Authors: Margaret Frazer
Herry said something else, too low to carry beyond the two of them, and Gloucester’s man flung out his free arm to stop the men behind him, saying, “That’s enough!” and at that Herry let him go, twisted in his own saddle, and said back at the Suffolk squires, “Hold where you are!”
Not happy about it, all held on both sides and Frevisse and Lady Jane where they were, until warily, like dogs who had decided to live and let live, the squires began to circle past each other, Gloucester’s men on into the Stocks Market, Suffolk’s around them into Walbrook, with Herry and one of the foreriders falling back to join the two already in rearguard, while onlookers who had drawn back against walls to be out of the way of what had looked to be coming went on their ways with ill looks and mutterings, some of disappointment.
Frevisse, releasing Lady Jane’s reins, asked over her shoulder to Herry, “What did you say to him?”
“I asked him if he knew for certain where the king was. That gave him pause long enough for his wits to kick in.” Because to draw weapons within ten miles of the king’s presence was treason; it could cost a man his weapon hand, if not more.
“Where
is
the king?” Frevisse asked, surprised. She had heard nothing about him coming to Parliament and had assumed he wasn’t, or not until later.
“I’ve no thought,” Herry answered, “but happily neither did Gloucester’s man, and because he didn’t, he thought I did and was warning him of it. That’s why he decided not to risk a fight.”
Frevisse tucked away the thought that Herry, not only willing to avoid a fight when he could but able to make the other man grateful for it in the bargain, would be someone to turn to if there was need for a sharp, quick wit, something it might be well for Alice to know about him if she did not already.
Chapter
14
There was no reason, Jane told herself fiercely, for her to be shaking. The thing was finished. Nothing had happened. It was done with and everyone was going on where they’d been going. She hadn’t even been noticed in it, except by Dame Frevisse and she had let her reins go now, a sure sign the danger was ended.
As they rode on down—was it Walbrook that Herry had called it?—Jane forced her trembling, mercifully hidden under her cloak, to stop, telling herself it was only because she was not used to being out and among so many strangers, or used to riding, that made the shock of the almost-fight so bad. The pity was that she did not believe what she was telling herself; for the few moments there had looked to be a fight going to happen she had been utterly, terrifyingly certain Gloucester’s men were there on purpose, to take whatever Dame Frevisse had been given at the priory, and that nothing would stop them from doing it, and that, like Eyon, she was going to die. It made no difference that she did not know certainly if Dame Frevisse had been given anything or not, might instead have been delivering something or the visit was only for what it was said to be; reason had had no part in Jane’s fear, had no part even now in her inability to unclench her hands on the reins. She had been afraid. She was afraid. She would go on being afraid and did not see any way to help it.
But out of the welter of her fear she had one clear thought: had Eyon’s death really frightened her that much?
She had not thought so, had buried her suspicions from herself, until last night, when she and William had said those few words about it. Only those few words, because what else was there to say? They had only their suspicions: but if Eyon’s death had been “not right,” it had been murder, and while death in its usual ways was one thing—the will of God, the natural end of life—murder was another matter. It was someone acting for his own ends, with no count of the cost to anyone else; and if this man counted no one else’s cost against what he did, then he could… Jane faltered on the thought but forced it on.
Then he could murder again.
The question then was why had he wanted Eyon dead and to that the answer came easily. Eyon had been one of the links in the message chain and someone had wanted it broken. Which gave the next question—questions. How had Eyon’s murderer known of him? Who else did he know of? What else did he mean to do? Who was he?
“And Thames Street again,” Dame Frevisse said. “We’re nearly done.” They had turned into a wide street, Jane realized; and realized she had missed most of this last part of the ride though Dame Frevisse and Herry had gone on talking; and something of her distraction must have shown because as they turned now out of Thames Street into the narrower passage down to the rearyard gateway, Dame Frevisse asked kindly, “Were we out too long for you? Are you chilled or tired?”
As an answer least likely to give trouble, Jane said “Tired a little,” and then, “But thank you, it was worth it, to see more of London.”
