Chapter Sixteen

“Prue, them soldiers is back.” Goodman Yarrow called to his wife as he entered the tiny cottage on Holyrood Street. “They was just passin‘ St. Thomas’s.”

“Well, what’s that to us?” Prue asked, taking another iron from the fire. She spat on it and nodded at the satisfactory sizzle before applying the flatiron to the shirt spread out on the table.

“They’re comin‘ ’ere next,” her husband said. “They be goin‘ ’ouse to ‘ouse from the church. Askin’ questions.”

“They can ask away,” Prue said, folding the shirt deftly. “We got nothin‘ to ’ide.”

“They’ll be askin‘ about the master.” The goodman sat heavily at the other end of the table that took up most of the square kitchen.

“An‘ we show ’em ‘is chamber jest like afore.” Prue picked up another shirt and exchanged the cold iron for the one heating on the range. “Don’t get all agitated, man. Jest stick to the story, that’s all we ’ave to do.”

“But ‘e ’asn’t been around ‘ere fer a month.” The goodman was clearly unable to take his wife’s advice.

“That’s none of our business,” she said placidly. “We jest rents ‘im the chamber. It’s nothin’ to us when ‘e comes or when ’e goes. That’s all we ‘ave to say. You jest leave the talkin’ to me.”

The goodman heaved himself to his feet and fetched down a jug of ale from a shelf above the range. He drank directly from the jug as tramping feet sounded from the narrow street beyond the open door.

Giles Crampton loomed in the doorway. “Good even, goodwife.”

Prue set down her iron. The man wore a sergeant’s insignia. Their previous visitor had been a mere private. “Come ye in, sir. Ye’ll take a drink of ale?”

“No, I thankee. Not today.” Giles entered the kitchen. Behind him in the street ranged a phalanx of soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets. Doors closed up and down the street, a series of hasty little bangs, and curious faces appeared at upper windows.

Prue’s hand trembled infinitesimally as she smoothed the garment she’d been ironing. “What can we do fer ye, Sergeant?”

“Well, it’s like this, see.” Giles came closer, his voice confidential, friendly. “We’ve ‘eard some things about this lodger of your’n. He still lodge ’ere?”

“No,” the goodman said. “He’s left ‘ere.”

Prue laughed. “That’s what my man likes t‘ think,” she said. “Doesn’t ’ave much time fer ‘im, but ’e pays well, I say. That’s all that matters. Us ‘asn’t seen him in a few days, but ’is things is still ‘ere.” She gestured with her head to the narrow staircase at the rear of the kitchen. “Go on up if ye like, Sergeant.”

Giles clumped up the stairs. The small chamber under the eaves was neat, the quilt and pillow on the cot smooth and clean. He poked around. There was an ironbound chest at the foot of the bed. It was unlocked and he raised the lid. It showed him nothing of interest. Just small clothes, neckerchiefs, a spare pair of boots, a handsome leather belt, a saddle, and spurs. All perfectly innocent. All perfectly appropriate for a country squire trying to make a place for himself at court.

But something was amiss. He stood and sniffed like a bloodhound. It was not that there was a smell in the chamber so much as the total absence of such. This place was not used by Edward Caxton or anyone else, Giles decided. He supposed he couldn’t blame the man he’d sent before for failing to notice this indefinable clue. He’d had no reason to suspect Caxton. It had been merely a routine check.

So why would a man pay rent, keep clothes and these few possessions, in a place where he didn’t live?

He went downstairs again. He caught the flicker of a glance between the goodman and his wife. An anxious glance. The goodman lifted the ale jug to his lips again and drank noisily. When he set it down again, there was a tremor to his fingers.

“Well, now,” said Giles comfortably. “Let’s talk about Mr. Caxton, shall we?”

“We know nothin‘ about ’im,” the goodman blustered. “We jest takes ‘is money an’ he comes an‘ goes as ’e pleases.”

“Which is not very often,” Giles observed, leaning his shoulders against the wall, hands driven deep into the pockets of his britches. “So, when he’s not ‘ere, where is he?”

