“I brought you here,” Elizabeth continued, her voice a harsh whisper. “Since you were a traitor, they wouldn’t take you elsewhere, not at Evesham, nor Winchester, nor Gloucester. For five years I sought a suitable place where I could put you at rest.”
The curate approached. “Were the Navarres your ancestors?”
Rather than answering, Rand said, “What can you tell us about them?”
“They make an interesting tale. Of course, much of what we know has been passed down, so I can’t speak for its veracity. Ranulf the Black’s wife asked to be buried next to him, yet we’re fairly certain that she was the one who betrayed him. Some say Jane of Winchester was responsible for the ruin of Simon de Montfort and the rebels’ defeat at Evesham.”
Scarcely breathing, Elizabeth rose and faced the curate. Her fingers touched her necklace, hidden beneath her shirt.
“How did Lady Jane betray him, Father?” Rand asked.
“After the traitors took over, they held the king’s eldest son, Prince Edward, in their custody. One day, while out racing, the prince simply rode away on a horse that had not been winded. It had all been arranged beforehand. Royalist troops met Prince Edward, then escorted him to Wigmore Castle. The prince, of course, went on to destroy Simon de Montfort at Evesham.”
“But how was Jane involved?”
“Prince Edward’s escape plan was carefully set forth in advance. Lady Jane was thought to have masterminded the escape.”
Elizabeth’s hand squeezed her necklace. She knew. Oh, God, she knew. She had sent the prince this very necklace as a sign of her faith, as well as her identity. The necklace was her talisman. Ranulf had presented it to her on their wedding day, and she had always worn it.
Ignoring the curate and Elizabeth’s male garb, Rand said, “Is that true, Bess? Did you betray me?”
His voice sounded devoid of any emotion, but his face was in shadow. “Yes,” she said.
She had met Prince Edward in a cold passageway near a banquet hall. They had formulated their plans there, to the sound of a haunting melody. The same music that had played at her wedding.
Trying to outdistance the sudden flood of memories, Elizabeth walked blindly away. She wanted to scream, cry, beat her fists against Southwark’s walls. She had hated Ranulf. He had placed everything and everyone above her, even other women. Worst of all, he had left her alone countless times. Alone in that wild border land with only the undisciplined servants to keep her company. Servants who whispered behind their hands while she ached inside and mourned for her husband’s return.
“You are barren,” Ranulf had mocked. “I will pack you off to a nunnery and marry someone young and fertile.”
He had never carried out his threat. There had been a bond linking them—a bond of mutual need and weakness.
Coming up behind Elizabeth, Rand said, “It does not matter, Bess. Ranulf and Lady Jane are two bodies long crumbled to dust. We need not accept any connection to us.”
“But we were connected. I can see her now. She was me, and yet she looked nothing like me. A tiny little thing, with hair so pale and fine, so colorless.”
As an atonement for her conspirator’s role, she had found Ranulf sanctuary at Southwark. Afterwards, she hadn’t really died, just faded away, like the colors in her hair. She had been relieved to lay beside him, encased in stone, where he could never leave her.
“If ’tis so, what does it mean?” Rand asked. “Must we replay our former lives? Will I die a bloody death? Will you betray me all over again?”
“I would never betray you! I love you more than life itself!”
“Then what does it mean?”
She could only shake her head.
***
“We shall leave London on the morrow,” Rand said, after they returned to the inn. “We’ve done what we came here to do, and I’ve not lived thirty-four years so that Walter Stafford can have the pleasure of watching me hang.”
Thirty-four. Not a very great age for a man. Janey had died at thirty-five. “Why can’t we leave right now?” she asked.
“We need money,” he stated, his manner cool and distant. “Your fortune no longer exists.”
“I’ll sell my necklace,” she said. Immediately upon exiting Southwark Cathedral, she had removed the symbol of her betrayal. “When the shops open, I’ll sell the damn thing. Then we can rid ourselves of England forever.”
