“And you are happy, are you not?”
“Certainly I—I am content,” Cat faltered, as disconcerted by the question as she was by the almost-worshipful look in the girl’s eyes. “But being independent is often just another word for—for—”
“For what?”
“For being alone.” Cat tucked a stray wisp of hair back behind Meg’s ear. “I am no one’s hero, child, or example to follow. You must find your own path.”
Meg wrapped her arms about Cat’s waist and nestled her head against her. “That’s what you keep telling me. But it’s very hard and confusing.”
“I know, babe.” Cat dropped a kiss atop Meg’s head. “Fortunately, you don’t need to find anything tonight. It’s been a long day. I think we had both better be getting off to bed before Mistress Butterydoor scolds us for wasting candles.”
Meg nodded her agreement, allowing Cat to lead her over to the bed and tuck her beneath the covers. The girl was so tired Cat had scarcely gotten halfway through recounting a stirring tale of Grania, the pirate queen, before Meg was asleep.
Long after the girl had nodded off, Cat prowled about the room, tending to small domestic chores she usually left to Mistress Butterydoor or Maude. Picking up Meg’s discarded gown and petticoats and folding them into the wardrobe chest, she continued to be haunted by Meg’s question and her own reply.
“You are happy, are you not?”
“Certainly I am content.”
Cat had always believed that she was. It had been a long time since she had given up hoping for anything different from her life, a home of her own, a husband and children. After Rory O’Meara had broken faith with her, after she had been cast out of the clan, she had had to learn to fend for herself, to be solitary and independent.
And she had more than learned; she had fiercely reveled in her freedom, her only fetter her friendship with Ariane Deauville. Even that had been a bond that she had embraced cautiously, tenuously.
Love anyone too much and the risk of losing them was too great, the pain of the loss unbearable. Meg fancied her to be so brave, Cat thought with a rueful twist of her lips. In truth, she was the veriest coward.
Tiptoeing back to the bed, Cat arranged the covers more snugly about Meg’s shoulder and smoothed her soft tangle of hair back from her brow. The sight of the sleeping girl, so tender, so vulnerable, stirred an ache in Cat’s heart that was alarming.
She had grown fond of Meg, too fond perhaps. If she had ever had a daughter—Cat was quick to check the wistful thought. Backing away from the bed, she reflected that December could not come soon enough. She was in great danger of becoming far too enmeshed in the lives of Martin le Loup and his daughter.
Retiring to her own pallet, she flung herself down only to spring up almost immediately, smothering an oath. Some object, small and hard, had jabbed against her spine. Rolling off the pallet, she caught a gleam of something silvery and the white outline of a piece of parchment.
Snatching up the note, she held it closer to the glowing embers of the fire and was just able to make out Martin’s brief scrawl.
Here is something else I thought you might require.
Cat scowled. Now what the devil had the man had the impertinence to buy for her? Impatiently she groped through the bedclothes until she seized upon the object.
Holding it close to the firelight, her jaw dropped open when she realized what it was. A small silver flask and from the weight of it, it was obviously filled with some liquid.
Cat uncorked it and sniffed, cautiously tipping the flask to her lips. The Irish whiskey flowed over her tongue and down her throat, flooding her with warmth, burning her with memories of peat fires and heather-covered hills, of her father’s booming laugh and her gran’s wry wisdom. Tears stung her eyes.
“Damn you, Martin le Loup,” she whispered.
What right did he have to be giving her a gift such as this? One that was bound to…to touch her heart. No, she assured herself fiercely, wiping her eyes. That was not why she was shaken.
It was the extravagance of the gift that appalled her. The silver flask and the whiskey had to have cost more than her new gown, petticoats, stockings, and shoes all put together. How could Martin afford such things?
Cat frowned, realizing that was a question that had been vexing her for some time. Only a short year ago, Martin had been a fugitive, nothing more than a vagabond player. Now he owned a share in the Crown Theatre, a fine town house staffed with servants, to say nothing of Meg’s lessons, her books, her wardrobe. How did the man afford any of this?
MARTIN DELVED INTO HIS PURSE AND PRESSED SEVERAL guineas into the landlord’s outstretched palm. It was a great deal of money for one night’s supper, but one could scarce haggle over pennies, he thought grimly. Not when entertaining men he might end up sending to the gallows.
The meal paid for, Martin elbowed his way back through the taproom, pipe smoke, the tang of stale ale, and sweat thick in his nostrils. The Plough Inn was far too crowded and noisy for such a hot summer night, but the landlord had placed a screen, separating Martin’s company from the rest of the men thronging the rough wooden tables and chairs.