“How should us know?” Prue wiped her hands on her apron. “As my man says, we’re glad o‘ the money. We don’t pry.”

“Well, mebbe you could think a little,” Giles suggested, raising a beckoning finger towards his men at the door. They moved forward, the shadow of their presence falling across the door, blocking out the last vestiges of evening light.

“I’m sure there’s summat you know that I’d find ‘elpful,” Giles continued, his voice cajoling. “His friends? Visitors when he’s ’ere? Where ‘e goes when he’s not ’ere?”

Prue shook her head. “We told ye, Sergeant. We don’t know nothin‘.”

Giles sighed heavily. He said regretfully, “Well, you see, I don’t believe you, goodwife. I think you know a lot about this ‘ere Mr. Caxton. An’ it’s my business to find out what. So we’ll go somewhere a bit quiet, like, an‘ ’ave another little chat.”

He pointed to his men and they surged into the little cottage. “Ye can’t take us away!” Goodman Yarrow protested, panic in his voice. “We’re good law-abidin‘ folk.” His face twisted in fear as the men laid hold of him.

“My man ‘as the right of it,” Prue declared, her voice much steadier than her husband’s. “Ye’ve a warrant or some such?”

“The governor’s writ, goodwife,” Giles said. “If ye’ve done nothin‘, ye’ve nothin’ to fear.”

Prue snorted with disbelief, but unlike her husband, she made no further protest as she was bundled out of the cottage.

“You want us to lock up, goodman?” Giles inquired solicitously. “Or shall we leave it open in case yer lodger comes ‘ome?”

“Turn the key,” Prue said with something of a snarl. “It’s on the hook be’ind the door.”

Giles obliged and then followed the procession down Holyrood Street to the quay. They would take the goodman and his wife by boat to Yarmouth Castle, where they could be questioned in privacy.

He was aware of the eyes following them, of the hastily closed doors as they passed, and he was satisfied that his little raid had had the right effect. The removal of citizens from their homes was a sound intimidation tactic. A few more such raids would weaken the loyalty these folk had to Mr. Edward Caxton, if he was indeed the man they were looking for.

The Yarrows would provide him with the answer to that. The goodman would break first, Giles reckoned. It was strange how women, the so-called weaker sex, should be so much harder to intimidate. But it was a fact he’d noticed before.

Maybe the pains of childbirth hardened them, he thought, watching as his prisoners were hustled into the boat at the quay. He watched the boat heading up the Medina River, then turned for his horse. He would return to Carisbrooke with the news of his success and then meet his prisoners when they were disembarked at Yarmouth.

Mike was waiting on the beach of the small cove as Anthony turned the dinghy into the shore. “Looks like it’s goin‘ to turn foul later,” Mike observed as he bent to pull the small boat onto the sand.

Anthony stepped onto the wet sand, carrying his stockings and his elegant tooled-leather boots. He sniffed the wind. “I came to that conclusion myself. A good night for a wreck, I would have said.”

Mike heard the musing tone and waited for more. When the master spoke in that voice, it meant he was about to divulge a carefully considered plan.

“I’ve been thinking it’s time we had a hand in things, Mike. We’ll stage a little surprise for anyone who might be considering some dirty work later on.”

“Off the point?”

“Aye. A group from Wind Dancer are already set to reach the beach by midnight. Can you round up a few good men to set up on the clifftop?”

Mike grinned. “Easy,” he said. “Pa’ll be one o‘ the first, and three of me brothers. We’ll watch for ’em lighting the beacon. We’ll give ‘em a right thumpin’.”

“Exactly so.” Anthony sat down on a rock away from the water’s edge, brushed the sand off the soles of his feet, and pulled on his stockings and boots. “I’ll not stay long at the castle tonight. Just long enough to pass the message to the king that we move tomorrow. I just hope to God he doesn’t give anything away. He’s not the best conspirator.”