Rand nodded sharply. Turning his back, he gazed out the window.
She sank onto the bed. It was dark and shadowy in their little room; dark and shadowy like Southwark Cathedral, like the passageway where she had met Prince Edward. Everything was collapsing around her and Elizabeth had no idea what to do. She sensed Rand’s unspoken condemnation. Shedding her boots, she tore her breeches and shirt from her body, aware that they still retained the smell from Southwark’s poor pit, or at least she thought they did.
“Here, Bess, let me help you.”
She hadn’t heard Rand’s approach. Now she felt him unravel her breast binding. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“There’s no need to apologize.” He tossed his own garments aside, then settled on the bed beside her. “In truth, I’ve been acting the fool.”
His voice sounded sincere, but there was an underlying edge of bitterness. “By all that’s holy,” she said, “I love you.”
“And I you.”
At long last, she relinquished the hold on her grief. Her limbs shook, tears coursed down her cheeks, and she glanced wildly about, as if she might pluck a handkerchief from the air.
Rolling onto his back, Rand settled her quivering form atop his, then pressed her face against his shoulder. She wanted to explain, but how could she explain something that was just a memory, that no one could even prove had happened. “We’re fairly certain she betrayed him,” the curate had said. Fairly certain.
“I am not Ranulf, Bess. I won’t leave you.”
She felt his hands glide down her back. She loved his hands, callused from so many years of hard riding, yet capable of infinite tenderness. Although he applied a light pressure, running his fingertips over the indentation of her waist and the flaunt of her buttocks, her skin burned. It had always been thus. She had always loved his hands.
Rising to her knees, she stared down at his face and saw her desire mirrored in his eyes. Suddenly she was wild to have him, but he gently grasped her upper arms and pushed her away. “You don’t want me,” she whispered. “There are too many memories between us, shared and unshared.”
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
The clock in their little room ticked away the minutes. Rand lay motionless, his eyes shut, but Elizabeth didn’t believe he slept. Several times she reached out for him, but she always drew back. He was clearly not in the mood to be touched. Leaving him, she walked over to the window.
From the shadows of their bed, Rand watched Elizabeth. Her head drooped. Yesterday he would have gone to her, comforted her, but now he watched, knowing that he was the cause of her sorrow.
What the bloody hell was wrong with him? Bess hadn’t conspired against him, and yet Rand had a feeling she would ultimately betray him. He couldn’t explain how he knew this, it defied all logic, but the feeling was there, buried deep, and it wouldn’t go away. Finally, he drifted off to sleep.
Near dawn, he felt her violent thrashing and pulled her into his arms. “Wake up, Bess! You’re having a bad dream.”
“I dreamt I was killing you. I’m killing you, Rand, just as I killed Ranulf.”
“That’s not true. You didn’t kill Ranulf, and I was only half alive until we met.” That’s what I should have said before, he thought.
Despite her core of strength, Bess was so vulnerable. Rand was reminded of a willow he had once seen. Whipped by the force of a violent windstorm, the willow’s branches had merely brushed the ground. His
Bess was like that willow, standing straight and tall after the storm had passed.
Rand had once believed he could bend without breaking, but now he wasn’t so sure. He felt defenseless. He had no sword sharp enough to parry the thrusts of the past, and his pistol would be useless against ghosts.
Bess, however, was no ghost, and right now she needed him as much as he needed her. Very gently, he pushed her onto her back and spread her legs. She was hot with her own moisture.
Rand was on fire as well. Yet he schooled himself to move slowly. If he could not express his emotions in words, he would prove it with his lips. His mouth branded hers, possessive, hungry. Their kiss was the present… and the future.
A groan tore from his throat as she reached out, clasped him firmly in her grip, and rubbed the head of his erection against the cleft between her thighs. He smelled her warm female scent. Taut and helpless, he was unable to turn away from her steady gaze, and yet he saw nothing but love in her eyes. Not the slightest hint of betrayal.
