The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  "Carving? What carving?"

  "He didn't show you?" She humphed. "Course he wouldn't. Wait here. I'll fetch it."

  She bustled out and returned a few minutes later, her hand outstretched. A little wooden dog sat on her palm. A little wooden Brutus. Nick had captured her hound's likeness perfectly, from the fine detail of his fur to his tongue lolling out the left side as he gazed adoringly up at something. He'd even managed to infuse the face with Brutus's enthusiasm.

  "One of the maids found it in the guest bedchamber," Matilda said. "She thought maybe he forgot it. I said to her, 'How can he forget his one and only possession?' What say you, mistress? Do you think he left it behind on purpose?"

  Lucy stroked the smooth wooden head with her thumb and the real Brutus's head with her other hand. She shrugged because her throat was too clogged with unshed tears for her to answer. She liked to think he'd left it for her, but that couldn't be. He'd made it clear she wasn't in his thoughts at all anymore, and probably never had been.

  "'Tis a fine piece of work, ain't it?" Matilda said. "Shame he turned out to be a murderer."

  A shame too that he'd taken advantage Lucy. It was an even bigger shame that she'd let him. She should have known better.

  Matilda left and Lucy tried to sleep, but couldn't, not with Nick cooped up in a small cell. She spent most the night trying to turn her heart against him, telling herself he was a cur, that he deserved whatever the Larkham men did to him. But her heart wouldn't be swayed, and the thought of what could happen next turned her blood to ice.

  Nick might be a cold-hearted beast where she was concerned, but he didn't deserve to be hanged for bringing justice to those girls.

  She hoped and prayed that Lord Oxley could do something, but hopes and prayers didn't ease her mind.

  "I still can't believe it," Henry said over breakfast. He'd joined her in the small parlor after urging her to get out of bed. She'd not been able to sleep, yet she didn't want to face the world either. "To think, he murdered someone! And we harbored him here in this house. I even let him court you!"

  Lucy set her knife down firmly on her trencher. "You have it wrong."

  "He didn't kiss you?"

  "Uh, yes, he did."

  "He didn't murder the Larkham alderman?"

  "He did that too, but he had a reason." She got up and closed the door.

  "He had a reason for committing murder?" Henry blinked slowly. "Surely you're not going to defend his actions after the way he treated you?"

  "What I am going to tell you must remain a secret. You cannot speak of it to anyone." She recounted everything Orlando and Lord Oxley had told her about Nick and his assassination of Alderman Renny. When she finished, Henry stared at her, his mouth open. "I don't know what Renny's crime was," she said, "but I suspect it was heinous."

  "This is shocking," he said. "Yet I do believe every word, if only because of Holt. If it had come from Lord Oxley alone, I would have had doubts. From what I've seen of him, he's a fool who likes attention. Worse even that Lord Lynden. But Holt I trust."

  "Lord Oxley acts that way deliberately. I've seen him in his true guise, and he is as sharp as a blade. His men trust him, and he them."

  "Then why didn't he try to release Coleclough?"

  "How could he? They had witnesses. He cannot say that Nick was with him because that would clearly be a lie and would only implicate himself. Nor can he vouch for Nick's character for the same reason. It's hopeless."

  "Not completely. Perhaps Oxley can talk to the coroner or assize judges. He would have some sway with them, and Coleclough is a nobleman's son too. That must count for something."

  "Perhaps. But the judges aren't due for two weeks, the coroner in a few days. Anything could happen in that time, and Lord Oxley needs to keep his disguise intact until then."

  "You think he values his disguise over his friend's life?"

  "I don't know. I truly don't."

  He suddenly stood. "I'm going to Sutton Grange. I can't sit here and do nothing after what you've said, no matter what I think of the man personally."

  "I'm coming."

  "Thought you might."

  ***

  Lucy clutched Henry's arm as they approached the Plough Inn, and he sucked air between his teeth.

  "Not so hard, Sis." He pulled gently on the reins and eased the horse to a stop alongside the green opposite the inn. "He might be all right. Mayhap they've released him."

  They would not have released him. The Larkham men wouldn't allow it. Upfield seemed determined to avenge his friend's killer, and the more restrained Sawyer looked equally determined to see justice done, if only for justice's sake.

