Lord of Loyalty (Trysts and Treachery Book 2)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  The houses and wayside buildings became more dense, with more taverns and alehouses, stews and workshops. She’d never been in such a noisy place, the volume of which increased as they drew near the Thames. What a splendid spectacle the river was—if only she could afford the time to stop and admire it! She was fascinated by the wharves and jetties where cargoes were being loaded and unloaded, and the river-men who plied their boats up and down, full to the gunwales with passengers.

  They eventually pulled their mounts to a halt at an inn, where Norris deposited his saddlebags, explaining he’d rather travel light on their first foray into the Tower. He would collect them later, once the right palms had been greased. Then he helped Alys down into one of the ferries with her bundle.

  Her skin went cold. It must be breezier down by the water.

  “Have you traveled by boat before?” Norris appeared concerned.

  “I have not, but ’tis no matter. If you assure me it is safe, then I shall be well enough.” Everyone else looked comfortable, as they rocked about on the swell created by the multitude of vessels. It couldn’t be that dangerous.

  As soon as they were out on the water, she detected a change in Norris. There was a glint in his eyes, and a look of fierce triumph on his round, swarthy face. He must be a man who thrived on adventure and challenge… a little like Kit, but also very unlike him.

  The thought brought a sigh to her throat. If only it were Kit, not Norris, who’d decided to aid her. She’d far rather it was him now sitting in the bows of the ship, the river zephyrs ruffling his dark hair.

  “This is where we stop.” As he helped her out of the swaying boat onto solid ground, his hand trembled. When she looked up at the edifice before her, she understood why. The Tower looked to be an impregnable fortress, with both inner and outer walls protected by massive drum towers, either singly or in pairs. The great sprawl of battlements and buildings was watched over by the massive ancient White Tower, its newly whitewashed walls and limestone blocks reflecting back the dying light of the day. Even here, down by the water, she could hear the sound of animals roaring in the royal menagerie and the shouts of the yeoman warders. Somewhere here was the royal mint, which would have its own guards. How could they possibly hope to gain admittance?

  Norris brought them in via the postern at the Develin Tower, and they made their way alongside the wall enclosing the royal gardens and up into the Lanthorn Tower, topped with the sculpted pinnacle that gave it its name. It was thrilling to see places she’d only read about in books, but there was no time to dally and admire.

  Norris walked confidently just ahead of her, greeting anyone who looked directly at him, whispering to anyone who seemed about to oppose him, and pressing unseen bounty into their hands. In this fashion, they made their way along the crenellated inner wall to the Salt Tower.

  “Why, it hardly looks like a prison.” There were stores, and bags of flour on the floor below, just like any cellar in a country house.

  He made no reply but led her by the hand towards the iron-studded door. The single guard, much occupied in paring his fingernails with his knife, came stiffly upright when hailed by Norris.

  She waited while the usual negotiations took place. This guard was the most reluctant they’d encountered yet, claiming that the prisoner within was accounted particularly dangerous, for all she was only a woman. Norris emptied his purse into the fellow’s hand, but the man just stared at the coins, then rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the hilt of his knife. Alys snatched up her purse and began counting out coins.

  “No time for that.” Norris grabbed and jerked at the purse so hard, the thong securing it to her belt broke. He stuffed the whole bag into the guard’s hands, then before the fellow could blink, caught him by the front of his doublet and brought a knife up to the man’s throat.

  “No more delays. The sum is enough. You will let us in and lock the door upon us, admitting no one else. No one, do you understand? When I knock thrice from inside, you will let us out. Don’t try any trickery—I have powerful friends.”

  The threat had the desired effect, and the man stood aside. It impressed Alys that Norris could be so fierce, but the discovery was not a comfortable one. Nor was the realization that he’d emptied his purse, and she ought really to repay him. But how could she, when she had not a penny to her name?

  They were now in one of the tower rooms. She saw stout stone walls, a magnificent window overlooking the river, and a great hooded fireplace with a woman standing beside it. The thick door swung shut, and the key turned in the lock.