Only love.
She still held him as he slid inside her, and the feel of his erection slipping through her fingers was almost more than he could bear.
With a soft whimper she dug her heels into the mattress, arched her back, and rode him, as she had once ridden across the moors. His mouth possessed hers, his tongue seeking entry. He felt her tongue respond, teasing, gliding. A shiver rippled through her. Then another. Inching his hands beneath her buttocks, he thrust once, twice, three times.
Still reeling from her ecstatic quivers, Elizabeth managed to wrap her legs around Rand’s hips and take him even deeper. She heard her own throaty mews of pleasure as the perfect harmony of their flesh conjoined in a mutual burst of satisfaction. She felt the proof of his passion, yet he remained silent, and his silence was louder than his usual moans of capitulation, louder than any endearments he might have uttered.
Afterwards he held her tightly, almost desperately, while she nestled her body against his and feigned sleep.
Twenty-two
The sign “Dealer in Foreign Spirituous Liquors” was found in front of almost every shop in the Strand, whether grocer’s, milliner’s, haberdasher’s, or furrier’s. While each shop specialized in specific items, most carried a variety of goods.
Elizabeth entered a pewterer’s shop. The hour was early, the establishment newly opened. Once she sold her necklace, she would buy a couple of greatcoats so that she and Rand could pretend to be merchants. He, along with his cousins, had gone to purchase supplies and a pack mule. Later they would meet back at the inn.
Although she wore a brown woolen gown and a black shawl, as did dozens of other women, Elizabeth felt exposed, vulnerable. When the shopmaster approached, she gingerly removed her necklace from her purse and placed it on top of the counter. The very touch of the golden rope was now loathsome to her.
“How much will you give me for this?”
The master turned the necklace over in his hand. “Fifteen pounds.”
“But I paid seventy-five.”
He held the necklace up to the window’s light. “’Tis not worth seventy-five. Its workmanship is crude, the style is not popular, and I’d have trouble selling it.”
Snatching the necklace from his outstretched hand, she returned it to her purse. “Thank you for your time.”
When she reached the door, he said, “Twenty pounds.”
She turned around. “Not enough.”
“Twenty-five. That’s a goodly amount for a woman, even in London.”
Elizabeth walked out.
She repeated the scene several times. All the offers were insultingly low. They believe I’m stupid, she thought, entering an ironmonger’s establishment, cluttered with kettles, pots, and watches. If I were a man, they’d offer me double.
The ironmonger offered her ten pounds.
Next, Elizabeth tried Harold Harvey’s Toy Shop and Miscellanies. In addition to toys, the shop sold jewelry, trinkets, bucklers, clothing, umbrellas, and snuffboxes.
Mr. Harvey himself serviced her. He was short, pear-shaped, and wore his own hair, which was thick and gray and fell over his ears. “Ah!” he exclaimed, after she handed him the necklace.
“’Tis lovely, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” Harvey agreed. “I’ve always liked this particular piece of jewelry. I sold it myself, you know.”
“You did?” Elizabeth’s heart plummeted as she recalled Walter’s comment about finding the necklace inside a toy shop. Glancing over her shoulder, she fully expected a watchman to emerge from the corner, shaking his clapper to summon assistance.
“A very unusual necklace,” Harvey said. “I wouldn’t be likely to forget it.”
Though Elizabeth wanted to flee, she hesitated. Mr. Harvey’s revelation might mean nothing at all. Would Walter have been astute enough to visit the toy shop on the off chance that she might, out of all the shops in London, enter this particular establishment? Why would he even dream that she’d sell her necklace? She had read lists in the Public Advertiser and other papers, detailing the items Rand had stolen, and the necklace had never been mentioned. As far as Mr. Harvey was concerned, what difference did his previous ownership make? Walter had not personally bought the necklace. He had sent a servant. Harold Harvey had met Lord Stafford once, and their casual chat was probably no more unusual than a dozen other brief conversations.