Anthony grimaced. The king found it difficult to dissemble. Mainly because he considered it beneath his dignity. If he knew his departure from prison was imminent, there was a chance that something in his manner would alert the ever watchful governor. It had happened that way before. But it was an inherent risk. If Anthony was to keep his promise to Ellen, he had to take it.

“I’ll join you on the beach when I’m finished at the castle.”

Mike touched his forelock and loped off up the steep path. Anthony followed at a steady pace. He could smell the coming storm. It would be the first since the night of the last wreck. Would it bring out Channing and his men? It would be the perfect opportunity to snatch Godfrey Channing and kill two birds with one stone. Stop the wrecking, or at least until some other evil brain took over, and get the lordling well away from Olivia before he could do any further damage. That would leave Anthony with only one small problem to take care of before he took the king. This mysterious and vile Brian Morse.

Anthony was most interested in meeting the man who had abused the child Olivia. Channing could help him there too.

He entered the great hall at Carisbrooke, his step casual, his smile of greeting easy and friendly. The king was playing cards at the fireside, but there was no sign of Granville, Rothbury, or Hammond. With his usual pleasantly vacuous expression, Anthony greeted Mistress Hammond and bestowed his devastating smile on the ladies around her. They fluttered their fans and smiled upon him, and Mistress Hammond chided him with her gap-toothed smile for being a shocking flirt to throw her ladies into such disarray.

He was saved from a response by an equerry bidding him join His Majesty at cards. Anthony smiled, bowed to the ladies, kissed a few hands, and strolled indolently across the hall to obey the king’s summons.

“I’m an indifferent whist player, Sire,” Anthony demurred with his annoying little titter as he bowed to his sovereign. “I’m sure my fellow players will grow impatient.”

“Oh, never mind that. I daresay Lord Daubney will be happy to partner you. You couldn’t be worse than his present partner.”

“I had not the cards, Sire,” the gentleman in question murmured unhappily as he rose from his seat at the table and gave his place to Edward Caxton.

Anthony sat down. His eyes were alert beneath lazily drooping lids. He held his cards in one hand, but as always his other rested on the jeweled hilt of his sword. He was in the midst of the enemy. If anything went wrong, he would have no chance to fight his way out of the hall, let alone out of the castle, but he would have a damned good try.

“Has Your Majesty walked the battlements this evening?” he inquired casually, laying down his cards for his partner’s play.

“No, I find the night humors irritate my lungs,” the king responded, casting a heavy-lidded look across the table.

Anthony didn’t meet the look. The king, alerted by the mention of the battlements, knew now that Caxton had a message for him. He would find a way to receive it.

Five minutes later the king stretched to pick up the hand he had just won, and the edge of his wide velvet sleeve caught his wine goblet. It fell to the table, the ruby contents splattering over the cards.

Anthony had his handkerchief in his hand and bent to catch the spill before it ran over into the king’s lap.

“My thanks, Caxton. You move quickly,” the king said, letting his hand fall into his lap as he thrust his chair back from the table. “I fear I’m more than usually clumsy this evening.”

“Oh, indeed not… my fault I’m certain… how could Your Majesty ever be clumsy? It was my fault, most certainly my fault!” Anthony exclaimed. The men around the table exchanged contemptuous smiles. Servants busied themselves cleaning the table, fetching new cards, refilling the king’s goblet.

The king thrust his hand negligently into his pocket and leaned back while the cleanup was completed. Then he leaned forward for the new pack, breaking it deftly.

“Shall we resume, gentlemen?” He cut to his opponents.

Anthony felt Olivia’s arrival before he saw her. It was as if there had been a change in the air.

No other woman had had this effect on him… and no other woman had accused him of dishonor. No other woman was so damned fickle, he thought savagely. Loving with such warmth and passion one minute, and the next prating about moral failings and pushing him away as if he were some loathsome beetle.

“Your bid, Mr. Caxton,” the king prompted.

Anthony forced his attention back to the cards in his hand. “Two spades, gentlemen.” He took up his wine goblet and glanced with seeming idleness around the hall.