  Or Nick may have succumbed to his injuries. Lucy clutched Henry's arm harder.

  "We'll go inside. Milner will know where he is."

  Lucy kept her arm looped through her brother's as they walked beneath the swinging sign of the Plough and into the taproom. There weren’t many patrons, but that was hardly surprising considering the early hour. Lucy counted perhaps a dozen in all, and aside from Milner and his daughter, they were in two distinct camps. Sitting on stools in the far corner was Upfield and a few other men Lucy didn't recognize. Sitting around a table at the opposite end of the room was Mr. Monk, Widow Dawson and Anne Lane, the chandler's wife.

  Widow Dawson hailed them and Monk pulled up two more stools. Henry sat. Lucy did not.

  "Where is he?" she asked. "Is he—" She swallowed hard but the lump in her throat remained.

  "He's well enough," said Widow Dawson.

  "I want to see him." Lucy looked around the taproom but of course he wouldn't be there. They wouldn't let murderers drink with the patrons.

  "He's in the storeroom," Monk said. "Since Milner is constable, it gets used as a jail cell from time to time. Some wanted to keep him in the stocks." He tilted his head toward the Larkham men. "But Hughe wouldn't allow it."

  "Lord Lynden would have agreed on the storeroom if he were here," Anne said with a knowing nod.

  "Where is the storeroom?" Lucy asked.

  Widow Dawson caught her hand. "Leave him," she said. "He rests. I've seen to his wounds, and he has everything he needs."

  "But…"

  Anne caught Lucy's other hand. "Sit with us until he wakes."

  Lucy plopped down on the stool with a heavy sigh. "Where is Lord Oxley? Is he with Nick?"

  "No," said Monk. He didn't elaborate, and no one else seemed to know his whereabouts.

  Milner brought two ales for Henry and Lucy without being asked and set them on the table. "Coroner's been sent for, and he'll go direct to Larkham to view the body. There seems to be no doubts about what happened, so the inquest is just a formality. Mr. Coleclough will stay in my storeroom till the assize judges get here."

  "Mind you take good care of him," Anne said. "He's the son of a baron."

  "I know, I know." To Henry, he said, "Widow Dawson here says the murderer's been stayin' at yer farm. She said he's got no memory."

  "I said he had no memory of the last few years, Mr. Milner," Widow Dawson said. "If you're goin' to gossip, get the facts right."

  The innkeeper wrung his hands in his apron. "Fact is, if he was the murderin' sort, Mistress Cowdrey here would know it after spendin' a few days with him. She's a good judge of character. What say you, ma'am? Is he the sort to have done it?"

  Lucy felt all eyes upon her, trying to see into her mind, her heart. None drilled harder than Monk, but she didn't feel threatened by him. If Lord Oxley were with them, she may have found it more difficult to say what she wanted to say.

  "He's not the sort to commit such a terrible deed without good reason."

  Monk's only reaction was a twitch of muscle in his cheek. He wasn't happy that she'd said that much, but so be it. Nick's life was at stake. Lucy had to do everything necessary to save him. He may not love her the way she loved him—or at all—but she couldn't stand by and watch him hang.

  "What reason?" Milner asked, leaning in.


  "I wish I knew. He won't say."

  The innkeeper straightened. "Pity. He'll tell the judges when the time comes, no doubt." He glanced at the Larkham men. "Do they know what the reason could be? A duel p'haps, or a slight?"

  "I wouldn't ask them if I were you," Henry said. "I don't think they have as much faith in my sister's judgment as we do. Mayhap they think their man innocent, or they wouldn't be here."

  Upfield drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. "Wench!" he shouted at Milner's daughter. "Bring your fat arse over here."

  "Enough of that!" Milner shouted back. "You treat my girl with some respect, or you won't be served."

  Upfield stood. He wasn't tall, but he was solid and looked like he'd be difficult to knock over. One of his friends stood too, a huge man with a red face shaped like a brick. The two of them approached, scowling at Milner.

  "We don't want trouble," Henry said, hands up. Always the peacemaker. He stood, however, and Monk too.

