“And if the Duchess of Suffolk should appear, they’ll flee all the quicker,” Pippa said with a chuckle. “Mama can’t abide to be in the same room with the woman. Are you riding to this tryst?”
“Yes,” Pen said. She had already decided that in broad daylight she could safely ride alone from Greenwich Palace into the city. It would take her little more than an hour. Once there, she was fairly certain she could find her way back to Mistress Rider’s tavern.
Owen would surely make a leisurely start. He’d not exactly been champing at the bit to go on this errand. But if he’d already left, then she would follow him out of the city on the High Wycombe road. She would catch up to him somewhere.
“You’ll need these if you’re riding.” Pippa handed her stiffened petticoats to substitute for her less pliable farthingale, which was impossible to wear on horseback.
“What else do you need to take?”
“Just money,” Pen said. “There’s a purse in the chest.” She stepped into the underskirt and pushed her arms into the orange gown her sister held for her. There was no time to consider what possessions she needed to take with her on such an errand. She would have to contrive as she went along.
“I think you should take your dagger,” Pippa said seriously. “You’re riding alone. You can’t be too careful. Particularly after the last time.”
“A dagger wouldn’t have helped me with that crowd of thieves,” Pen said in perfect truth. But Pippa was right. The little silver dagger that she could carry in her sleeve would give her some sense of protection.
Her heart was beating too fast. She pulled in her stomach as her sister tightened the laces of her stomacher.
“Suddenly I feel sick,” she said.
“You’re not made for adventure,” Pippa observed, adding, “But then I feel sick too, so probably I’m not made for it either. At least, not this kind. Not this
real
kind . . . Come, you must hurry, in case Anna comes back. Where are your boots?”
She rummaged in the armoire while Pen fastened her braided hair into a netted snood that would secure it beneath the hood of her cloak when she was riding.
Pen took her boots from Pippa and pulled them on, smoothing her skirts down over them. Her appearance was irrelevant to the business in hand and yet she couldn’t prevent herself from glancing in the long mirror.
The orange velvet gown opened over an underskirt of black damask embroidered with tiny green flowers. The sleeves were full to the elbows and tight to her forearms and wrists. A small lace ruff rose at the back. The deeply scooped neckline cried out for a breast jewel, but she told herself again that her appearance was irrelevant and such adornment was absurd in the circumstances.
But even without jewelry it was a very elegant outfit. The color did seem to impart a glow to her skin and to deepen the mélange of colors in her eyes. Although perhaps that was just because she felt in the grip of a raging fever.
“Here’s your dagger.” Pippa handed her the small knife. It was secured to a thin leather strap that Pen fastened around her wrist. “And here’s the purse.”
Pen threaded the leather pouch onto the gold chain she wore at her waist. It was reassuringly heavy. Money was a form of protection too.
“Cloak and gloves.” Pippa held them out for her. She was being calm and orderly, not showing any of her anxiety.
Pen wrapped herself in the thick black velvet, fur-lined cloak, drawing the wide hood over her head. She pulled on her gloves. She swallowed a rather large lump in her throat. “Are you sure you don’t mind, Pippa?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Pen. Go!” Pippa cried, pushing her towards the door. “We’ll both get cold feet if you hesitate.”
Pen knew that she would not get cold feet. However nervous she felt, even guilty at compromising her sister in this way, she was resolute. Whatever she had to do she would do. Whatever she learned on this journey, it would bring her peace of some kind.
An ending if it had to be, but maybe a beginning. Just maybe a beginning.
Pippa opened the door and peered out. “Quickly,” she said. “There’s no one around. Don’t use the main staircase.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Pen said. “I’ll return in four days.” She squeezed Pippa’s hand and hurried away, her black cloak tight around her.
Pippa waited until Pen had disappeared down the narrow staircase that led to the back regions of the palace, then she returned to the chamber to throw on her own clothes. She twisted her hair into a knot and concealed its still somewhat untidy appearance beneath a silk hood.
Her busy fingers stilled in the process of inserting the pins. She frowned into the mirror, no longer seeing her own reflection.
What was Pen up to?
All that talk of passionate trysts. Pippa didn’t believe for one minute that that was the whole truth.
Pippa could think of only one thing that would drive her practical, levelheaded sister to practice any kind of deception, particularly one so dangerously impulsive.