The threat was negligible. “I must sell my necklace,” she said, summoning a deep sigh. “My mother has taken ill and I am in need of funds.”
“I’ll give you twenty pounds.”
“My mother’s servant paid seventy-five.”
Harvey studied her. Elizabeth sensed he was eager to complete the purchase.
“It graced my window for a very long time,” he finally said.
“I must have at least fifty pounds. Even at that price you’ll make a fair profit.”
“All right. But I don’t have fifty pounds on hand. Come back in an hour.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Harvey.” She retrieved the necklace. “I need the funds immediately.”
His gaze wavered between her and the necklace. “I’ll send a prentice for the money. A half hour. No longer, I swear.”
Elizabeth considered. Too risky. She shook her head.
“One moment, please. I just remembered that I have money in my lockbox upstairs.” Harvey scooped the necklace out of her hand. “I’ll be back directly. While you’re waiting, peruse my goods. Perhaps you’ll see something of interest.”
Before she could refuse, he disappeared into the back room. Elizabeth glanced around the shop. Beneath shelves that contained cloth dolls and wooden animals was a rack of clothing. She picked through the meager selection, contemplating a worn but heavy greatcoat that looked to be her size.
The shop bell rang. An elderly woman entered, picked up a silver sand box for drying ink, peered inside, set it down, and began rummaging through a box of lace. All the while, she hummed a monotonous tune that set Elizabeth’s nerves on edge.
Finishing with the lace, the woman held some whalebone stays against her generous stomach.
Damn! The shopmaster was taking much too long. Elizabeth considered walking out, but she didn’t want to leave her necklace. “Mr. Harvey!” she called.
He appeared, his face shiny with perspiration. “I’m having a bit of trouble,” he said. “I seem to have misplaced the key to my lockbox.”
“I don’t want to wait any longer. My mother—”
“Now I remember where I put the key.” Harvey removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, streaking his face powder. “Please, I crave your patience. This time I’ll only be a moment.”
“I don’t care. I’ve changed my mind. Please return my necklace so that I might go elsewhere.”
“All right, if you insist.” He licked his lips and wi
ped his palms on his vest. “But I really would pay you top price.”
“Mr. Harvey, I want my necklace. Now!”
At that moment the elderly woman waddled toward the counter, waving the whalebone stays.
“If you’ll just wait while I take care of this lady,” Harvey implored, “I’ll give you some lace for your mother. It might cheer her up.”
“Please hurry, Mr. Harvey.”
He dawdled over the woman’s transaction so long Elizabeth thought she would scream with frustration. She watched him fumble with the wrapping paper and string, and she decided she couldn’t linger any longer. Mr. Harvey was either an incredible bumbler, or he was deliberately stalling.
“I’ll return in an hour,” she fibbed.
“Wait,” he protested. “I’m nearly finished.”
Elizabeth made an about-face.
The shop bell rang, an ominous sound.
She heard Harvey expel his breath on a long sigh of relief.
Walter Stafford entered the establishment.
Elizabeth stood there as if paralyzed, but her mind raced. She should have known. She had known. The moment Mr. Harvey disappeared into the back room, he must have sent a prentice for Walter. This toy shop was, without doubt, one of the first places Walter had contacted.
Why do I always underestimate him?
Walter was holding out his arms. “Elizabeth, dearest!”
She forced herself to run toward him, even embrace him, as if she were indeed his fiancée and had been captured against her will. “I’m so glad you’ve found me,” she said to Walter’s diamond buttons. “I’ve been so terrified.”
He patted her back and made appropriate soothing sounds. Elizabeth raised her face. Behind Walter stood a Goliath of a man dressed in the Stafford livery.
Two of them! Oh, God, what am I going to do?
Rand had said to denounce him. Although the very thought was odious, she’d try. After all, her own survival was at stake. She would stall, as Mr. Harvey had successfully stalled, so that she might devise a plan of escape.
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