The Tudor Vendetta (19 page)

Tomorrow, I vowed. Tomorrow, I would question every one of them. I would drag the truth out if I had to threaten them with the Tower, the rack, or the scaffold itself.

I would start with Agnes.

*   *   *

I slept poorly, in fits and starts. As soon as sullen sunlight leaked through the window, I rose, bathed hastily using freezing water—Agnes had indeed left a pitcher in the garderobe to substantiate her story, along with two candlesticks; she was not such a bad liar, after all—dressed, and went down to the hall to break my fast. I had no appetite, forcing myself to swallow the brown bread, goat cheese, and watery ale Mistress Harper served me in stolid silence, her movements deliberate, betraying she had indeed imbibed too much the night before. As she was clearing the table, I asked her if I might speak to Master Gomfrey.

“He went out with his lordship early,” she replied, her eyes averted. “They said they would be back soon, to take you to that place where Lady Parry and the tutor disappeared.”

They had risen before dawn. Why? To hide evidence, perhaps?

“Mistress Harper,” I said. She lowered her face farther, until her chins sank into her collar. “May I ask you if you know anything about the circumstances in which Lady Parry left this house? Was there any disturbance I should know about?”

“Disturbance?” she repeated, as if she failed to understand.

“Yes. Was there a quarrel or disagreement? I had understood she came here to tend to her ladyship and Master Henry, who had both taken ill. Clearly, the boy, at least, was not yet recovered when Lady Parry left, seeing as he died soon after. Why would she have departed with only Master Godwin as her companion, leaving behind a very sick child?”

“She … she insisted on it.” Mistress Harper glanced warily around us, as if unseen witnesses might lurk nearby. “She said that Her Majesty had urgent need of her and she had to go. There was no disagreement. Master Gomfrey did advise them both to wait until we could arrange a proper escort, but Lady Parry … she would not hear of it.”

It was difficult to tell if she was lying. Her explanation sounded rehearsed, as if she recited words she had taken pains to memorize, but by now my suspicions were at such a pitch, everything I heard would seem like a falsehood.

“You do realize,” I said, “that should I discover that anyone in this household seeks to obstruct my investigations or hide important information that could help locate Lady Parry, the queen herself could consider it an act of treason. And God forbid that Lady Parry should be found harmed: Her Majesty will impose severe punishment on all those involved, whether they were directly responsible or not.”

My threat sufficiently dismayed Mistress Harper for her to lose her color. Grabbing up her tray with the remains of my breakfast, she muttered, “I have told you what I know. I am the housekeeper. I do as told and stay clear of their lordships’ affairs. If there was any disturbance or disagreement, I am surely not aware of it.”

She hastened away to the kitchen, leaving me more frustrated and angry than before. Throwing on my cloak, I stormed from the house through the thinning scrim of fog to the stables, hoping Shelton had had better luck questioning Raff. I intended to put a few questions to the boy myself, but when I entered the stables I found the first stalls that held the Vaughan steeds were empty. Cinnabar whinnied as he heard my approach. I did not find Shelton where I expected, up and tending to our horses.

Panic flared. Yelling his name, I began to search every stall, narrowly avoiding an ill-tempered bite from Cerberus, who, like Cinnabar, was hungry and restless. I was about to rush back to the manor to shout everyone into the hall with threats when I suddenly espied him, lying faceup in a hay pile in a far corner near a heap of detritus: a stack of old apple barrels, broken crates, and a tangle of rusted, hanging hooks.

At first, I could not move. He must be dead. He was so still, he could not have been anything else. A wave of despair choked me as I willed myself to step toward him.

He had one arm flung over his brow, his battered face slack, his skin tinged with an awful grayish hue. His mouth under his beard was open; as I bent over him, a howl of grief clawing at my throat, I realized with a start that his chest rose and fell, so slight it was almost imperceptible.

He was breathing.

“Shelton!” I shook him by the shoulder. “Shelton, wake up!” I could smell ale on his breath; saw now at his side a tray with the gristle and bone of a capon and a jug, tipped over in a pool of liquid. “Shelton, damn you, wake up!”

He did not stir. Seizing the pitcher, I ran to the outside trough and raced back inside, dumped its entire contents over his miserable head.

