The Huntress (10 page)

Martin regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth, because Walsingham pounced upon the remark like a dog at a bone.

“
Ah!
So we come to the heart of the matter, the Lady Jane Danvers. She is reputed to be a lovely woman.”

Martin shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. “I reckon she is comely enough.”

“And a wealthy widow, still young enough to require a new husband in her bed.”

“I have no idea what the lady requires. I would hardly dare to raise my lowly gaze to the sister of a baron.”

“Oh, I think there is little you would not dare, Master Wolfe.”

Martin squirmed. Walsingham was said to have a gaze that could strip a man’s soul bare, and at the moment the secretary was peering uncomfortably close into Martin’s.

Of late, his thoughts
had
strayed to Lady Danvers more often than they should. She was a sweet, gentle woman, at times a little too solemn for Martin’s taste. But he could not help considering how marriage to the lady would advance his fortunes, and Jane would make a good mother for Meg.

Walsingham continued to regard Martin through narrowed eyes. The secretary knew how to wield silence like a weapon, often prodding another man into injudicious speech.

When Martin refused to be goaded, Walsingham continued, “We are living in a unique age here in England, when a man of ambition and abilities can rise far above what his father was. You strike me as such a man, Master Wolfe. You are also something far more dangerous.”

“And what would that be?”

“A man who acknowledges no master, no ties or loyalties to anyone.”

“How strange,” Martin drawled. “I had the peculiar impression that I was bound to your service, Mr. Secretary.”

“Certainly you take my coin and carry out the assignments I give, but I have never been fool enough to consider myself your master. After six months employing you, I know little more of you than I did at the outset.”

“I might say the same of you, sir,” Martin retorted. “You have the reputation of being a man who says little, but sees everything.”

“And you are a man who speaks much, but reveals nothing. I am not even entirely certain where your religious convictions lie.”

“I attend the Protestant services regularly every Sunday.”

“So do a great many men, if for no other reason than to avoid the fines imposed upon those who abstain.”

Martin smiled. “My relationship with the Almighty is fairly uncomplicated. When I was a boy, God spoke to me. He told me, ‘Martin, my lad, I have far more important things to worry about than you, so you had best look to yourself.’”

Walsingham gave a dry laugh, but Martin could tell he had offended the stern Puritan with his blasphemy. He became more serious as he added, “As for this conflict between Catholic and Protestant, I have seen firsthand the misery and suffering it causes. France has been torn apart for years by civil war—men, women, and children cruelly slaughtered. And all for what? I think your own queen put it best. Didn’t she say, ‘There is only one Jesus Christ; the rest is disputes over trifles.’? I tend to agree with her.”

“And yet you once served the Protestant king of Navarre,” Walsingham prodded.

“Because I genuinely liked the man and he made it worth my while to do so.”

“And that is exactly what concerns me about you. That your liking for Lord Oxbridge’s sister and her purse has led you to be less than zealous in your investigations of the baron.”

Martin vented an exasperated sigh. “Why you are so certain Oxbridge is inclined to treason?”

“I have outlined my reasons to you before. The Lamberts are one of the last great Catholic families from the north. They have an unfortunate history of rebellion against the crown. The present baron’s grandfather ended up with his head mounted upon the Tower. The father would likely have shared the same fate had he not tumbled from his horse and broken his own neck while fleeing from justice.”

“But you yourself just assured me it is a new age in England. That a man need not be what his father was.”

Walsingham looked nettled to have his own words turned against him. “I have other reasons as well. Oxbridge and his sister were fostered by the Earl of Shrewsbury when Sir Anthony Babington was a page in that household. They all lived under the same roof at the time when the earl had custody of the Queen of Scots.”

“Coincidence,” Martin scoffed. “Just because they were all known to one another in the past does not mean there is any present connection. I have seen nothing to suggest that either Lord Oxbridge or his sister—”

“Then I suggest you look more closely, sir,” Walsingham snapped. “Lest I be obliged to employ someone else to scrutinize the baron and your loyalties as well, Monsieur le Loup.”

Martin steeled himself not to show how badly such a threat shook him. “I shall do my best.”

