Roland approached one of the barbican’s several guards. “We request entry to see a prisoner, Sir John Hamelin. I am Sir Roland St. Marten. With me are my squire, Timothy, and Lady Eloise, Sir John’s daughter.”
The sentry looked them over, his keen eyes alert and wary, judging their worthiness. They must have passed his inspection because he led them into the barbican.
“Weapons must be left here. You can collect them on your way out,” he stated.
Roland and Timothy both handed over daggers, which were placed on a table with others. If a coin changed hands with the daggers, Eloise didn’t see it happen.
The guard waved at another guard. “Visitors for Sir John Hamelin.”
And so they were given escort over to a gatehouse, its twin towers bragging a double portcullis and several arrow loops. Again Roland explained their presence and made introductions, only to be passed to another guard who escorted them over the second drawbridge to the first curtain wall and another twin-towered gatehouse, augmented with murder holes chiseled through the arch above.
The heavy defenses and number of guards brought into sharp focus that the Tower wasn’t merely a place to house highborn prisoners, but a fortress designed to protect the royal families of England. In times of unrest, in a residence within these walls, they could shelter and be assured of safety. Still, as Roland made his third explanation of their presence to a grizzled, narrow-eyed guard, Eloise fought the suffocating feeling of being trapped.
The guard scratched his chin. “Hamelin, eh? Seems to me I heard the name, but cannot quite recollect which tower—” This time Roland wasn’t subtle about passing a coin. “Ah, yes, the gent over in Baliol’s. I will take ye over to meet the warder myself.”
Eloise breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t following the guard to the White Tower and down into its dungeon.
Keeping pace, she leaned toward Roland. “Baliol sounds familiar. Why?”
“I assume you have heard of John Baliol, a Scottish king who tried to defy English rule. He was housed here for a time after his surrender.” Roland smiled slightly. “Apparently they gave his name to the tower where he stayed. One does not house a king, even a deposed king, in less than a comfortable chamber.”
Good news, except she didn’t like the implication.
“So they house my father in Baliol’s Tower because they believe him in league with the Scots.”
“Or someone paid well to have him put in the finest chamber available.”
“Lancaster?”
Roland merely shrugged a shoulder.
Baliol’s Tower turned out to be a round tower set into the far southeast corner of the inner curtain wall. The warder must have appreciated whatever Roland gave him because he bowed courteously after Roland, again, gave him their names and requested to see Sir John. Eloise wryly thought that by now everyone in the place must know who they were and why they were there—and had to admit that made sense given the nature of their visit.
The warder led them up the narrow, winding stairs, his ring of large keys jingling with each step. “I would wager his lordship will be pleased for the company. Ain’t had any other visitors as yet. He and his squire been playing a lot o’ chess to pass the time. Mind ye, curfew is at sunset. Ye’ll hear the bell.”
Eloise said a silent prayer of thanks. She’d worried about her father, of course, but also about Edgar. ’Struth, her father truly
could
have let her know of the squire’s whereabouts.
“We thank you for the warning,” Roland answered the warder for them both.
The warder pounded on the heavy door on the first landing. “Sir John! Ye got visitors! Yer lovely daughter is here.”
“What?” came a roar from inside. “Eloise?”
The warder looked apologetic, and probably didn’t understand her smile. For the first time since leaving Lelle-ford she was on solid footing. She well knew the difference between her father’s irritated bluster and his furious anger. Mere bluster she could deal with easily.
“Aye, ’tis me, Father. May I come in?”
“You had best let her in, Oswald, so the minx can explain what the devil brings her here!”
The warder set the key in the lock, gave it a twist, and pushed the squealing door open. Eloise charged in, barely noticing the opulence of the room. She made straight for her father, who was garbed in the same clothes in which she’d last seen him, his face set in stern lines.
Behind her she heard the snick of the latch, the heavy key locking the door.
Eloise knew shows of affection discomfited her father, but she wrapped her arms solidly around him anyway and buried her face in his shoulder. The embrace wasn’t so much for him as for her, and he’d put her through so much hell he would simply have to put up with her whim.