  Norris turned to Alys… and struck her.

  The powerful blow crashed into her jaw, slamming her back against the unforgiving stonework. Her head hit the wall with a sickening thud and, knocked almost senseless, she slid down to the floor, her stomach rising up in revolt. Through the mists of pain, she gazed dully at the pair before her. And discovered she’d made a fatal mistake.

  There stood Kate, clothes stained and worn, her hair dirty. Her sufferings had left their path on her face, edging her eyes with dark shadows, wrinkling her brow with worry. There was a feverish look in her eyes, and her mouth was stretched wide, leering.

  Norris took Kate in his arms and kissed her. She welcomed him, then stared past his shoulder at Alys, mockery on her face. Sick with fear and shock, Alys had no doubt these two were lovers. Norris’ hungry kisses soon gave way to a fevered exploration of Kate’s body as his lips moved down to caress her neck and breast.

  Alys tried to struggle to her feet, but waves of nausea held her down. Norris turned at the sound of her whimper, his arm clamped possessively around Kate’s waist.

  “Thank you, Mistress Barchard.” He bared startlingly white teeth at her. “You have given me everything I need.”

  She leaned forward, her stomach heaving.

  “No, you don’t. We can’t have you soiling that fine cloak I gave you.” He dragged the cloak from her, sending her sprawling against the wall. Then, as calmly as if Alys weren’t there, resumed kissing Kate.

  Alys retched onto the floor, her gut in knots, her head buzzing. She remembered, with a clarity that killed all hope, that she had seen Norris before. He’d been swathed in a dark cloak, hurrying away from Selwood towards Cheyneham. He’d dropped a bead, which Kit had identified as coming from a rosary. He’d believed the so-called cunningman must be a Spaniard.

  In that, he’d been mistaken. Norris was an Englishman and a traitor. And she’d just played right into his hands.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Alys drew a hand across her mouth, then wiped her sweaty palm on her gown. What did they have planned for her? Was this Kate exacting her revenge?

  “Will you show me no mercy, Coz? I came here to help, and this is how you repay me.”

  Kate thrust Norris away and stalked over to Alys’ corner as she tried once more to rise.

  A hard slap of Kate’s hand knocked Alys to the floor again, where she sat in a miserable heap, head spinning.

  “Mercy?” Kate stood over her, hands on hips. “I have shown you enough already. Who took you in when your parents died of the sweating sickness? I did. What a pathetic creature you were then. And still are. Good little Alys, God-fearing Alys, who felt so sorry for herself yet was more than happy to chide me for my actions.”

  Kate whipped around and started pacing. “Despite the poor quality clay you were made from, I kept you occupied, taught you to how keep house, fed and clothed you as becomes a gentlewoman. But it was too much like hard work for you, wasn’t it? You thought me cruel, when all the time, I was deliberately shaping you into a woman of character, someone worth knowing. What did you know of life before you came to me? Nothing.”

  Alys found her voice. “That’s not true, I—”

  “Silence! Interrupt, and I’ll knock you senseless. You mewl about your sufferings, your penury, your lack of a husband, my behavior. Did it never occur to you that I might have suffered, too? For the loss of my husband, for the ungod
ly strictures put upon my faith by an apostate queen? A queen who would have been toppled—and the nation’s conscience salved—if it hadn’t been for you. Now Mary of the Scots will die, and England will be plunged into a bloody war—all because you were gulled by a milksop peer posing as a gardener’s boy. Hah! ’Twould be laughable were the results not so tragic.”

  Her head swung back and forth as she spoke, like a snake eyeing up its victim, ready to strike the paralyzing blow. Fury at the injustice of Kate’s accusations brought Alys to her feet once more, ready to do battle, but Norris stepped between them, thrusting the cloak he’d lent Alys at Kate.

  “There’s no more time for words—we must be gone. Cover your hair with the hood and pull it well forward of your face. I’ll deal with your cousin.”