They rode into the yard, the horses crowding forward in hope of stable and food and Jane willing herself to think ahead to what would be needed of her in readying Lady Alice and all the other women for the feast tonight. If she could lose herself in that, even for a brief while… it would not change her fears; and as they drew rein at the foot of the stairs and Herry dismounted to come to them and hold their horses’ heads for them to dismount, she turned, grasped Frevisse by the arm, and said, low-voiced but strong with urgency, “I don’t know what Lady Alice told you but it’s not safe, this matter. We thought it was but that man I told you of, he didn’t simply die, didn’t simply drink himself to death. Be careful.”
Startled, Dame Frevisse stared at her, then said, equally low-voiced, “I will. Thank you.”
There was no chance to say more, with dismounting and after that, up the stairs and into the great hall, the constant rush of servants around them, giving no chance of private word and even less chance in the hall itself, where the trestle tables, taken down after the midday meal so the hall paving could be given yet another sweeping, yet another polishing, were being set up again and the complicated covering of them with tablecloths was under way, with Master Gallard in the throes of overseeing it all. Tonight he would be impressive with his staff of office in hand and his dignity upon him, deftly directing all the guests to their particular places along the tables according to their precedence, but this afternoon he was in doublet and hosen, pointing and giving orders the length and breadth of the hall with hardly time to draw breath, until he looked around, probably for someone else to whom he might give another order and saw her and Dame Frevisse and interrupted himself to come bustling over to bow and say to Dame Frevisse, “My lady! I’ve had no chance yet to say how good it is to see you again.”
“And to see you, Master Gallard,” Dame Frevisse replied. “All looks to be well with you.”
“Very well, yes. Very well indeed. But do you know…” And he was away with telling some of his concerns about tonight, and Jane was wondering if it were allowable to slip away and leave them, when someone laid light hold on her upper arm and drew her around. Neither the touch nor finding Robyn smiling at her nor that he still had hold of her pleased her, and she tried to withdraw her arm but he kept hold and drew her a few steps aside, into the lee made near the wall by Dame Frevisse and Master Gallard standing in the flow of servants in and out of the hall. There, where her movement was less likely to be seen, Jane jerked her arm out of his hold and said coldly, “You probably should be doing something else.”
“Probably. But I’d rather talk to you.”
“About what?” She made the question angry, to hide how desperately she wanted to be away from him.
“About me. About us. You can’t go on avoiding me or being ‘rescued’ by your yeoman lout forever. Not and have me keep your lady’s secret.” He grabbed hold of her hand too quickly for her to snatch it out of his reach, clasped it just strongly enough that she could not pull free without making a struggle of it, and asked, “When can we talk, my lady?” putting more meaning than merely “talk” into the question.
Controlling, hoping she was hiding, both her anger and her fear, Jane tried, “There’s hardly good time or place at present, with everything that’s happening. I’m kept too busy. It can’t be soon.”
“That advice is only good to a patient man. What I want, I want now, and what I presently want is you.”
“Why?”‘ Jane demanded and despite herself there was desperation in it.
That was maybe why Robyn smiled as he leaned a little toward her, gazing into her eyes, his fingers tightening around hers as he answered, “Because you’re so promisingly sweet, my love. Have you ever been kissed at all?” He made as if to touch the marred side of her face. “Kissed here?”
“Don’t,” Jane said, her fear momentarily lost behind anger.
Robyn paused, then let her go. “Not yet then,” he said softly. “Not here but soon.”
“I’m betrothed. There can’t be any ‘soon’ or ‘ever’ between us. I don’t want there to be!”
“There’s going to have to be something and soon, for your Lady Alice’s sake,” Robyn said gently but warning unmistakably there. “Give me what I ask or she’ll be so shamed she’ll never be able to show herself to the world’s eyes again.”
“Give you what?” Jane asked and this time despair was now her voice, held low though it was.
“What I’ve told you. A little talk, a little kindness.” Robyn smiled his charming smile. “For one thing, for now, to tell to me about this nun-cousin Lady Alice seems so attached to.”
“Dame Frevisse?”
“She’s the only nun-cousin here so far as I know. And by the way, she’s left you.”