“That is all I require. Now I am sure you are anxious to return to your daughter.” The secretary rose to walk Martin to the door. “And how fares young Margaret?”

“She does well,” Martin replied cautiously. He studied Walsingham, trying to perceive if any sort of threat lay behind the question.

But something had softened in Sir Francis’s usually cold eyes. “It has been six summers now since I lost my youngest daughter, my little Mary.

“She is with God now. Treasure your days with your daughter, Master Wolfe. Our children are often lent to us for all too brief a time. And in the end it is not kingdoms or power that matters. It is only God and family.”

The secretary spoke simply, no pious cant, but straight from the heart. And for a moment it was as though they were but two ordinary men, one father addressing another.

Then Walsingham’s mask settled back into place. “Do you plan to call upon Lord Oxbridge and his sister soon?”

Martin nodded reluctantly. “I have been favored by an invitation to a great banquet to be given at Strand House tomorrow eve. The queen herself is expected.”

“Not if I can dissuade her. Given all these plots swirling, it is hardly the best time for Her Majesty to be dining in the houses of known recusants.”

Walsingham rested his hand upon Martin’s shoulder. “Help me defeat this conspiracy against my queen and I will see you rewarded. A coat of arms and respectability can be bought. There is no need for you to court danger by wooing a woman whose family may be steeped in treason.

“Serve me well, and you may rise to great heights. But remember, it is possible to fall just as hard. Good night, sir.”

Martin had no difficulty perceiving the threat this time.

A
S SOON AS
W
OLFE HAD DEPARTED
, P
HELIPPES ENTERED
. T
HE
clerk jerked his head toward the door. “Do you entirely trust that Frenchman, sir?”

“As much as I trust any of you,” Walsingham replied. “I find there are very few men who don’t bear watching. How goes the translating?”

“Well enough. Or at least most of it.” Phelippes scratched his beard. “I was certain I had cracked the code, but part of this message reads so strangely, I am not certain this can be right.”

“I am sure it is. You are the best cryptographer I have ever employed. Who is the letter from?”

“It is from the Scottish queen’s factor in Paris, Thomas Morgan.”

Morgan had been acting on Mary’s behalf for years, working to gain her release and drum up support for a French invasion to free her and set her on the English throne. To retain good relations with England, the French king had finally been persuaded to arrest the man. But Henry III had been reluctant to hand Morgan over to the English government.

Morgan was locked up in the Bastille, but that certainly had not kept the man from continuing his activities on the captive queen’s behalf.

“What is it about Morgan’s letter that troubles you?” Walsingham asked.

“He recommends Babington to Mary as a man to be trusted.”

“All to the good.”

“But it is the rest that is so strange. Morgan feels all means should be tried to free the queen this time. Including witchcraft.”

“What!” Walsingham reached for the parchment and scanned Phelippes’s translation.

“And though Your Majesty is a woman of great piety, I must beg you to consider that even the forces of darkness might be harnessed for a holy cause. I have heard rumors of a powerful sorceress living in England whose skills might be channeled to your deliverance…”

Walsingham scowled with contempt. “It sounds as though Master Morgan has been incarcerated too long. His brain is going soft.”

“You place no credence in witchcraft?”

“If I believed in magic and superstition, I would be a papist. But much damage can be wielded by those who advocate such dangerous beliefs. We can ignore no threats, no matter how far-fetched.”

“What do you wish me to do then, sir?”

Walsingham massaged his temple, considering for a moment before ordering, “Seal up the letter and see that it reaches the Scottish queen along with the correspondence from the French ambassador. I will write to instruct our own agents in Paris to see if they can learn more about this witch. What is she called?”

Sir Francis took another glance at the translated parchment.

“The Silver Rose.”

Chapter Five

C
AT CURLED UP OUTSIDE
M
EG’S DOOR, THE MORNING LIGHT
soft upon her face, beguiling her into pleasant memories of booleying time. Pillowing her head upon her arm, she dreamed she was bedded down beneath a wickerwork shelter, drowsing upon a bed of moss and rushes. She could hear the lowing of the cattle in their summer pasture and the soft footfall of her gran fetching Cat a lovely breakfast of buttermilk and black bread.