  "Seems to me you're askin' for trouble bein' a friend to a murderer," Upfield said. "He should be swingin' on the gibbet where he belongs."

  "You should be in a pigsty," Monk said, "but none of us are holding it against you."

  Lucy held her breath and willed Monk to sit down and be quiet. If he was hoping Henry and Milner would back him up, he was in for a rude shock. Henry had never been in a real fistfight in his life, and Milner wasn't exactly a young man.

  "Sit down, Mr. Upfield," Monk said. "We don't want—"

  Upfield swung. Monk ducked, landing a punch in Upfield's stomach as he did so. Upfield reeled back and fell onto the floor with a heavy thud, wheezing like a bellows. The other big Larkham brute came at Monk, his blocky face set with fierce determination. Monk stood his ground and slammed his fist into the man's nose. Blood sprayed and he roared with pain. He was too occupied with holding his nose to come at Monk again.

  Lucy expected the others to aid him, but they seemed shocked to see both their companions nursing injuries so quickly.

  "You'd better go now," Monk said, flexing his hand.

  They got up and left, but their scowls and spits were a sign that they'd not given up entirely. "He won't get away with what he did," Upfield snarled. "We'll see to it."

  Lucy shuddered. She felt sick to her core. "Do you think they'll try to avenge Renny's death before the assizes?"

  "We'll have to wait and see," Monk said.

  It wasn't an answer that instilled much hope in her.

  "Where's Sawyer?" Henry asked. "He seems like a sensible man. He might be able to keep them calm."

  "In his room, I think," said Milner, heading back to his bar. "So where'd you learn to fight like that, Mr. Monk?"

  "Here and there," Monk said, picking up his tankard.

  "S'pose that's why Lord Oxley employs you. His lordship seems like the sort who'd need a good pair of fists in his employ. I remember when he first came to Sutton Grange, time before last, he had this big fellow with him. Huge he was, in height and girth. Tanned skin too, a little like Mr. Coleclough, but his hair were different."

  Lucy's gaze slid to her brother's, but he didn't notice. He'd arched a brow at Monk. He sipped his ale slowly and ignored them all. Susanna had said she'd met Nick months before. Lucy supposed he could have been in disguise.

  "I can't sit here any longer," she said, rising. "I have to see him."

  Widow Dawson sighed. "Aye, but if he's asleep, don't wake him."

  "I'll take you," Monk said.

  Henry caught her elbow, and Lucy thought he would warn her to be careful, or perhaps even suggest he come with her, but he did not. He simply squeezed and gave her a grim but reassuring smile. Poor Henry. His new life at Cowdrey Farm had not been an easy one so far.

  "Don't fret," Lucy heard Widow Dawson tell Henry as she walked off with Monk. "He's too weak to do anything but talk."

  "Weak?" Lucy said to Monk. "Why is he weak?"

  "The journey was rough. I'd wager the cart driver deliberately drove over every bump and dip. Upfield was tasked with helping Cole out of the back of the cart when we arrived, and I use the word help in its loosest form."

  Oh God.

  They crossed the inn's yard where an ostler led away a horse and a dusty traveler washed his face in a pail by the stables. The yard was surrounded on three sides by the double story building. The uppermost floor housed rooms for travelers and an undercover gallery overlooked the cobbled yard.

  Monk led her toward the far corner near where the kitchen, larder, and other service rooms were housed in the furthermost wing. The stables were to its right, and the dining hall and taproom to the left. Monk held the door open for her and she stepped inside.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. With the door closed again behind her, the only light came from a small, high window in need of cleaning. They stood in a narrow corridor that stretched to both left and right, and there was another door straight ahead.

  "Mr. Monk, Mistress Cowdrey," said Sawyer, coming toward them from the left. Behind him, something moved, but Lucy couldn't see who or what it was. "Are you going to see the prisoner?"

  "Aye," said Monk.

  "Have you been in to him?" Lucy asked. Sawyer may seem like a sensible man, but he was from Larkham. He couldn't be trusted.

  "No." He tugged on the brim of his hat. "Good day, ma'am, sir."