She was wearing the orange gown again, and again he thought she looked like some flaming orchid with her pale coloring and her glossy dark hair massed at her nape against the brilliant glow of the gown.

She looked directly at him as she stood between Lady Granville and Lady Rothbury. There was no mistaking the message in those velvet eyes. It was a penetrating demand for his attention. There was nothing sensual about the look, none of the luminous promise, the flickering embers of desire, the wicked mischief that her eyes so often revealed.

He gave an infinitesimal nod and turned back to his cards.

Olivia was satisfied. He would come to her.

She turned to Mistress Hammond with a demure inquiry about one of the tapestries on the walls of the great hall. Mistress Hammond launched instantly into an elaborate description that reduced her audience to glassy-eyed boredom but gave Olivia at least the opportunity to prepare her message to Anthony. She would have little time to pass it on. It would have to be succinct.

Anthony played his card, neatly destroying his game, and endured the angrily derisive complaints of his partner, who had lost five guineas on Caxton’s poor play.

“So sorry… so sorry… of course, I yield my place.” Anthony fluttered his hands in distress. “I fear my lord Daubney has had ill luck with his partners this evening. But I am such a poor cardplayer. Mr. Taunton, perhaps you can compensate for me?” He gestured to the gentleman who was standing at the king’s elbow.

“Yes, yes, if you wish it,” the man said eagerly. “I own I have long wished for the honor of playing with His Majesty.”

Charles smiled faintly. Candlelight set the rings on his white hand sparkling as he indicated that this other esquire hungry for royal notice should take Anthony’s seat.

Anthony bowed to his sovereign and melted into the throng. Olivia was still in the knot of people around Mistress Hammond. She was clearly restless, shifting from foot to foot, opening and closing her fan, but he noticed with a touch of bitterness that she had learned from their clandestine love enough of conspiracy to keep her eyes from wandering, seeking him out, now that she’d signaled her message.

“Lady Granville… Lady Rothbury. How delightful to see you here. I hardly dared hope that I would have the honor of meeting with you again.” He simpered as he bowed to the two married women.

“The honor, Mr. Caxton, is all ours,” Portia said with a distinctly ironic flash of her green eyes.

Anthony caught the flash, but he turned to greet Olivia. “Lady Olivia. I am so happy to see that your gown suffered no ill effects from my clumsiness.”

“We were fortunate, Mr. Caxton.” She curtsied, her eyes demurely lowered. “But if you would make recompense…”

“Anything, dear madam. Anything I can do to make you think well of me again.” He raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he caught the faintest glimmer of appreciative amusement on Lady Rothbury’s countenance, another flash of those green eyes. He glanced at Lady Granville and she averted her gaze with that slight touch of hauteur he’d noticed before.

So Olivia had confided in her friends.

“My shawl,” Olivia said. “I find myself a little chilly and I wonder if you would escort me to the carriage so that I may retrieve it.”

“It will be my pleasure, Lady Olivia.” His tone was noncommittal as he gave her his arm.

Olivia laid a hand on his arm and felt the muscles beneath the dark blue silk immediately harden beneath her fingers. Just touching him in this way brought a wave of heat flooding her skin, setting her head spinning. Her grip tightened, her fingers involuntarily biting into his arm, as he led her from the hall.

The courtyard was bustling with soldiers as the watch was changed on the battlements. “What is it?” Anthony demanded quietly. “I assume you’re not seeking a lovers’ tryst.”

He sounded so cold, so hard.

“May we walk in the privy garden?” Olivia whispered. His bitterness was only to be expected-she had caused it-but it hurt most dreadfully. She wanted to scream at him that it was as hard for her as for him. Demand that he understand how she felt. But if ever there had been a moment for that kind of revelation, it had passed.

Anthony without comment directed their steps across the courtyard to the chapel and the garden beyond it.

There were a few couples taking the evening air in the walled garden, and no one looked curiously at the new arrivals.

“So, what is it you wish to say to me?” His voice was low but curt.