Jane turned her head enough to see he was right, that Dame Frevisse was going away up the hall and Master Gallard away about his business. “I have to go with her,” she said, not strictly true but an excuse she hoped Robyn would take, and stepped back from him.
“Tonight then we’ll talk,” he said, taking a step after her.
“I won’t be at the feast.”
“Somewhere else then,” Robyn said, still following her retreat.
“I’ve duties. I won’t be free,” Jane lied and dodged away around a pair of servants carrying a bench, putting them between her and Robyn as she followed after Dame Frevisse. She did not overtake her but at least when she looked back from the doorway to the stairs, Robyn was not to be seen. For what good that did her. He would find her out again and sooner or later she would have no escape and what she would do then she did not know. But it would not be give in to him. Her marriage was all the hope she had for her life unless she wanted to spend it as one of Lady Alice’s ladies, and that would be a life, except it lacked the multitude of prayers, as bound around with duty and necessities as life in the nunnery. It hadn’t been to live that way she’d left the nunnery. When she was married, she would still be bound about by duties and necessities—how could there be a life that was not?—but they would be duties and necessities about which she made her own choices, gave her own orders, lived with her own decisions, instead of being perpetually directed by other people’s, and that was what the game Robyn was playing could cost her. If he made of her what he wanted to and it was found out, William Chesman would probably still marry her; there was too much profit in it for him to refuse her now; but without trust in her, he would never give her freedom to be or do as she wanted, and he would assuredly never come to care for her.
Despite her face, he might come to that, a part of her kept hoping.
But not if Robyn cost her all chance of his trust.
She was not ready yet to rejoin all the women again, and with the door shut between her and the hall, she turned aside from the stairs up to the lady chamber, went into the solar instead, finding, as she expected, that Master Bruneau and his clerks and the account rolls were gone. The solar was empty and quiet, the bustle in the hall shut well away beyond stone wall and the solar’s thick door when she had closed it and moved a few paces away before coming to a standstill under the relief of being alone and the weight of her thoughts.
Robyn was risking her to lose too much for the sake of his sport. But it wasn’t mere sport. He had asked about Dame Frevisse.
Jane’s dislikes and suspicions came together easily in that moment. Eyon was dead. Someone had murdered him because he was one of Lady Alice’s messengers. Robyn had gone to trouble to steal those poems in order to have a hold over her because she was close to Lady Alice. And now he was asking questions about Dame Frevisse.
That meant she would have to tell Lady Alice about the poems and Robyn. Not tonight. Tonight there was too much else happening but tomorrow she would make a chance to speak with her, tell her, for whatever good it might do. Robyn surely had the poems put where they would serve to protect him if anyone made a move against him—in the keeping of a friend who did not know what he had but was to reveal them if anything happened to Robin; something like that, surely— but at least Lady Alice could be warned Of the danger and where it lay. And Dame Frevisse. She was not going to be satisfied with those few, hurried words of warning Jane had given her. She was going to want to know more.
Behind her someone scratched lightly at the door and began to come in without waiting for an answer, and Jane spun around, her throat closing in the fear that had never really left her since the Stocks Market. But it was William, not Robyn, who stood paused in the doorway while seeing no one else was there before he entered and closed the door and said, “I saw you come this way and followed, on the chance we could talk.”
The draining down of her fear left Jane light-headed, unable to answer him, and he stayed where he was, wariness veiling his face as he added, “I saw you in talk with Robyn. Again.”
Jane heard both the question and doubt in his voice, and with anger rousing in place of the fear, she said, despairingly fierce, forgetful of manners, “That over-faced fool!”
“Most women find him pleasing,” William said, with still the question behind it.
“Then most women are as much a fool as he is!” Jane was suddenly too angry to care about fitting her words to how a lady ought to talk, let William make of it what he might. “Do you know what he wants of me?” She slapped hard at the marred side of her face. “He wants to feel this. He wants to see how it is to woo a woman so ugly she must be grateful any man even looks at her instead of away. He wants to see how great an idiot I’ll be for the sake of his pretty smile. He wants,” she said with more venom than she had ever guessed was in her, “to be killed by a disgusted woman or an angry man someday and the only pity is that it hasn’t happened yet!”