  He left via the door through which they'd just entered. Once it was closed again, the narrow space fell into shadows. "This way," Monk said. He slid the bolt back and opened the door opposite. "I'll wait out here. Call if you need anything."

  The room smelled of damp earth and wine, and it was much cooler than outside. The light was just as dim in the storeroom as it was in the corridor and it took Lucy's eyes a few moments to focus. Then, she saw him.

  "Nick!"

  He sat on a pallet on the floor at the far end of the small room, his back against a large barrel, his feet outstretched. His eyes had been closed, but he opened them when he heard her voice. At least, he half-opened them. They were too swollen to widen more.

  "Dear lord," she said on a breath as she knelt beside him. "What have they done to you?" She touched his cheek gingerly. He flinched and she drew her hand away. "Did Upfield do this?"

  "What are you doing here?" he snapped. "You should be home."

  She sat back on her haunches and regarded him. "I did go home. Now I'm here. Let me see your face."

  He jerked away.

  "Let me see your face."

  "Widow Dawson has already dabbed vile stuff over me and wound my head up tight, I don't need you fussing too."

  His tone was harsh, but it didn't affect her. He was playing the part of uncaring assassin, just as he'd played the part of Oxley's servant, or wandering traveler. He was trying to push her away with this coldness, but she wasn't going to let him. They had very little time together, and she wouldn't waste it arguing.

  The thought brought fresh tears to her eyes, but she refused to let them spill. Tears, like arguing, was for another time.

  "I see you have everything you need," she said, looking around. A large tankard of ale sat a little apart from the pallet, a trencher of bread and cheese beside it. It wasn't infested with weevils and the pallet and blanket on which he sat seemed clean. Milner was treating him well enough. She probably had Oxley to thank for that.

  "It's as good as any inn room," he said grudgingly. "But Milner needs to replace his rat trap." He shifted back on the pallet and a chain rattled. It was attached to his left wrist. She'd not noticed it before. The other end looped through a large iron ring in the wall and was locked with a padlock. The chain was long enough for Nick to freely walk around most of the storeroom, but not quite long enough for him to reach the door.

  She pulled a face, both at the rat comment and the chain. "Is that necessary?"

  "Sawyer and Upfield insisted. Seems they don't trust your Sutton Grange friends."

  "Perhaps it's your friends they don't t
rust. Oxley in particular is not the man he presents to the rest of the world."

  A beat passed, two. "He told you."

  "Yes."

  "How much?"

  "Everything," she lied. If she had to resort to lies to get the truth then so be it. "You don't deserve this, Nick."

  "Cole."

  "Don't! You are Nick to me. Cole is not who you are. He's the disguise you've been wearing for eleven years. It's time to shed him."

  He said nothing, and his face was too battered for her to make out his expression. Most likely he wouldn't reveal his thoughts that way anyway. He was too good at maintaining the mask. She was foolish to think she could get him to drop it now.

  "Sweet, innocent Lucy Cowdrey." When he finally spoke, the sneer in his voice was like a knife through her gut. "You've learned nothing, have you?"

  "On the contrary. I've learned much." She'd won over an entire village after her cousins' deaths. She could win back this man too. She refused to believe that her Nicholas Coleclough was buried so deep that he was irretrievable. She wouldn't give up. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance of saving him from the gallows.

  "You just want to be liked," he went on. "You hate to have someone somewhere thinking ill of you. You try to be the person they want, you go out of your way to please people, but to what end? This deep desire blinds you to what they really think."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "Don’t you? You visited Susanna Holt almost every day. Has she come to you?"

  "She's with child!"

  "She could have been to see you in the early weeks. There is no law against expectant women traveling short distances. When I went to Stoneleigh before I even met you, they spoke of you. Spoke of how innocent and eager you were, of how they tolerated your presence because they wanted to foster goodwill with their new neighbors. Not because they liked having you there every day."

  Lucy shook her head. He was good. He was very good. If she let her guard down for only a moment, she might even allow herself to believe him. But it was time to keep her wits about her and her guard up. He'd closed his heart and was using his head. She could do that too.

  "I don't think the Holts would like to hear you slander their good name like this," she said as coolly as she could manage.