It was not her grandmother’s melodic voice that awakened her, but an ear-splitting shriek like the cry of a banshee.

“Papist witch! Irish she-devil!”

Cat’s eyes flew wide. Her warrior’s instincts prompted her to roll just in time to avoid the heavy cane that threatened to crash down upon her skull. Scrambling to her feet, Cat found herself under siege. Not only from Agatha Butterydoor, but also from a scrawny housemaid armed with a broom.

Cat flung up her arms to shield herself from the blows. “What the devil! Are you insane, old woman? Stop that—ow!” Cat yelped as the cane cracked against her elbow. She twisted away from Agatha, caught the broom handle, and wrenched it away from the maid.

Gripping the broom with both hands, Cat wielded it like a staff, blocking Agatha’s wild swings. The terrified maid retreated behind the old woman’s black skirts and screeched at the top of her lungs.

“Will you quit?” Cat grated between thwacks. “And cease that caterwauling before you wake the little girl.”

Panting, her drooping bosom heaving, Agatha retreated a few steps down the corridor. “I pray my poppet can still be waked. What have you done to her, fiend?”

“Nothing, you old fool—”

“Maude! Run below stairs and fetch the master at once,” Agatha ordered the cowering housemaid, but it was an unnecessary command.

Martin le Loup came thundering up the stairs, sword drawn. Barefoot and bare-legged, he was clad only in a white shirt that came to mid-thigh. Wild-eyed with alarm, he looked very much like a man who had just been rudely startled from his sleep, his dark hair tousled about his bearded features.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he roared, “What’s happened? Is it Meg? Has someone—”

He broke off, coming to a halt at the top of the risers. He blinked as he took in the scene, his gaze first traveling over Cat clad in his clothes, and then flicking to the old woman with the sniveling housemaid clinging to her skirts.”

“What in thunder is going on?”

“Oh, master, I warned you!” Agatha cried. “That Irish witch was skulking up here—”

“I was doing no such thing, you silly wench,” Cat interrupted.

“Skulking and plotting to steal the silver and murder us all.”

“I was asleep, you damned fool—”

“—and I fear she already must have devoured the little mistress.” The old woman’s eyes glinted with tears. “Because she—”

“Oh, for the love of heaven! Woman, you have the wits of a flea.”

“Quiet!” Martin bellowed, glaring so fiercely even Cat felt compelled to subside. Raking his hand back through his unruly cap of hair, he stepped in between Cat and Mistress Butterydoor. He used the flat of his sword to force the old woman to lower her cane.

“Now will someone please explain—one of you at a time,” he added as both Cat and Agatha drew breath. “You first, Mistress Butterydoor.”

“Well, master, poor Maude was about her morning chores when she spied that nasty papist sprawled in front of Mistress Meg’s door. Gave the poor girl quite a turn it did and she ran immediately to fetch me. Only she could not find me all at once. I was out in the garden—”

“Yes, thank you.” Martin cut her off. “I am sure Mistress O’Hanlon has some reasonable explanation.” Despite his disheveled state, he was still able to arch his eyebrow in that cool, aggravating fashion.

“I already told you,” Cat growled. “I was sleeping.”

“And what was wrong with the bed I provided you?”

“Nothing, except it was too far away from Meg. I was doing what Ariane sent me here to do. Keeping watch over your daughter.”

He frowned in astonishment, rendered momentarily speechless. Cat took advantage of his silence to snarl at Agatha. “And I am no papist.”

“There, Mistress Butterydoor, you see—” Martin began, but Cat peered round him at the old woman, informing her with wicked relish.

“I was never baptized into any Christian faith. I follow the old ways, honoring only the good mother earth.”

Cat’s announcement sent both the old woman and the maid into fresh cries of horror. “A heathen! God save us all.”

Martin clutched his head and groaned as Meg’s bed-chamber door opened. Everyone froze as the girl took a tentative step into the corridor, her brow knit in consternation.

“Papa? What is everyone shouting about?”

