When he returned to sit on the side of the couch it was as if a coin were spinning on its edge. It could fall either way. One push could set a different course.
Just one.
She reached forward, resting a hand on his shoulder, toying with the rough edge of his shirt. ‘Rumours,’ she murmured softly. ‘This city runs on rumours. It’s the same at home. I can scarcely set foot outside my grange without somebody whispering some nonsense about me. His Grace brought me down from Yorkshire to minister to his health needs.’ She made a face. ‘He suffers terribly from arthritis.’
He took her hand in his and held it. After a moment he pressed her fingers against his lips.
‘The thing is,’ he hesitated, avoiding her glance, ‘I’ve been following you ever since I saw you in the crypt with what I took to be a French spy. I saw him arrive off a ship from France before the blockade came down.’ He paused as if what he was about to say was difficult and kissed the palm of her hand. ‘It made me suspect you and your lord archbishop of being traitors and, as such, opponents of My Lord the Duke of Lancaster.’
‘The Duke?’
‘And his son.’
‘I am not a traitor to England and nor is the archbishop.’
‘But the Duke is your enemy.’ He pressed his lips into her palm again.
‘Only if he is a traitor to the King.’
‘He is not. The rumours about his aim to usurp the throne are exactly that. More, they’re deliberate lies. Spread by the King’s inner circle for their own ends.’
‘That’s a view, certainly. But his son? Are you confident he has no designs on the throne?’
Rivera did not answer. His eyes darkened.
The coin was still spinning. And she knew now what she must do.
She chose the words that would determine her fate.
‘There is another rumour, Rivera. I’m sure you’ve heard it.’
He shifted his glance back to her face.
‘They say King Richard is trying to arrange a secret meeting with King Charles of France. His aim is to do a deal to ensure his own safety. If that is true then we are best off if we let him go. We should choose another man, one who is worthy of the English people.’
She sank back onto the wolfskin and it slipped a little as she put a hand to her mouth. ‘Forgive me! That must sound most seditious. I don’t mean to speak against the King …’
He was staring intently into her eyes as if testing the truth of her sentiments.
She stretched out her arms. ‘I feel so chilled. Will you warm me again, Rivera?’
Without expression he stood up, hesitated, and then, like a sleepwalker, unbuckled his leather belt and let it fall to the floor. With his dark eyes fixed on hers, he disrobed, pulled his shirt over his head and stood naked for a moment before climbing under the wolfskin and lying beside her. She matched her body to his and allowed her fingers to trail slowly over his chest, over the taut muscles of his stomach, lingering, then moving lower. It was no hardship to simulate desire, she discovered to her dismay.
He lay back on the mound of pillows with his eyes closed, his mouth set in a straight line.
Without his penetrating stare she could gaze at him without shame. His beauty moved her. It was full of contradictions. Harshness and tenderness. Eyes that could light up with humour, with warmth, or darken with secret danger.
In other circumstances and in less troubled times, she thought … if the world were different … She sighed, partly from regret, partly also at the reawakening of a pleasure long forbidden as he turned to her with that sudden smile that made her heart turn over and her limbs melt.
His tone was puzzled. ‘Your prioress wouldn’t agree with what you said earlier.’ He watched her carefully.
‘My prioress … ?’ Sleepily, a brief image came to mind. The prioress of Swyne. Ever faithful to King Richard. Upright, honest and intransigent. What would she think now?
She recalled her pragmatism and courage. Then she remembered the man beside her. ‘You forget, Rivera, my Order, if I may still call it that, is under the rule of the Pope in Avignon.’
‘She’s a Clementist. Of course.’ His expression changed. ‘I made an assumption about you – travelling in Neville’s household – forgive me. We have more in common than I guessed.’ He was still looking thoughtful but turned and took her more firmly in his arms. ‘I believe we shall soon have Richard where we want him.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stiffened.
‘The evidence against him and his attempted private treaty with the French will be damning. Enough to give Bolingbroke his chance at the throne.’
‘Evidence?’
He began to kiss her, lifting her hair and letting it fall. She was scarcely able to concentrate.
‘We do have evidence. We have a sworn testimony from one of the servants who went to Paris with Lord Salesbury.’
She had heard the rumours about a secret mission to the French court but had not believed it.
Rivera began to push the wolfskin aside again. ‘Soon it’ll be common knowledge.’
‘And is he to be trusted, this servant?’
‘Indeed – he’s retained by one of the city aldermen. Who in turn is maintained by Bolingbroke.’
As the wolfskin fell away and revealed her to his gaze she was aware that he did not trust her enough to name the alderman or the servant. Reluctant to give up any advantage, she ran her hands through his hair and pulled his head down to her breasts so that he could not see the alarm in her eyes and murmured, ‘It is to be hoped his testimony will be enough to defeat a king.’