He spluttered, the water hitting him in the face. As he groaned and tried to open his eyes, I said furiously, “You old fool! You drank yourself into a stupor. I’m supposed to rely on you to watch my back, and here you are, passed out with drink, when I need you to—”

I leapt back as, rolling to one side, he spewed a bellyfull of vomit.

He gasped, wiping the filth from his mouth and chin. With excruciating caution, he sat up, his head hanging between his knees as he coughed and dribbled spittle.

My outrage faded. He was sick. He must have somehow caught the fever that had sickened Lady Vaughan and her son—

Then he raised bleary eyes to me and croaked, “You need not call for an undertaker, lad. I am not dying. Not yet.” He licked his lips, staggering to his feet. “God’s teeth,” he said, swaying as he struggled to catch his bearings. “How do they brew their ale in these parts? I feel as if I’ve licked Satan’s arsehole.”

I eyed him. “You didn’t even finish it. Look: Half that jug has spilt.… The ale,” I whispered. As he blinked uncomprehendingly, I knelt by the pool of liquid under the jug, dipping my fingertip in the pool and bringing it to my nose. The smell hit me like a mallet: the distinct trace of almonds.

I wiped my hand on my breeches, plunged back in time to a chamber in Whitehall, where I held my dying squire in my arms and smelled the same sickly scent on the seal of a note he had inadvertently opened.

“You’ve been poisoned. This ale is tainted.”

He grunted, swerved back around to spew again. “Get me water. I need water.…”

I ran back out to the trough, rinsing the pitcher thoroughly several times before I returned with it full. He seized it, emptying water into his mouth and then doubling over to throw it all up. “You need a physic,” I said, even as I gripped my dagger’s hilt at my belt and felt the burning need to bury it into the heart of whoever had done this. More poison, just like the box sent to Elizabeth and the letter that killed Peregrine: The stranger stalking me had made his intent clear. He wanted me alone and cornered, at his mercy. He was nearby, watching us.

Shelton mumbled, “The last thing I need is a physic bleeding me with leeches,” and by sheer force of will, he lurched to the stall where Cerberus, sensing his master’s distress, tugged at his tether. “I’ll be fine,” he said as he comforted his steed. “Give me a few minutes to clear my head. It’s pounding like a thousand poleaxing imps.” He suddenly guffawed—a hoarse rattle. “I feel like I did when that mob in the Tower went over me with their pikes.”

“But, the poison: It could still be inside you—”

“Do not tell me what to do,” he snarled. “I am still your elder, boy. I told you to let me be a moment. Go see to your beast before he breaks down that stall gate.”

I knew better than to argue, slipping into Cinnabar’s stall to stroke his ears and neck until he settled down. His trough was almost empty. As I looked about for feed, it occurred to me that I had not seen Raff this morning.

“Where is the boy?” I asked. Shelton was murmuring to Cerberus and did not look up at me as he replied, “He never came back last night. I sat up, waiting for him until that capon went cold, but he never showed. He must have other places to sleep.”

“You did not see him all night?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Shelton pointed past the stall. “There’s a bag of feed over there and some sour apple rinds.”

The bag was only half full, the feed moldering, crawling with mites. “We should graze them,” I said, grimacing. “God save us, this is a horrid place. I cannot wait to get—”

The clatter of hooves outside interrupted me. I stalked out to find Lord Vaughan and Gomfrey seated on two mares with ribs poking under their hides. The horses here didn’t appear to be faring any better than the household; all of a sudden, my rage over the attempt on Shelton and certainty that I was being misled, coupled with my growing fear that the stranger could strike again at any moment, sharpened my voice. “My lord, this is an outrage!”

Lord Vaughan turned in his saddle with a startled expression. Before he could say a word, I strode up to him. “First, you ride out without waiting for me, though I specifically told you I wished to see the spot where the disappearances took place. Then I come to the stable to find my horses unfed and your idiot groom nowhere in sight. And to top matters off, my manservant almost—” I curbed my tongue, stopping myself as I remembered Agnes’s words.

They do not want you to know what goes on under this roof.

