admit it,” de Noailles said with a heavy sigh.

“I cannot imagine that Ashton could be one of Elizabeth's supporters,” Robin stated robustly. “He is so close to Philip and his advisors. He has a Spanish ward. He has been put in charge of my sister at Philip's behest.”

“Does Lady Pippa have an opinion on Mr. Ashton?”

It was Robin's turn to frown. “She appears to like him,” he said.

“That displeases you?”

“It troubles me.”

There was silence for a long moment as the ambassador absorbed the implications of this. “You think she may be in some danger?” he asked delicately.

“I don't know,” Robin replied. He didn't wish to talk about Pippa's private affairs or his concern for her with anyone. It smacked of disloyalty and gossip although he knew the ambassador had a purely business interest in the question.

The Frenchman accepted this without a murmur. He rose from his chair and went to the sideboard. “Wine?”

“Thank you.” Robin threw another log on the fire. It was late and he had roused de Noailles from his bed. He rubbed his eyes with a weary gesture and yawned.

“I will compose a letter for the Lady Elizabeth and change the identifying code word,” the ambassador said, handing Robin a goblet.

“Before you leave for Woodstock, talk with your sister. She is ever loyal to Elizabeth and I believe her to be a shrewd judge of character. Discover if she and Ashton ever talk politics. Perhaps he has revealed something of importance to her, but maybe she is unaware of its significance.”

“She told me that she believes he is not what he seems,” Robin said, gazing into the ruby contents of his goblet. “But she also said that she doesn't know what he is.”

“I see.” De Noailles shook his head. “Press her a little deeper. She must have some reason for believing that.”

“Aye,” Robin agreed. “She must have some reason.”

“In the meantime I will set my own people to looking more closely into Mr. Ashton's circumstances. We investigated when he arrived, of course, but no one knew anything of him. He had spent time in Flanders, was an intimate of Philip's, but appeared to have no history, no past that we could look into. He seemed to be exactly what he presented himself to be. A friend and ally of the Spaniards and a shrewdly clever arbitrator and mediator.”

Antoine sighed again in disgust. “We saw an opponent; we thought that by knowing him we had defanged him, and instead he turns out to be a damnably clever spy for the Spaniards, or a supporter of Elizabeth buried so deep no one could guess at his secret.”

He drained his goblet. “My masters will not be pleased.”

Robin made no comment. He knew that de Noailles was out of favor in France as well as at Mary's court. He hated England, this “nasty island” as he called it, and longed to return home. Pen's husband had hoped to succeed him as French ambassador to Mary's court, a position that would have brought his wife back close to her family, but the French king had not approved the transfer. Owen d'Arcy was too valuable in France, at least at present.

“Owen d'Arcy might be able to discover something,” he suggested on the thought. “He has men in Flanders as well as in Spain.”

The ambassador nodded slowly. Owen ran his spies rather differently from de Noailles, and was more prepared to get his own hands dirty in the pursuit of information.

“I do not know that we have the time to ask for the chevalier's assistance,” he said. “A message will take at least a week to reach him, then he will need time to make his own inquiries, and then another week to send us information.”

“Nevertheless, I think we should ask him,” Robin said. “We don't have to wait for his results, though. In the meantime, we do what we can here.”

Antoine sighed once more. “Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose you're right. But if I ask the chevalier's help it makes me look inefficient, incompetent.”

“There is no need for anyone to know that you sought his help,” Robin pointed out. “Owen is an old friend. He will do you a favor without broadcasting that you asked it.”

The ambassador considered this, then nodded again. “Yes, indeed. I will have a letter off to him on the morning's tide. Go you to your rest now, and as soon as you are able discover what you can from your sister, and then return here for the letters I would have you carry to Woodstock.”

Robin set down his goblet, stifling another yawn. “I'll gladly take my leave, sir, if you've no further need of me this night.”

Antoine waved him away with a friendly smile, and when the door had closed on his visitor he sat down at his writing table and sharpened his pens. He would get no sleep tonight.