As Martin stepped behind the screen, several of the inn’s servants bustled about the table, removing empty platters and trenchers, refilling the cups. Keeping the sack and ale flowing just as Martin had instructed. Some of Martin’s guests already evinced signs of having enjoyed his liberality by imbibing too freely.
Father Ballard’s face was flushed and Sir Anthony Babington peered dreamily into his cup. John Savage slumped in his chair looking mellow…well, as mellow as the bumptious little man ever looked. The only one who still appeared clearheaded was Robert Poley. Bright-eyed as always, Poley gnawed enthusiastically at a turkey leg.
As the servants retired, Ballard beamed up at Martin, “Ah, Master Wolfe. There you are.”
The priest raised his cup. “Gentlemen, we have yet to drink to the health of our generous host this evening. To Marcus Wolfe.”
“To Marcus Wolfe,” the others chorused, flourishing their cups.
“Or should we say Monsieur le Loup,” Poley added in a stage whisper with a sly wink at Martin.
Martin forced a smile as the men drank to him. “Thank you, er, merci.” He had worked so hard to train the French out of his voice, it was hard to remember to lapse into his native accent.
But he had only managed to ingratiate himself with these conspirators by inventing an entirely fictitious history, convincing them he had once been equerry to the duc de Guise, the Scottish queen’s cousin.
As he drew back his chair, he flinched as a sharp spasm of pain gripped his shoulder. Licking the grease from his fingers, Poley stared up at him curiously.
“Touch of rheumatism, monsieur?”
“Non.” Martin gritted his teeth as he eased down into his chair. “I, er, took a fall today, slipped on some refuse in the street.”
His remark set off a spirited conversation among his companions, deploring the sad state London had fallen into, roundly condemning the current Lord Mayor and his council. During the discussion, Martin managed to surreptitiously empty his wine cup into the rushes, something he’d been doing most of the evening. He needed his own head clear if for no other reason than to keep track of all these lies he was telling.
Trying not to draw too much attention to himself, he kneaded his aching arm. Cat had warned him he would get sore if he didn’t pay more heed to what she was telling him about the proper way to draw the bowstring. But how the blazes was he supposed to attend her instruction when he had been far too conscious of her hands arranging him and the brush of her breast against him?
Considering the direction his thoughts had strayed, Martin reckoned his aching arm and shoulder was a fitting punishment. He had no business lusting after the woman who was here to protect his daughter.
He tried to rotate his shoulder to ease the pain, but it only seemed to make it worse. Mon Dieu, how much he would have given to f
orget about all these cursed conspiracies and assassination plots. Rest his aching bones at home tonight. Prop his feet up before the fire, sip some mulled wine, and listen to Cat weave some of those stories that so enthralled Meg and the servants. Martin was as bad as the kitchen boy, perching on the edge of his seat all goggle-eyed as Cat told tales of the Red Branch knights or the Hound of Ulster.
The Irishwoman had a lyrical voice and a genuine flair for drama, knowing just the right place to pause, how to paint images with her hands. Pity it was against the law for women to perform on the stage. What a magnificent addition she would have made to the Crown’s company of players.
Not that it would have mattered if the laws were different. Cat could not wait to shake the dirt of England from her boots. If no threat from the Dark Queen or the coven materialized, Cat would be gone before the end of the year.
Martin was surprised at the pang that thought gave him, but he shrugged it off. The woman was proving too much of a distraction as it was, one that he could ill afford if he meant to navigate his way through all these treacherous waters and secure a solid, safe future for his daughter.
“Our good Wolfe no longer appears to be with us.”
Martin was snapped out of his musings by Father Ballard’s voice. He glanced up from his empty wine cup to find the priest regarding him quizzically.
“Your pardon, mon père,” he murmured. “It is the fault of the heat and the wine, making me a little sluggish.”
“Usually it is Sir Anthony whose wits have gone a-begging.” John Savage sneered, tugging at the ends of his mustache.
“Nay, I p-protest!” Babington cried. The handsome young nobleman blinked owlishly. “My wits are—” He hiccuped. “—are quite well funded tonight.”
“Or well floundered,” Poley chimed in, invoking far more laughter and table thumping from the others than his weak jest merited.
To anyone peering around the screen, they would have looked like any other party of gentlemen sharing a convivial evening, a little too far gone in their cups. Instead, they were an unlikely band of conspirators, more desperate than dangerous.
Ballard, a priest with visions of glory; Savage, a braggart pretending to be far more fierce than he was; Babington, the romantic, more inclined to philosophize than take action; and Poley, an amiable fellow who just seemed to enjoy weaving plots over a good supper.