She damn near cried when his arms finally came around her, but knew better than to push her luck too far. Tears would only serve to make him angry.
“St. Marten. Have I you to thank for allowing my daughter out of Lelleford?”
“Nay, milord. She left on her own. I merely followed to ensure she did not get herself murdered on the road.”
Eloise ignored them both, easing away far enough to inspect her father. “You feel solid enough. Are you getting enough to eat?”
“I take it you did not hide away in a baggage cart.”
“Not this time. I stole your fastest palfrey. Are they treating you well here?”
“Ye gods, Eloise, that horse is barely broken to saddle. Have you no sense at all?”
He avoided answering every one of her questions, but she could see for herself he didn’t suffer overly so she let it pass.
“This tunic reeks. I brought you several, along with the money you asked for. Have you engaged legal help as yet?”
“Nay. That is part of the reason I needed coin.”
“Good. ’Tis an unnecessary expense. I also sent for Geoffrey. He should be here—”
“Eloise, I specifically told you—”
“I know what you said.” She tried to strike a balance between contrite and irritated. “I beg pardon, but I could no longer bear to do nothing after learning you had been put in the Tower. ’Struth, Father, your message could have been more revealing. I envisioned you in a loathsome dungeon, not in a grand chamber.” For the first time, Eloise looked around the room. With a large, velvet-draped bed and a hooded fireplace, the chamber was truly grand. Silver goblets and a gracefully carved chess set graced the table. She also saw Edgar in the corner of the room with Timothy. “And you said not a word about Edgar.”
Her father slumped into an ornate chair. “I had little time to write the message. No matter, you should not have come.”
“I was supposed to trust a messenger with a large sack of coin? I think not. ’Twas best to bring it myself.”
“I should thrash your backside for your disobedience.”
His bluster was giving out, and in its fading revealed his weariness.
“The warder says we do not have much time until curfew, so there isn’t enough time for a proper thrashing. Besides, you are not all that unhappy to see me.”
He reached out and took her hand, bringing a lump to her throat.
“I am most displeased you left Lelleford, make no mistake. ’Twas a rash thing to do. Perhaps I should be grateful you did not do something worse, like raise an army and storm the gates to effect my release.”
She had to smile at his exaggeration, tilted her head coyly. “Do you want me to?”
He laughed lightly. “Let us hope it does not come to that.” He released her hand. “Sit down before I change my mind about that thrashing.”
As she eased down into the other chair, he turned to Roland.
“I was told you were placed in charge of Lelleford. Why are you playing escort to my daughter instead of ensuring my holding is secure?”
Roland revealed his discomfort by rubbing the back of his neck. “Simon and Marcus are quite capable of securing Lelleford for the time I intended to be gone. I decided Eloise’s safety was the more urgent matter.”
Father glanced at her before he again spoke to Roland. “Could not convince her to go home, could you?”
“Father, you must not blame Roland. He thought it best—”
“Oh, but I do hold him at fault. And he can correct his error by seeing you safely home. Where is the coin I asked for?”
Damn. Well, she’d been prepared for him to order her home.
Roland handed over the pouch. “This is but a portion of what Eloise brought. A pouch three times this size is well hidden in the room we let.”
Incredulous, Father shook his head. “Three times?”
Eloise tossed a dismissive hand in the air. “You were not specific about the amount, and I did not know what you needed the money for. We will bring the rest on the morrow. You can keep what you believe you need and I will take the rest back with me.”
Except, if she had her way, she wasn’t going home for several days. True, she’d promised Roland she wouldn’t argue if her father pointed to the door and ordered her to leave immediately. That hadn’t happened, thank the Lord, and her father had unwittingly bought her some time. At least tomorrow. Maybe more. With luck, she would still be here to see Geoffrey.
Her father leaned back in his chair. “So, what happened after I left?”
Eloise launched into what Roland considered a very detailed account of tending Brother Walter and Kenworth’s eventual arrival, some of which he hadn’t heard from her side before.
Roland noticed she glazed over her ire at seeing
him
again, how pointedly she’d objected to his duty.