When he raised his head and smiled into her eyes he did so with such sweetness that it took her breath away. His words, however, sent shudders through her when he laughed and said, ‘It’ll be enough to start the rumour-mongers clacking and after that there’ll be no stopping them.’ His lips were on her mouth but he lifted them long enough to mutter, ‘The London mob cheer anybody if they’re handled cleverly enough. Or hang them. They’re fickle rats. They’re already beginning to doubt Richard’s fitness to lead them, especially as he can’t produce an heir. They’re still in awe of his regality. But he can be made to seem anything his enemies want.’
‘What do you mean?’ She stopped him, bringing his face to hers so she could look into his eyes.
‘He can seem extravagant while they starve. Partisan while they have to scramble for favour. Arrogant while they live lives of enforced civility. Once the mob has its views changed against him, it’ll get rid of him. Bolingbroke will scarcely have to raise a finger, let alone an army. If he wants the crown enough they’ll tear Richard apart and hand it to him on a velvet cushion.’
‘But if Richard does have an heir …’ she managed as his lips sank lower. ‘The people would never support a usurper.’
‘He will not have an heir. It will not be allowed. His offspring would be murdered in their beds.’
With a sudden savage gesture he pushed aside the last covering of the wolfskin and kicked it onto the floor. He knelt above her.
It will not be allowed.
What could he mean? Who would not allow it? He could only mean Bolingbroke or Gloucester.
As he closed over her she slid helplessly into the depths with the thought: Save me from the fires of hell, save me from losing myself to this treacherous man. Save me.
Rivera was lying back across the couch, his head cradled in her lap while she fed him blackberries from a wooden dish. The purple juice ran down and she bent her head to lick it from the corners of his mouth. The harshness had vanished from his face. His beautiful lips curved with pleasure. Unable to resist, she pressed kisses over his face until she reached his mouth, then, barely touching it, she listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing as it adapted itself to her own.
Wondering when she would have to leave she asked, ‘Did they say when my boots would be ready?’
‘Soon.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Never.’
‘So I shall be a prisoner here?’
‘Yes. Why would you want to leave?’
‘I don’t.’ She kissed him again. He pulled her over himself, his mouth hot, searching for her own.
He said, ‘You’ve heard all the noise in the street outside? That’s because everybody’s pouring out of the city into Westminster. King Dickon has opened Parliament. His chancellor is making his first speech even now.’
She buried her face in his hair. The moment de la Pole had mentioned had come. ‘How is it being received I wonder?’
‘I’ll find out. I have to go out soon, work to do.’
The bell for nones had long ago faded.
‘Work?’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll get Matilda to prepare some food for when I get back. I’ve told her not to enter my room. Don’t let her know you’re here or it’ll be round town in no time, doing neither of us any good.’
‘This housekeeper. I’m surprised she’s a gossip.’ She had heard his peremptory order from the top of the stairs. ‘You speak quite harshly to her.’
‘I do so to keep her from me. She’s a widow. It would be her ruin if I allowed any intimacy.’ He opened his eyes. ‘She’s not like you. She’d follow me like a faithful hound to the ends of the earth if I asked – even to the gates of hell.’
‘And I would not?’
He studied her expression, eyes sombre. ‘I know you would not. You’d betray me on the slightest pretext if it could further your cause.’
‘My cause? I have no cause!’
His liquid gaze swept her face, guarded and suddenly cold. ‘I hope not. Or we should not be together.’
Later, before he went out, she leant against him, matching her body to his to bring her lips level with his own. They looked into each other’s eyes. Rivera’s were flecked with amber and jade. And then they became an endless black corridor leading into the abyss of his soul.
A street singer accompanied himself on a hurdy-gurdy directly beneath the window. He sang and played for some time. Jigs. Laments. A plaintive chanson that he kept coming back to. Maybe Rivera had paid him to play, planted him there to make sure she did not leave without being noticed. Her clothes had been moved somewhat further back from the fire and her cloak was still slightly steaming. Her shift was dry but she left it where it lay.
Warm underneath the animal skin she pondered the scene at the Tower, the one she had witnessed from the prisoner’s window: Mayor Brembre, the aldermen and the Bohemian courtier, Petrus de Lancekrona, making their regular visit to the Salt Tower. She wondered if Rivera knew the Bohemian’s name. He was well known even outside court circles for his extravagant behaviour, his devotion to Queen Anne. Rivera had been in the Tower enclave often enough to know about him.
She wondered if he knew the name of the person they were meeting, his allegiance, what the purpose of their meeting was, and whether it was knowledge powerful enough to bring the defeat of the King. She wondered about the aldermen, which one was a traitor, and the name of the servant who was supposed to have accompanied the King’s envoy to Paris and how damning his testimony could be.
Rivera returned at last. It was late in the day. He seemed preoccupied. One sharp glance to make sure she was still there then a turning away of his head. The harshness was back, mouth grim, eyes hooded. He threw his cloak onto a chair.
Food, taken from his bag, he placed between them on the couch having climbed in beside her again, but although he urged her to start, he did not eat.
‘Did you hear anything about de la Pole’s speech to the lords?’ she asked when the silence lengthened.
He looked up, startled, then shook his head. ‘Only that he’s trying to exact an outrageous tax which nobody will ever accept. Least of all the Commons.’
‘Not even Mayor Brembre?’