Lord Vaughan regarded me. In the daylight, he looked even more gaunt and hollow-eyed, his grief like a pall cast over him. I could not help but pity him. Yet as much as I wanted to believe that a man so broken by his son’s death would never countenance evil done against my servant or me, I could not trust him or anyone else in this manor.

“Well?” I stood with my hands on my hips, ignoring the granite-eyed steward staring at me from his lord’s side.

“I … I beg your forgiveness,” said Lord Vaughan, haltingly. “I tend to rise very early and thought it best to go with Gomfrey first, to ascertain the precise location where Lady Parry and Master Godwin vanished—or rather, where her horse was found. The first time I went with Her Majesty’s men, my son and wife were gravely ill; and I was not myself. I feared I might have forgotten. It’s not marked, you see.…”

His explanation faded into uncomfortable silence. He did not need to elaborate further. He had no doubt nursed a dependency for wine even before his son’s demise; with Henry now lying cold in the little mausoleum, he was drowning himself in it.

I understood grief. I had nearly lost my own reason because of it. Softening my voice, I asked, “Did you find it?”

He nodded. “It is closer than I first thought; less than an hour’s ride. I came to fetch you.”

I gave terse assent. “We ride alone. Have Gomfrey attend to my manservant, who’s taken ill.” Turning around, I marched into the stables to saddle Cinnabar. “You will not say a word,” I warned Shelton, where he stood clutching the side of a stall. “You must stay here and recover.”

Chapter Fifteen

Despite the circumstances, I was glad to have Lord Vaughan to myself. My own experience had taught me that sorrow can unlock our hearts, letting loose our deepest emotions—the hatred, fears, and regrets we hide even from ourselves.

I intended to use his grief against him. I had no compunction now, not after what had occurred. Someone in his household must know what had happened to Lady Parry. Agnes had accused all of them but I was not about to accept her word. I would question and eliminate them one by one, until I found my culprit. God help them if they tried to hide the truth from me.

The mastiff Bardolf loped behind us. I kept glancing over my shoulder at him, thinking such a large beast could not possibly keep up with us. But he was tireless; of all the animals in Vaughan Hall, he didn’t seem malnourished at all, muscles rippling under his gleaming black coat, ropes of saliva hanging from his jaws as he remained steadfast at our horses’ heels.

I would not wish to find myself in a confrontation with him.

As we rode through forlorn Withernsea onto the open road that stretched to York, I said abruptly, “How long is it since you and Lady Philippa were wed?”

He appeared startled by my question. “Philippa is my second wife. I was married once before, but she died of the Sweat in 1539. I wed Philippa three years later.”

Interesting. “Did you have a son before Henry?”

He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason. Only that Raff … well, I wonder why you employ him. Has he no family in the village, or is he a foundling you took in?”

He remained silent for such a long moment that I thought he would fail to answer. When he finally did, his voice was subdued. “Raff is my child, if that is what you imply. I made a mistake. One of our servant girls: a foolish indiscretion on my part. It meant nothing, only she got with child and abandoned him afterward. I had not the heart to send him away.”

“Yet your wife despises him. Surely, that must have caused conflict.”

He sighed. “It brought her no joy, but once she bore Henry, she tolerated Raff because we had a son of our own. Abigail, our second child, was born the following year.”

“How old was Henry?” I did not want to salt his wound but it was necessary. If I could break apart his grief, he might let slip what I needed to know. Of everyone in the Vaughan household, after Mistress Harper (whom I now suspected was terrified), Lord Vaughan seemed the most tenderhearted. No man who mourned as he did could be without a conscience.

“Seven.” His voice was almost inaudible. “He would have turned eight this year.”

I paused to do quick sums in my head. If he had married Philippa in forty-two and Henry had been seven when he’d died, it had taken her eight years to conceive—an inordinate delay for any marriage. If my estimation of Raff’s age was more or less correct, then he must have been born
after
she wed Lord Vaughan, but two or three years before she herself had a son. If it had taken her so long to get pregnant, might there have been another child in between, an infant son named Hugh who died? It would explain her hatred of her husband’s by-blow. Raff would have been a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity and her loss.

Without warning he said, “I don’t understand why you’re asking me this. Surely my marriage and failure as a husband are irrelevant to the task at hand?”