He could envision Eloise as she’d appeared that morning, gliding across the floor of the great hall, cool and serene, to greet an earl she already knew intended to arrest her father for treason. She’d given away not a hint of her upset over her father’s hasty escape from Lelleford. Even now only small traces of her fears underscored her tale.
She’d done much the same this morning, worn that regal expression through the city streets. Only he knew she’d lost a portion of her courage on the first drawbridge, revealed in the slightest tremble of her hand when she handed over the pouch.
He’d expected her to forge ahead on her own, deal with the guards. She could have done it, too, if she’d given herself a chance. What prompted her to give him the pouch he wasn’t sure, but he had to admit he was touched by the show of trust, not only then but when they hid the money under the floor.
Eloise could be reasonable, when she wanted to be, or when circumstances dictated that she must.
To Roland’s way of thinking, he’d done right to bring Eloise to London, for her sake as well as her father’s. The weariness in Sir John’s eyes boded ill for the older man. To face the days ahead he must be strong, healthy, and confident. Perhaps this visit from Eloise would bolster his will.
Roland also couldn’t miss the affection the two held for each other, despite the small skirmish of earlier. Today, and tomorrow, might be the last time she saw him alive if his trial went badly.
Inevitably, the curfew bell tolled. Eloise again hugged Sir John, who accepted it with more grace this time.
“We will be back tomorrow with the clothing and coin, and then you can tell me how you ended up here.”
“ ’Tis not a long tale.”
She shrugged. “All the same.”
The warder’s key sounded in the lock, and Eloise turned to Edgar to wrap a hug around the squire. “You look to be all right, too. Are you?”
“Right as rain, milady. You need not have worried over me.”
The door opened and the warder poked his head in. “Curfew. Ye’d best hurry before they close the gates.”
Roland ushered Eloise and Timothy out ahead of him.
“St. Marten.” Roland paused at Sir John’s soft call. “My thanks for looking after my daughter. Guard her close. London is not a safe place for her.”
With Sir John’s caution echoing in his head, Roland hurried them along the emptying streets, wanting to be back in the room well before full dark. He wished he’d brought his sword. Though he’d known all along London wasn’t a safe place for a woman alone, Sir John’s warning suggested a specific threat. From whom?
Roland’s thoughts arrowed in on Kenworth, the only formidable enemy of John Hamelin’s that he knew of.
They paused only twice along the way, once at the barbican to fetch the daggers—both of which were right where the guard had put them—and at a vendor to buy hot, fragrant meat pies for their supper.
Eloise was quiet, her cool expression firmly in place. Timothy, however, filled the void, describing to Eloise the significance of a few of the sights along the way. The lad loved London, its crowded lanes and bargaining with vendors, his vibrant pleasure making Eloise smile a time or two.
’Twas after one of those smiles, she said, “I take it you and Edgar had a nice talk.”
Timothy nodded. “I gave him Isolde’s message, told him what transpired at Lelleford. He was glad for the news. He also told me he has not been charged with any crime so he is free to come and go as he pleases, with the guard’s permission.”
That brought Eloise’s spirits up. “Truly?”
“Aye, milady. He chooses to stay with Sir John because that is where he feels his duty lies.”
She reached out and ruffled Timothy’s hair. “My thanks. The news does my heart good.”
When they reached the apothecary, Timothy took his meat pie and announced his intention to check on the horses, and possibly play dice with the stable lads after. Roland led the way up to the room, opening the door for Eloise to enter.
She slowly untied her cloak and tossed it on the bed, removed her boots. In hose-covered feet she padded over to the window.
’Twas light enough to make out the turrets of White Tower, but wouldn’t be for long.
Roland tossed his own cloak on the bed, placed the paper-wrapped meat pies on the small table, and lit the candle. When he turned back, she yet stared out the window, arms crossed over her middle, one hand pressed to her lips.
“Come eat before the pies get cold.”
“I cannot … yet.”
The hitch in her voice disturbed him.
“What is amiss?”
“Everything. Damn.”
She bowed her head, her hand covering her eyes. She took a very deep breath, fighting so hard not to cry and not quite succeeding.