“Nothing, Meggie.” Martin glanced down and flushed, for the first time seeming to notice his half-clad state. “It is only a small domestic disturbance. Papa will deal with it. You—you just stay in your room.”

He shooed Meg back into her chamber and closed the door, leaning up against it. As he did so, the neckline of his shirt pulled even farther open, revealing an expanse of hair-darkened chest.

Cat could not help staring, her gaze roving from that masculine chest on down to the taut calves and glimpse of muscular thigh. She realized she was not the only one gaping. Mistress Butterydoor gawked at her master, the little housemaid craning around the plump old woman for a better look.

Martin scowled and adjusted his shirt. He straightened away from the door with amazing dignity for a half-naked man being inspected by three women.

“Ladies, it is far too early in the morning for a man to be plagued with these hysterics. Maude, get back to your chores. Mistress Butterydoor, fetch Meg some bread and honey, and some hot water to bathe, now that you all have awakened the poor child.

“And
you—
” He leveled a dark look at Cat. “Come with me.”

Without waiting to see that she complied, Martin strode toward the stairs. The chastened housemaid mopped her tearstained cheeks, and even the sullen Agatha prepared to obey.

Cat was the only one who bridled, unaccustomed to being ordered about by any man. But she felt chagrined to be caught by Martin in the midst of such a ridiculous fray. Scornfully flinging the broom down in front of the quaking housemaid, Cat followed Martin down the stairs.

She stalked after him as best she could in the overlarge boots, grumbling, “I may be many things, Wolfe. But I am no man’s
domestic
disturbance.”

“What you are is pure chaos. A disaster waiting to happen.” Opening a door to the left of the stair, he jerked his head, indicating she should precede him inside.

Cat flounced past him into a small study, sparsely furnished, the walls dark with linenfold paneling. It was obviously where Martin had spent the rest of the night, a makeshift pallet of pillow and blankets piled before the hearth.

Martin closed the door and picked his way past the disordered pile of bedding to where he had abandoned his breeches.

Hopping upon one leg, he jammed the other into the dark woolen fabric. In all maidenly modesty, Cat supposed she should have averted her gaze. But it had been a long time since she had been a maiden.

She watched, obtaining a flash of flat hard buttocks as he eased the breeches over his hips. Only when he caught her staring at him did she reluctantly train her eyes elsewhere.

While Martin tucked his shirt around his privates and buttoned up the breeches, Cat studied the polished surface of the desk and the bookcase. The shelves were empty except for a few books that appeared to be gathering cobwebs. Cat hazarded a guess they had been left by the house’s previous tenant. Martin didn’t strike her as a man who gave himself over to study and quiet contemplation.

Curious about the titles of the abandoned books, Cat took a step in that direction, only to have her loose boot shift beneath her. She stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle.

“Damn!”

When Martin regarded her quizzically, she complained, “It’s these bloody boots of yours. They are too big. I’d have been better off going barefoot.”

“How remiss of me not to have my boots fashioned to fit your dainty feet,” he drawled. “Remind me to speak to my bootmaker about it.”

He flung himself down in the chair behind his desk and proceeded to don his stockings. “Would you care to tell me what the devil you were doing raiding my wardrobe in the first place?”

“You left me little choice. Not after you made off with my clothes.”

“I passed your things off to the laundry maid for washing and mending. If you had remained abed resting as you should have done, your lack of garb would not have been a problem. Er—would you mind?” He indicated another pair of boots lined up before the hearth, shabbier than the pair Cat had borrowed.

Cat gave him a disgruntled look, but stomped over to fetch them. As she lifted the well-worn boots, she noticed what appeared to be fresh mud caked on the heels. It was also splashed upon the hem of a cloak tossed carelessly over a stool. The same cloak he had worn when he had crept in to check upon Meg last night.

Cat frowned. The significance of Martin’s attire should have struck her much sooner. He had gone out after tucking Meg in. But what reason would a man have for venturing abroad at such a late hour in a dangerous city like London? Gaming? Carousing? Wenching?