  Alys froze as he drew a slender dagger from beneath his cloak. Time slowed down and fear weighted her limbs as something covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream. There were strange sounds in the room, but they seemed to be miles away, having nothing to do with her. All her senses were concentrated on that blade, that thin sliver of metal that dealt death in a single blow.

  If only she’d brought a weapon when she left the court with Norris—she should have learned that much by now. Summoning all her strength, she thrashed about in his grasp, broke free and tried to run, but as in a nightmare, her legs would not support her.

  Suddenly, the air was filled with movement and noise, and Kit was there, knocking Norris off his feet, and drawing a knife on him.

  She took in a searing breath, then another. The nausea returned, fueled by the sight of Kit, locked in combat with Norris, forcing back the hand that held the needle-sharp blade as he tried to bring his own into play. He ought to have the upper hand, having the element of surprise in his favor. Also, he was the taller of the two, boasting more muscle than the slight Norris.

  Shrieking with fury, Kate leapt onto Kit’s back, locking her hands in a choking grip around his throat, trying to bear him down. He staggered and attempted to shake her off, but that brief distraction allowed Norris to sink his blade into Kit’s thigh.

  As the blood spurted, Alys found a new strength, born from sheer rage that this traitor had spilled Kit’s precious blood. She picked up the wine bottle she’d brought, hurled herself at Kate and landed a crushing blow on her head.

  Kate collapsed like a house of cards, and as Norris darted aside to avoid a blow from Kit, he tripped over her. Kit’s knife caught him on the cheek, slicing it open from chin to temple. Norris roared out in pain and, at the same moment, a host of armed men hurtled into the room. Recognizing them as yeomen and warders, Alys fell back against the wall, certain the ordeal was now nearly over.

  Kit stepped away from his opponent, wiping his blade clean of Norris’ blood, a look of disgust on his face. The guard who’d been threatened with Norris’ knife dealt him a few bruising kicks before clapping him in irons. He shackled Kate, too, even though she was barely conscious.

  But none of this really mattered. Everything blurred into the background as she stared at Kit, quailing at the look of betrayal on his face.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Kit, you’re hurt.” She pushed away from the wall and staggered towards him.

  He brushed his hands down his hose and examined the wound on his thigh. “Not too deep. I shall survive for the moment. Excuse me—I have duties to attend to.”

  Dispirited, she withdrew and gazed dolefully at the bottle of wine with which she’d downed Kate. Why not open it, and drain every last drop? Maybe it would dull the agony of knowing she’d been a complete fool, risking her life and her only chance of happiness. Would Kit speak to her again? What was she to do? She knew nobody here.

  She waited in an unhappy daze while Kit called for paper and ink, scribbled a note, and instructed one of the warders to make sure it found its way to Sir Francis Walsingham.

  Eventually, he gave his attention to her. “Thank you for your intervention, Mistress Barchard. Now, will you come with me?”

  She nodded, feeling wretched, and he took her by the elbow and walked her along the walls and down through the Lanthorn Tower. When they came to a secluded corner, he pulled her under the shadow of an archway and turned her to face him.

  “Did he hurt you?” His tone held no emotion.

  “He punched me.” She felt her jaw—it ached like the devil, and she’d doubtless have a bruise for many days. She couldn’t go back to court looking like this. Especially not after she’d betrayed everyone’s trust and nearly allowed two traitors to go free. A solitary tear slid down her cheek.

  Kit brought his hand to her face to wipe it away, and she gazed up at him, silently begging his forgiveness. He held her gaze for a moment, then removed his hand and looked away.

  Desperate to regain his attention, she pointed to his thigh, bloodstained but no longer bleeding. “I think he has hurt you more. Kit, won’t you look at me? Tell me how you knew where to come, how you knew I was gone.”

  His chest heaved, and he breathed a deep sigh. “I came to see you, but you were not in your room,” he said, still not looking at her. “Nor could you be found anywhere else. Then it was discovered that Norris had gone, too, without a word to anyone, and taking all his possessions with him. That made me suspect he might have been the one who smuggled that letter out to you, so I alerted Walsingham. I put it about that he must have abducted you, because you’d left your servant and your clothes behind, then hastened to the Tower, praying that would be your destination.”