The baby.
And if that was it, was Pippa helping her or making things worse? If Pen was returning to the dreadful state she had been in after she lost the child, her sister was doing her no favors by aiding and abetting her.
Pippa’s heart quailed. Lying to her mother was hard enough under any circumstances, but if she was doing Pen harm it would be unforgivable.
But she had promised. And she would not let Pen down, whatever the consequences.
Eleven
On this bright sunny morning the roadway from Greenwich to London was crowded. Carters’ wagons jostled with foot traffic; women balancing flat baskets on their heads, or suspended from heavy yolks across their shoulders; men pushing hand trolleys filled with sea coal unloaded from the barges at the docks.
One or two people glanced at the cloaked and hooded woman on her dappled gelding, but for the most part Pen drew little attention. Her horse was obviously of good blood and her cloak was thick and rich, but her face was barely visible beneath the hood. She kept her eyes on the road, looking neither to right nor to left.
She rode as fast as she dared without drawing attention to herself. William, despite being gelded, had a rather skittish temperament, but he was the largest of the three horses she owned and had the most stamina. He had seemed the obvious choice for a journey that would require hard riding, and she had perfect confidence in her ability to hold him.
It was a confidence that wavered slightly when he reared and sidled when they came upon a small boy leading a ragged bear on a chain. A pack of dogs ran at the bear, barking and yelping. William snorted and threw up his head, pulling hard against the bit.
The small boy threw stones at the dogs and a laughing crowd gathered, jeering good-naturedly at the boy’s desperate attempts to drive off the pack. At last several men took pity on the lad and helped him drive off the snarling animals. While bearbaiting was an amusing and lucrative entertainment, everyone knew it should take place in a bear pit and not by the side of the road with a nonpaying audience.
Pen soothed her horse and gave him his head until they’d left the melee behind. Action always calmed him. The road followed the curves of the river flowing to her left. She could see through the winter-bare trees along the bank to the fields and hamlets spread out on the far bank. Soon she could hear the sound of London’s many church bells that seemed to ring incessantly, and she could make out the jumble of roofs on the outskirts of the city.
Mistress Rider’s tavern was close to Westminster, where the Bryanstons had their London mansion. A Horseferry crossed the river at a relatively narrow point, just beyond Lambeth Palace on the south bank, ferrying its passengers to Westminster on the opposite side. The only other way of crossing was much farther up at London Bridge, and, while the bridge was a safer and more comfortable crossing, Pen didn’t want to waste time going so far out of her way.
She turned her horse towards the river at the palace to wait on the bank with an assorted group of merchants and laborers for the sturdy flat ferry to return from the other side.
The ferry docked. The passengers loaded amid profanities and shouted instructions from the ferrymen. William shied and bumped another horse as she tried to ride him onto the floating, swaying platform. Both animals reared their heads, nostrils flared.
“Lead ’im on!” a man yelled at her as he took her penny fare. “ ’E’ll ’ave us all in the water!”
Pen dismounted, flushed with embarrassment at William’s bad manners and her conspicuous incompetence. The only other time she had done this, there had been a groom to take charge of her horse. She led the animal onto the ferry, holding the reins tight just above the bit, talking softly to him as he shifted and snorted, looking distrustfully around at his fellow horse passengers, who now all seemed perfectly at home.
“First time fer ’im is it then?” a stout foot passenger in a homespun jerkin inquired cordially. “Looks a bit ’igh strung to me. Good breedin’ though.” He stroked the gelding’s withers with a knowledgeable air. “Nice bit o’ leather that, too.”
Pen’s saddle was of beautifully tooled leather; her silver stirrups glittered in the sunlight. She felt a tremor of nerves. Her horse, as if sensing it, stamped. The ferry creaked and swung, and one of the oarsmen bellowed an obscenity.
The man probably meant her no harm but she felt his curious eyes on her even as she averted her gaze, pulling the hood closer over her head.
“So, where you goin’ then, mistress?”
Pen ignored the question.
“Not used t’ being out on yer own, I shouldn’t wonder,” he observed, laying a hand on the saddle. “No groom wi’ you?”
Pen kept her silence, staring rigidly down at the muddy water slipping beneath them. The leather purse beneath her cloak seemed suddenly very heavy and conspicuous even though it was well concealed. Had he seen it when she’d paid her fare?