Cat could easily imagine Martin engaging in such pastimes but for one thing—the tender, protective way she had seen him hover over his daughter. A rogue he might be, but Cat doubted Martin would have risked leaving Meg at night unless he had a compelling reason. But what the devil could it be?

“Uh—Mistress O’Hanlon? Cat?”

Martin’s voice jarred Cat from her contemplation of his boots. He addressed her, all silken politeness, “I am of course entirely at your leisure, milady. You may hand me the boots anytime you feel ready. But I beg you, before I age another day would be good.

“My sincerest thanks,” he said when she plunked the boots down in front of him.

Cat scowled. “My chieftain did not send me here to act as your valet.”

“Your chieftain?”

“Ariane. The lady honors me by considering me her gallowglass.”

Martin choked, struggling to hide his grin. He chuckled as he worked on his boot.

Cat clenched her hands into fists. “One of these days, Wolfe, your tendency to laugh at me is going to get your skull broke.”

“I wasn’t laughing at you. Only at the notion of the Lady of Faire Isle, the epitome of peace and feminine grace, being anyone’s chieftain and hiring an Irish mercenary.”

“I already told you. I serve the Lady for love, not money. And it has been a long time since there was peace to be had for the Lady or anyone else. These are dangerous days.”

“Yes, they are.” Martin’s smile faded. He finished donning his boots and then levered himself to his feet. “And in light of that, and as you appear to be fully recovered, you had best journey back to your chieftain with all haste.”

“I have no plans to be going anywhere without you and the girl.”

“I believe we settled this matter yesterday.”

“All that we settled was how stubborn you are. Until you change your mind about taking Meg to Faire Isle, I am staying right here to protect her.”

“Don’t think I am not grateful for your offer or the pleasure of your company. I have not enjoyed myself this much since my last bout of dysentery, but I think it best if you sail on the next tide, Mistress O’Hanlon.”

Cat folded her arms across her breasts. “No.”

“No?” His smile was soft as his voice, but his eyes glittered as he rounded the desk, prowling toward her.

Cat braced her legs apart, digging in her heels. “Don’t think to intimidate me. You tried that yesterday at the theater and you ended up on your arse with my sword at your throat. Oh, I suppose you could attempt to toss me out of your house and into the street. You and the half dozen other men you’d require. But I’ll only come back, camp on your doorstep if I have to.”

“God’s death, woman, I would not treat a dog with such discourtesy, let alone a friend of the Lady of Faire Isle. But there is no necessity for you to remain here.”

“Yes, there is if you persist with this folly of remaining in London. If the coven or the Dark Queen comes after Meg, you are going to need me. Who is there to help you look after her, that ignorant old woman with her cane? A housemaid with a broomstick? Whereas I, as you may have noticed, am a fair hand with a sword.”

“More than fair,” he surprised her by conceding.

“And I will guard your daughter as I would my own chieftain. I will defend Meg with my very life.”

Martin peered intently into her eyes. Something softened in his features as he brushed his fingertips over the bruise upon her brow, the place still a little tender.

“By God, I believe that you would,” he murmured. “But that is hardly to the point. You have not been beneath my roof for twenty-four hours and you’ve already set my household into an uproar, to say nothing of the fact that you’re wearing my breeches.”

“So send one of your servants to the Fighting Cock Inn to fetch my things. Then I’ll have my own breeches.”

“Actually, I sent Jem to do that yesterday evening.” Something about the way Martin avoided her gaze made Cat uneasy.

“Then where is my saddlebag?”

Martin grimaced and confessed, “Your belongings are gone.”

“What!” Cat’s heart lurched. “What the devil do you mean
gone
?”

“Someone appears to have made off with them.”

“Everything?”

“I am afraid so.”

“All my clothes? My jerkin and breeches and—and my boots?” Cat paced up and down, her anger and dismay increasing with every step. “My saddlebag and all of my coin? Except for what I took to pay my fare into the theater, I left the rest hidden inside my stocking.”

“That was hardly the best idea.”

“It seemed far safer than carrying it on me and running the risk of footpads or—or pickpockets.”

“Safer at the Fighting Cock?” Martin rolled his eyes. “It is not exactly the most reputable establishment.”