So Worthy My Love (10 page)

T
HE SHROUD OF NIGHT
still hung over the river as the craft slipped into the currents flowing through London. Elise awoke from a fitful drowse and saw dark towers and buildings drifting by on either bank. The small boat lurched and swayed as Fitch leaned against the tiller, steering toward the darker shadows. Spence paused in reeling the sail and glanced down where his charge lay warm and snugly nestled in her bed of furs. He saw the faint glimmer of her eyes as they swept the riverbank.

“Stay where ye be, mistress. Make like a wee, small mouse wit' nary a sound from yer lips. I'll be layin' this pole”—he patted the short mast—“down in a bit, so be mindin' yer head.”

Sleepily Elise nodded assent and, as directed, avoided the lowering mast. Once all was secure, the men bent their backs and strained at the oars to row from shadow to shadow, much like a shadow themselves. A thin, ragged vapor drifted from the stills and backwaters along the river, partially obscuring their passage as they hugged the shoreline. With only the slow, rhythmic creak of the oars intruding upon the hushed stillness, they rowed past palaces both magnificent and declining. The slowly fading
beauty of the Savoy was masked by darkness, but no gloom could hide the splendor of the houses of Arundel and Leicester. Beyond the Middle and Inner Temples, the riverfront degenerated into rough timber structures and shabby wharves. Here the men dug the oars deep, slowing the cock until it bumped gently against a landing where crudely constructed stairs gave access to the river. Her curiosity aroused, Elise sat upright and experienced a foreboding of doom as she saw where they had halted. Beyond the wharf was an area
she had traversed in the guise of a homeless waif when she had gone in search of'her father. It seemed logical that she should be brought here, for Alsatia was a refuge for every sort of renegade, murderer, vagabond, or strumpet. By the Queen's own edict, it had become an area exempt from any law or official who might be wont to carry out justice here and, as a result, it offered a safe haven for her abductors. In Alsatia the pair would be among their own kind.

Spence stepped across to the landing and, beneath the light of a dim-lit lantern, secured the painter around a heavy piling. Fitch followed more clumsily and then turned to help their hostage from the craft, but Elise snatched away from his reaching hands and shook her head angrily. For the moment she had no choice but to resign herself to being their captive, but she would not be an accommodating one.

“I shall see to myself,” she hissed, keeping her voice low. She did not like being in this hellish place and knew the folly of arousing the curiosity of others perhaps more evil than the two she was with. When Fitch displayed his obstinance, she flared
back in a rasping whisper, “I've no intention of being rudely mauled while you carry me where I have no wish to go. For the moment I'm your captive, with little choice but to follow where you lead, but I'll take naught but your hand. That is all!”

Fitch set his arms akimbo, as if he would give her further argument, but her unrelenting look of defiance encouraged him to acquiesce and give only the assistance she asked for. Accepting his brawny hand, Elise caught up her skirts and leapt to the landing, taking care with her sore ankle. Spence kept a wary eye on her as he helped Fitch collect the supplies from the boat, but there was no need for caution. Elise had no intention of fleeing their custody while they were here in this foul place. Such an act would be tantamount to jumping from a boiling pot into the fire. Worse villains than Spence and Fitch roamed the shadows of this sin-bound district.

A bone-chilling dampness, imbued with musty odors, closed in about them in the form of an insidious fog. Elise shivered, feeling detached from reality by the dank, cloying vapors. She was totally at odds with her surroundings, and she found no security in the knowledge that not very far away, residenced in the old Whitefriars monastery, was the great vagrant army of the Beggar's Brotherhood. She had once dared enter its halls in her guise as a boy to make inquiries about her father, and there had found an odious order of diverse and devious artisans who were not above robbing graves or the gallows at Tyburn for their elaborate disguises. Among their members were the violent and thieving ex-soldier rufflers, the horse-thieving priggers, the
soap-frothing grantners, and the dummerers who mutely mouthed and feebly gestured for their coins but in the security of Whitefriars told riotously ribald tales and slapped their sturdy thighs in high glee. The most ingenious were the caperdudgeons who were known for their
outlandish trappings. The most frightening and grotesque sights she had ever witnessed was when one of these wretches strapped on a corpse's severed and shriveled limb so he could pose as a cripple. The sight had been enough to send her flying to a secluded spot where she had promptly relieved her nausea. Outside the city, the beggars traveled in groups of a hundred or more and were usually preceded by foreboding cries of “The beggars are coming! The beggars are coming!” Inside Alsatia one never heard the warnings nor really ever knew when it was safe to move about or what eyes might be watching from the shadows. Here roamed the dregs of society, and their hours were as varied as their crimes.