The man stopped talking, but he kept his hand on the saddle and whistled tunelessly through a wide gap between the blackened stumps of his front teeth. The ferry drew closer to the opposite bank.
The other horses, who seemed to know the routine, began to move forward. William shivered uncertainly at the sound of shifting hooves around him. Pen felt very vulnerable as she stood in the midst of all this powerful, palpitating horseflesh with the man beside her still whistling, his eyes still on her. She had an overpowering sense of menace. An absolute premonition of danger.
The ferry touched the wooden dock and the men on the bank grabbed the ropes to make it fast. Pen took a tighter hold of the gelding’s reins. Desperate though she was to get off, she would have to wait to lead him until the others had disembarked, otherwise she risked being trampled underfoot. Their fellow passengers clattered off the ferry and onto the dock, the man in the homespun jerkin stayed back, his hand still resting on Pen’s expensive saddle.
“Come, William.” She tugged on the reins, fear now hard in her throat. She was sure the man was going to try to stop her and she couldn’t remount without a block. The gelding surged forward, so anxious to reach dry land that Pen almost lost her balance, nearly slipping beneath his hooves.
“Steady on there,” the man said, putting a rough hand over hers on the bridle. He bent his head towards her and she tried to turn her head away from the reek of raw onions and stale beer on his breath. “Let me ’elp you ’ere, mistress, since y’are all alone like.”
She jabbed her elbow into his belly; then, in the moment it took him to recover, she slid the dagger from its strap and drove it into his hand as he reached again for the bridle.
The man fell back with a vile curse, clutching his hand. Blood poured from the wound. He yelled at her as she ran with William, leading him onto the dock. Her skirts caught at her ankles, her cloak swirled around her, impeding her movement. Faces stared at her, men began to move towards her.
She still held the knife dripping blood in one hand as she dragged William to an upturned log. She clasped the hilt in her teeth and scrambled with more speed than elegance onto his back, crooking her knee over the rest on the sidesaddle. She kicked the gelding hard in the flanks.
Surprised, William took off with a jump start along the narrow lane that led up from the river. Behind her Pen heard curses and pounding feet but William rapidly outdistanced the pursuit.
Her destination lay close to the Horseferry water steps just a short way from the ferry dock, but now she couldn’t go there immediately as she’d intended. She would have to wait for the disturbance to die down.
Only when she had reached the maze of lanes and alleys away from the river did she take the knife from her teeth, but she didn’t return it to its sheath. She felt safer with it ready to hand.
She was on familiar ground now, the area around the Bryanston mansion. Even in bright daylight, when the streets were busy with ordinary traffic, she couldn’t repress a shudder at the memory of the assault on that night before Christmas. It was a dangerous world for an unescorted woman, she reflected acidly. Not that that would come as any surprise to a sensible person. But then sensible people didn’t put themselves into positions where they’d have to go around stabbing folk with daggers.
She passed the roadside gates to the Bryanston mansion and instinctively drew her hood even closer about her head. She glanced up at the turrets and saw that the Bryanston pennants were flying in the swift breeze. It was confirmation of what she had known, that the family were still in residence in London. But it was reassuring to have such confirmation. She would not have been able to ask her questions freely if they had removed to their country estate. Here they were some thirty miles away from High Wycombe, and she could probe for gossip among the Bryanston tenants without fear of intervention.
After a few streets, she turned back towards the river, coming at the Horseferry steps from the opposite direction. She drew rein at the corner of the lane and peered out from the gable overhang to look downriver. The river traffic flowed by, children scrambled in the mud looking for eels or cockles and whelks. The ferry itself was now in midstream, returning to Lambeth with a new cargo. All was quiet at the ferry dock.
Pen emerged from the lane. The tavern was exactly as she remembered it, set back from the steps in its own garden. Smoke curled from the thatched roof and the windows were shuttered against the cold morning.
She dismounted at the garden gate and led William up to the front door. The brass knocker was shiny against the heavy oak door. Pen knocked and waited. She found she was remarkably calm now that she’d reached her destination. She was in control once again, perfectly sure of what she had to do and how she would do it.
A small girl opened the door and gazed up at her, one finger in her mouth.
“Is Mistress Rider in?”