He gave her a slanting look. ‘Not even our illustrious mayor. Unless he’s able to come to some secret exemption for himself and his cronies.’
‘That’s cynical.’
‘I have no illusions – do you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Both sides are the same. Greed and ambition. Those who have power stop at nothing to keep it. Why should I respect them? It’s only because of what the Duke has done for me that I’m on the Lancastrian side.’
‘The Duke?’
‘Forget it.’
‘No, Rivera. Why should I forget it? How did you come to know him?’
‘He had me educated and then gave me to the Benedictines. I asked to be released. You don’t need to know all this.’
She said lightly, ‘Your St Serapion is not very strict.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re insatiable.’
‘I am! What about you?’
‘I’m free, you told me so.’
‘Do you believe everything I tell you?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then you’re a fool …’ He reached out for her. ‘Except that I know you’re not.’ He whispered in her ear. ‘Dedens mon livre de pensee, j’ay trouvé escripvant mon cueur—’
‘La vraye histoire de doleu,’ she murmured in return.
‘So you know it?’ He looked at her with a quizzical expression. ‘And do you know what I have written on my heart—?’
‘The true history of grief—’ she quoted.
‘Grief at the falling of the prey,’ he added with a touch of irony. He turned away.
Something had happened while he had been out.
He turned back. ‘Now you’ve established I read poetry and found something out about my past, what else do you want to know?’
‘Only what might be written truly on your heart,’ she answered, referring to the lines he had just quoted.
‘Doleur, death and dark deeds.’ He gave a predatory smile.
‘Tell me something true about yourself.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Anything.’
He looked thoughtful. ‘When I was a boy I trained a hawk. It was a falcon. I used to think how she must grieve as she gyred in splendour towards the sun, knowing that she would have to return to earth.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She flew off and didn’t come back.’
He got up.
She asked quickly, ‘What happened when you were out?’
He gave her a piercing glance. ‘Interesting you should mention Brembre.’ He returned to the couch.
When he hesitated she prompted, ‘Why so?’
‘I’ve just seen him at the Tower.’
As lightly as a zephyr she asked, ‘Oh? What was he doing there?’
‘He’s there regularly these days.’ He examined her expression as if it might tell him something. ‘It can only mean one thing,’ he said, still watching her. ‘He’s meeting someone on behalf of the King.’
‘You think the rumour’s true, then? This one about the secret French agreement?’
He ignored that, instead saying, ‘I’ve also heard that something special is going on in the Tower the night after next.’ He picked up a piece of bread and began to eat. ‘Your new boots should be ready by then. Come with me. Let’s catch the traitors in their nest.’
Rivera promised he would make sure she got back safely to Westminster. Although his small house was set in a jumble of similar unpretentious dwellings with only a view of the street, across the yard at the back was a narrow gap between the houses that in the north would have been called a laup. At the far end it descended in a dozen steps to the water. A narrow shelf of sand was revealed at low tide but when it came in the water reached the top of the steps. It was because of this that it was only possible to keep a boat on shore. There was one there now when they went out, a small clinker-built gig, hanging from a bracket on the wall.
Rivera manhandled it down onto the cobbles, dragged it into the narrow water-filled gap between the houses and handed her in while he steadied it. He climbed in after her, leant across and kissed her, then pushed it out onto the wide waters.
Hildegard felt a rush of fear as the tide broiled underneath the thin wooden shell and Rivera commented on her change of colour. He smiled warmly down the boat. ‘Trust me.’
Before she alighted at the busy Westminster landing stage a few minutes later, nervous at appearing before the world again, he told her he would come to meet her in this exact spot at the bell for vespers the day after next.
‘Don’t draw attention to yourself. We’ll go back to my place, have something to eat, then go on to the Tower after compline when it’s dark.’
The cheerful porter was on duty when she reached the wicket gate. He looked at her in astonishment. ‘Praise be, Domina! We’d given you up for dead. There’s a reception committee waiting for you at the gatehouse. You’d best get on up there. Set Earl de Hutton’s mind at rest.’
Ulf, with a posse of armed men in possession of the gatehouse, some scandalously playing dice in front of a couple of Benedictines, was pacing to and fro across the floor. Hildegard stood in the doorway until he noticed her.
When he eventually looked across he stopped in his tracks. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ He came towards her with a look of mingled relief and concern on his face. He looked her up and down. ‘Are you unharmed?’
When she failed to answer straight away he went on, ‘We got the message late last night about your accident. Till then we’d been scouring the entire north bank for you, especially with these gruesome body parts showing up.’
She blinked. ‘What are you saying? What message? What body parts?’
He in turn looked astonished. ‘You know, the nailed hand and all that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Rivera had mentioned no such thing.
‘Don’t worry about it now.’ He put a hand under her elbow. ‘Come and sit down. You look washed out. What the hell happened? Where’ve you been all this time?’
‘I fell in the river. My rescuer took me in.’
‘Fell in?’
‘Careless of me.’
Ulf looked unconvinced but evidently decided to accept it. ‘Who saved you?’
A Parliament of Spies Page 21