  He’d come to look for her, after the awful things she’d said to him. “Why did you come? We’d quarreled so bitterly.”

  “That’s not important now. I should get you away from this place—you look unwell.”

  The fact he’d gone looking for her rekindled a spark in her heart. “Why were you seeking me, when you’d turned your back on me, denied me your aid?”

  He stood back and looked in her eyes, his expression hard. “Why did you do it?” His voice was a low growl. “Why, against all my warnings, did you take off with Norris to see your cousin? Could you not have accepted my judgment? Could you not have trusted me?”

  She stared miserably up at him, stabbed with guilt at the pain his brown eyes. “You don’t understand. I had to see Kate—she’s family, she’s all I’ve got. I hoped I might reform her, gain her cooperation.”

  Kit drew a fist across his brow. “You could have had so much more. I offered myself to you—I would have been your family, fought your battles for you, tended your hurts… but you wouldn’t have me.”

  As she looked at him, she saw the light had gone from his eyes, and knew how much she’d wounded him. “Forgive me. I was a cursed fool, and I’m prepared to pay the price for giving Kate and Norris the chance to escape. But I beg you not to let that price be our friendship.” She laid a hand on his chest, tangling her fingers in the laces of his doublet. If he didn’t forgive her, she could never forgive herself.

  For a moment, it seemed he might capitulate, then he removed her hand from his clothing. “I’ll hire a coach to convey you back to Hatfield in the morning. I’m sure quarters can be found for you until then.”

  “But what will you do? Will you not wait with me? There is so much to be said.”

  “There is naught to be said. I shall return to Hatfield tonight, as soon as my horse is rested.”

  She grasped his doublet again, her fingers trembling. “I’m sorry, Kit, I’m so sorry.” Tears sprang to her eyes as she looked up at him, scanning his face for any little spark of hope that he still cared for her.

  When he pulled her roughly against him and pressed his mouth hungrily over hers, she thought she had her answer. But when he thrust her off and walked away, she knew the kiss had been a farewell, not an absolution.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Alys’ night spent as a guest in the Tower was fraught with demons. She lay on an unfamiliar bed, unable to sleep, unable to eat, trying not to be afraid of the unfamiliar nois
es. It was impossible to rid her mind of those who’d met an untimely end there, whether publicly, like Anne Boleyn, or in secret, like the two young princes, nephews of Richard the Third. Their spirits roamed the passageways still, protesting their fates. Every shadow concealed an assassin with a dagger. She would have sold her soul to have Kit beside her, his comforting arms protecting her. But she’d ruined everything.

  But by the time morning cast its grey fingers through her window, she’d erected a fragile wall around her damaged heart. She would openly confess her folly to any who questioned her. She’d actively seek forgiveness—and when it was not given, she’d not complain. One day, soon, she would recover, and be herself again. The time would come for her return to Selwood, where she’d put all to rights and live quietly, expecting nothing, deserving nothing.

  When she arrived back at Hatfield under the protection of Rupert, Lettice insisted she be put to bed, and after a whispered conversation with Rupert, they informed her they were sending for a physician. She made no demur—a sleeping draught, and a poultice or arnica ointment for her cheek, would be most welcome.

  And sleep she did—she drowsed and woke, woke and drowsed until she lost all idea of the passage of time. She suspected she’d been in bed for days. Clarity didn’t really return until she heard Jane Haslitt’s voice.

  “Sit up, Alys—you will want to hear this. Are you fully awake? Lord, but your shift is crumpled—you look as if you have spent the last three days in a cow byre, not in bed. Come now, here’s some cold water for your face and hands.”

  She sat up, allowed her face to be gently sponged, then made an effort to smile.

  “There, now you are back with us. I would not waste the queen’s praise on someone but half-awake.”