Seeming as nervous as she, the two men cast furtive glances along the riverbank before they hustled her up the stairs. Firm grasps on her elbow and skirt checked her flight and made her aware of their restraint as she was whisked down a series of narrow streets and passageways where the stench of offal nearly made her gag. She was taken through a maze of shabby buildings until they came to a tall, narrow, gable-roofed structure. A weatherworn sign hung above the doorway, identifying the place as the Red Friar's Inn.

They huddled in the deep gloom of the portal as Fitch peered up and down the street, then he raised
his knuckles to lightly rap upon the oaken plank. Silence answered him, and, nervously licking his lips, he rapped again, this time a hairbreadth louder. Finally a voice from within gave response before hurrying footsteps approached the door. After a rattle of chains, a thump of a bar, and aloud creak of rusty hinges, the panel moved inward a slight degree, allowing a dim sliver of light to escape. A woman's face appeared in the opening above a candle, and she looked them over with eyes that were still dull and puffed from sleep.

“At ye, Ramonda?” Fitch broached the inquiry guardedly.

The woman's stare moved from the man to slowly rake Elise. A lopsided, somewhat sardonic smile displayed brackish teeth, then her slitted eyes cut back to Fitch. “Aye, I remembers ye alright. Ye were the ones what brought ‘is lor'ship ta me.”

“Aye, ‘at we did.” Fitch cast a wary glance over his shoulder before he pressed closer to the door. “The master said ye'd give us shelter.”

The portal swung wider, making loud protest in the still night, and Ramonda motioned them in. “Come in ‘fore ye're seen.”

Fitch tugged on the woolen cloak he grasped and received an unappreciative glare from his captive. “Come now, mistress,” he coaxed pleadingly, anxious for her to obey without creating a scene. He was no more at home in this place than she was. “ ‘Ere be vittles inside an' a place where ye can rest for a spell.”

Flanked by the two hefty bodies, it was clear to Elise that she had no other choice. Holding the
cloak tightly about her, she stepped through the narrow doorway and could hardly dismiss the close proximity of the men as they shuffled in behind her, nearly trodding on her heels in their haste. When they all were safely ensconced inside, the portal was slammed and bolted behind them to a duet of relieved sighs.

“No need for ye ta fret yerselves.” Ramonda smirked as she handed a lighted taper to the taller man. “Ye're safe enough now.”

Fitch and Spence were none too sure. Beyond the pale circles of flickering candlelight the common room remained dark and obscure. They knew not what form could fly out at them from the shadows.

Dying embers still glowed in the hearth, awaiting another stirring to life at morningtide, while the stench of stale ale, peat smoke, and sweat seemed to hang close above their heads, held there by the low ceiling.

Elise felt Ramonda's close inspection and boldly returned the same with eyes that were cool and distrusting. Here was a third face she was determined to remember, if ever there came a time for justice. The woman's age was somewhere beyond a score and ten, but she was still a handsome woman though evidence of a hard life was beginning to show in her face. A large shawl had been thrown over her nightgown, but the wrap was nearly lost beneath the wildly tossed, flaming-red hair.

“Ye're a young one.” Ramonda voiced her own observations as if strangely disturbed.

Elise had seen the fine lines across the other's brow deepen into a troubled scowl and was quick to
give comment, just in case Ramonda held any trepidations about her own part in this conspiracy. “That I may well be, madam,” she retorted, “but I'm old enough to know you'll be hanged at Tyburn with this pair of louts if you plan to do me harm.”

Sweeping her long, fuzzy hair casually over her shoulder, Ramonda banished any idea of a suffering conscience when she responded with a deep, throaty laugh. “No need ta get yerself in a stew, missy. Ye'll be taken care o' well ‘nough, though ‘tis a mystery ta me why ye're even ‘ere. But then, I ‘afta remember ‘is lor'ship ‘as a feelin' for gittin' even.”