For answer, the child called, “Mam!” over her shoulder, then returned her wide-eyed gaze to the visitor.
Mistress Rider came to the door. “Get back to your pots, Ellie,” she instructed, turning the child away from the door. She examined Pen. “ ’Tis the young lady who came with the chevalier,” she said. “You was hurt.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Pen said. “Is the chevalier here, mistress?”
“He’s still abed,” the landlady said. “Came back after dawn, went straight to ’is bed. Young Cedric too.”
So he hadn’t rushed off at the crack of dawn to keep his promise. Well, she hadn’t expected it. Why else was she here?
Pen stepped around Mistress Rider and into the hall. “I’ll go up then,” she said calmly. “Would you ask Cedric to take care of my horse, please? Oh, and the chevalier will be needing to break his fast, and he’ll need hot water for washing. He’s going on a journey for a few days.”
Mistress Rider’s mouth fell open. Her gaze was riveted to the dagger Pen still carried in her hand. “He didn’t say nothing to me, madam.”
“No, I daresay he was very tired when he got in this morning. But you’ll find that that’s exactly what he’s going to be doing. So if you could send up breakfast . . . whatever he likes. I’m sure you know.” With a sweet smile, Pen swept up the stairs.
She remembered exactly where the chevalier’s chamber was to be found. She knocked briskly on the door before raising the latch. The door swung open; she stepped inside.
“Cedric . . . God’s bones, lad, I didn’t call for you!” an irascible voice declared from behind the bedcurtains.
Pen opened the curtains. “Good morrow, Owen.”
Owen sat up, instantly awake, instantly in full possession of his senses. “
Pen!
What in the devil’s name is this?” He caught sight of the dagger. His eyes narrowed, his dark gaze sharpening abruptly. “What are you doing with that knife?”
“Oh, this.” Pen looked down at the knife. She’d been holding it for so long it had almost become an extension of her hand. “There was a man on the Horseferry. I think he had evil designs and I wasn’t prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt.” She laid the dagger on the table beside the bed.
Owen pushed aside the coverlet as he swung his feet to the floor. He was naked. Powerfully and beautifully so. Last night in the round chamber behind the arras she had not seen him naked. Pen turned her eyes away. A loose gown hung on a hook by the door and she took it down, holding it out to him wordlessly.
Owen waited a fraction longer than necessary before taking it from her. He could think only that the night had caused her to regret her abrupt withdrawal after their lovemaking. She had come to him now in this startling fashion to make matters right between them again. His blood stirred as he looked at her, remembering now with vivid clarity the joyousness of her responses to him, the wondrous glow in the forest pools of her eyes as she moved beneath him.
He smiled slowly as he shrugged into his gown. “This is an unexpected surprise, sweetheart, but an utterly delightful one.”
“It’s not what you think.” Pen stepped swiftly away from him as he reached for her. She went to the fire, vigorously poking at it before throwing on fresh kindling.
Owen was aware of a wash of disappointment, renewed anger and frustration hot on its heels. It appeared that the distance was as frigid a wasteland this morning as it had been last night. So what the hell was she doing here?
His eye fell again on the little silver dagger. He saw with a mixture of horror and bemusement that rusty bloodstains adorned the blade. “You
used
this?” he demanded, picking it up from the table. The blood was congealed but still sticky.
“There’s little point carrying a knife if one’s not prepared to use it,” Pen returned. “I’m sure you’d agree.”
Cool as a cucumber!
Well, two could play at that game.
“Certainly,” he replied dryly, adding in a tone of tutor to erring pupil, “But you should always clean your weapons after use. The blade will tarnish if you don’t. You should know that if you intend to make a habit of stabbing people.”
He took a cloth from the washstand and washed the blood from the blade before running a finger along its edge. He raised an eyebrow. “It’s keen enough, at least.” He handed it back to her. “Here. Where do you carry it?”
“In my sleeve.” Pen slipped the weapon back into its strap. “And I don’t intend to make a habit of using it. To be honest, I don’t usually carry it, but my mother taught us that we should be able to defend ourselves. Pippa made sure I brought it, and I’m glad she did.”
For a moment there she’d sounded like her usual self. She seemed to be switching both mood and manner on him at every turn, and he still didn’t know what the devil lay behind this visit.