Olivia kept her eyes on the gravel path. “You have fallen under suspicion,” she murmured. “I wanted to warn you. They are saying you’re not what you seem.”

She felt the muscle in his arm jump beneath her hand, but his step didn’t falter. He glanced around once, quickly, as if assessing the situation, then said, “So you let something slip.”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t break a promise.”

“Hush,” he commanded. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Tell me what you know.”

In soft, rushed tones Olivia related the supper table conversation. “My father said it was just a whisper.”

“And where did the whisper come from? If not from you, then from one of the friends in whom you confided my secrets?” His tone was harsh.

“No,” Olivia repeated firmly, but her hurt was clear in her voice despite its strength. “I needed their help to get here tonight without causing comment. They knew of nothing until now… when it didn’t matter anymore. You’re already under suspicion. No one I know has betrayed you. My friends would not betray a friend of mine. Friends don’t betray friends.”

He glanced down at her. She met his gaze steadily, although he could read the pain in her eyes at his accusation.

“I came to warn you,” she repeated.

Slowly he nodded. “In friendship?”

No, in love. Olivia hesitated, then she said, “If you like.”

He gave a short laugh. “Well, I thank you for your friendship, my flower. I’m sure it’s more than a dishonorable man deserves. Now I must go before they set the dogs on me. I will leave you at the hall. If I leave you here alone, it will draw attention.” He strode with her across the courtyard, then moved his arm from beneath her hand.

He looked down into her pale face in bleak silence for a minute, then as if he couldn’t help himself he slowly raised a hand and cupped the curve of her cheek before saying with quiet finality, “Goodbye, Olivia.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the gatehouse.

Olivia stood in the light from the open doorway. She struggled to compose her expression. She could not go back inside, into that noisy oblivious throng, with tears clogging her throat, pricking behind her eyes. She felt as if she had lost all touch with herself, her knowledge of who and what she was. She would never see him again. He would be gone from the island before they caught him, and she would never see him again. It was what had to be and yet her heart wept in protest.

But go back into the hall she must. She must do nothing to draw attention to Anthony’s abrupt departure. She took a step towards the light, then a familiar voice in the courtyard gave her pause.

“My lord?” It was Giles Crampton, hurrying across the courtyard from the gatehouse.

“Giles, what news?” Cato appeared out of the shadows of the barbican wall.

Olivia guessed he had been making his way to the hall. He had not seen her as yet. She trod soundlessly back down the stairs. There was a niche in the wall, untouched by the light of the pitch torches around the courtyard. She pressed herself into the tiny dark space and listened.

“We took the Yarrows, sir. I’ll swear Caxton never lays his ‘ead in that room of theirs. It ’as his things in it, but he’s not been there in months, if ever.”

“Are they talking?”

Olivia held her breath. She seemed now to inhabit some cold, clear space where her mind was lucid, emptied of all emotional turbulence. The Yarrows must be the people in Newport, where he was supposed to lodge.

“They’re about to be disembarked at Yarmouth, sir. I’ll go along an‘ welcome ’em. Just thought to let ye know where we’re at.”

“Good. Bring me any information as soon as you have it.” Cato turned to mount the steps to the hall, then he paused, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything you don’t have to do, Giles. No need for… for heroic measures.” His tone was ironic.

“Goodman Yarrow’ll tell all ‘e knows an’ the ‘istory of the universe into the bargain afore ye can get close enough to say ’boo,‘ ” Giles said scornfully.

“Then see that no one says more than ‘boo,’ Giles.” Cato disappeared into the hall. He had little stomach for torture. There were occasions when it was necessary. It was a fact of ordinary life, let alone war. But a civilized man moderated its use.

Olivia waited until her father would be well into the hall, engulfed in the throng, before she slipped back up the steps.

Suddenly Portia was there beside her. “Take my arm,” she whispered in Olivia’s ear as she stood for a minute almost paralyzed in the light. “Just remember that we’ve been walking outside. You were feeling faint with the heat.”

“Yes,” Olivia said, taking the arm. “So I was.”