“And just who might this wayward lord be?” Else queried, eyeing the woman closely. She was well aware that both Reland Huxford and Forsworth Radborne might desire revenge upon her, and though the prideful Forsworth had no claim to a title, he had always enjoyed putting on airs and thinking of himself as some exalted personage.

“I'll reckon ye'll be knowin' soon ‘nough,” Ramonda answered with a confident air. Dismissing the girl with a flippant shrug of her shoulder, she beckoned them to follow as she made her way from the common room. Entering a passageway, she led the way up narrow, rickety stairs. It was a long, wearying climb which took them beyond the bowels of the place to a landing where they were warned to silence by their guide. Even Elise was fearful of making a sound as they passed down a long corridor with many doors, with no doubt many an unworthy taking his rest behind the portals. At its end, another door led to another steep staircase that demanded another long climb. Elise's ankle and legs were
aching when they reached the lofty level, evidence of the stiffness her enforced confinement was imposing upon her.

Stepping ahead of them down a short hall, Ramonda entered a tiny room tucked beneath the gabled roof of the inn and set a candle on the table. As Elise and the men followed, the woman swept a freckled hand to indicate the barred window in the dormer. “The liedy'll keep ‘ere well ‘nough whilst ye tend yer business in the Stilliards.”

Elise quickly took note that the tiny window had been secured with small pegs to prevent it from being opened from the inside, not only forbidding the escape of the occupant, but preventing any verbal exchange with passers-by. The tiny chamber was obviously intended to be her prison, albeit one which had been made relatively comfortable with a narrow rope bed, a chair, and a small table at which to dine. Nearby, a washstand held the bare necessities for a toilette, a basin and pitcher, a towel and a small chunk of soap.

“As ye can see for yerselves, she'll not be escapin',” Ramonda boasted.

Fitch tucked in his chin, compressing the folds beneath it as he expressed his doubt. “Ye'd better keep an eye on ‘er just the same,” he advised. “She's a crafty one, she is, an' canna be trusted.”

Ramonda arched a querying brow as she contemplated the slender girl and the hulking man. When she peered closer, she noticed the bruise alongside his cheek and questioned in some amazement, “As the lil' twit done ye ill?”

“Truth be, a shrew ‘as better manners,” Fitch complained without discretion. “ ‘Twill be folly for ‘is lor'ship if he canna' curb her mischief.”

“Aye, ‘is lor'ship may well rue the day he told ye ta fetch her,” Ramonda agreed, wishing fervently he would do so before it was too late to turn back.

“Come now,” Elise coaxed jeeringly. “If you think I'll bring so much havoc to his poor lordship, whoever the rapscallion may be, why do you not favor him with a gift and set me free? Why, I'll even be generous and forget I've ever seen the three of you.”

“ ‘At'd set us ta a bloody war with ‘is lor'ship for sure,” the burly man observed.

Ramonda kept her eyes lowered, afraid her desires could be seen in them. The emotions of jealousy and hate were hard to mask when they roiled so near the surface.

Spence had remained silent through their comments, but now interrupted in a brusque tone, directing himself to Ramonda. “The girl'll need rest an' vittles. See ta her needs whilst we're gone, an' when this be done, ye'll be given the purse ye were promised . . . if ye've done yer part.”

Spence nudged Fitch's arm, and the men took their leave, closing the door behind them. Ramonda's demeanor turned venomous as she glowered at Elise. She would have gladly crawled on her hands and knees to serve his lordship, but now, having seen what a beauty he had captured, she knew he had asked too much of her. By helping spirit this girl out of the country, she would be sending another woman straight into his arms, a place
where she longed desperately to be herself. Too many hateful emotions churned within her when she looked at—her mind formed the description derisively—the sweet, young thing. Hate. Envy. Jealousy. They were cruel barbs on a cat-o'-nine, tormenting her unmercifully and tearing into her heart and soul.

Oh, she knew how farfetched her own yearnings were. The probability of her infatuation congealing into any sort of close involvement with his lordship was simply nonexistent. The time he had spent at the inn was so brief, she knew he was totally unaware of her devotion. Yet that knowledge did not ease her pain.