And then there was himself, Martin reflected wryly. The Judas in their midst. A French adventurer passing himself off as an English Protestant who claimed to secretly be a French Catholic. He felt like an actor with too many parts crammed into his head, confused about what lines were needed for each particular performance.
And to make matters worse, he knew his patron did not entirely approve of this current role. Walsingham would have far preferred Martin continue to investigate Lord Oxbridge.
Just as Martin had feared, tales of Ned’s behavior the night of the banquet and his angry mutterings against the queen had reached the secretary’s ears. Walsingham had been more suspicious than ever that Ned was involved in the conspiracy.
Distasteful as it was to him, Martin had been forced to shadow Ned’s movements, but he had uncovered nothing more damning than the fact that Ned gamed far too much and kept a mistress. Martin hoped he had finally convinced Walsingham of that, but he doubted that the secretary would ever believe in Ned’s innocence until Martin managed to uncover all those who were guilty.
The servant returned, filling wine cups again. As soon as the man retired, Father Ballard proposed another toast.
“To our good and gracious queen.”
“To the queen,” the others echoed. A harmless-sounding toast but all the sly smirks and raised brows indicated it was not Elizabeth who was meant.
Martin tightened his fingers on his cup, suddenly weary of all this posturing and pretense. He raised both his cup and his voice a fraction.
“To our queen. La belle Marie.”
The others drank, but uneasy looks were exchanged, nervous glances taken over shoulders.
“You are being a shade reckless, my son,” Ballard admonished.
“Our kind of enterprise was never achieved by faint hearts.”
“No one can accuse me of that,” Savage bristled. “Did I not vow upon my sword years ago to rid England of its heretic queen?”
“And yet she still lives.” Martin flashed a goading smile. “Unless of course Elizabeth takes some contagion from the heat of your breath.”
“Damn you.” Savage made a great show of struggling to his feet, clapping his hand to the hilt of his sword.
Martin didn’t even bother reaching for his, knowing that Savage would be prevented. The man would wait until he was. Babington yanked Savage back to his seat, an easy enough task as the man swayed drunkenly.
Plopping down, Savage contented himself with twisting the end of his mustache and glowering across the table at Martin.
“Peace, gentlemen,” Father Ballard soothed. “We cannot afford any division among ourselves. Not when our plans are so close to fruition.”
“Are they? I see little sign of that,” Martin retorted.
“Because you don’t know everything,” Savage growled.
Sir Anthony smiled apologetically. “I fear you are too new to our group to be trusted with all our secrets.”
“I don’t trust him at all,” Savage muttered.
Father Ballard rested his hand atop Martin’s sleeve. “You must learn to be patient, my son.”
“I am patient enough.” Martin affected a shrug. “I just wonder how long we intend to sit around discussing this revolt.”
“It is not a revolution to take what belongs to our rightful and good Catholic queen,” Sir Anthony reproved.
“Très bien. Then when do we restore our queen?”
Babington was drunk, but not so befuddled that he did not turn toward Father Ballard as though seeking permission. When the priest nodded, Babington leaned closer to Martin and said, “We only wait for Queen Mary’s blessing. Her last letter to me was brief, but she has promised to write more in a day or two.”
“Your pardon, Sir Anthony, but it will take more than the queen’s blessing for this dangerous uprising to succeed.”
“We have been promised help from Spain,” Father Ballard said in a low earnest tone. “Perhaps as many as thirty thousand troops will land as soon as we have freed Queen Mary.”
“And how are the mere five of us to accomplish that?” Martin demanded. “Are there no other English Catholics who will help us?”
Martin leaned back idly in his chair, giving no indication of how eagerly he awaited the reply.
“There are…others,” Sir Anthony replied cautiously.
“Who?”
“You’ll know when the time is ripe,” Savage snapped.
“You are so curious about the English, monsieur,” Poley said. “I for one would like to know what help the French mean to provide.”
“I have been in communication with the duc de Guise. He pledges to come himself with…” Martin paused. If he was going to invent an imaginary army, he supposed he might as well outdo the Spaniards.
“Monsieur le duc will bring fifty thousand troops.”
“Fifty thousand!” Babington exclaimed.
Martin wondered if he had gone too far with his lies, but a ripple of excitement spread around the table, even Savage was grudgingly impressed. Putting their heads together, they were all soon lost in low earnest conversation of how these troops could best be deployed.
Leaning back in his chair, Martin was hard-pressed not to shake his head. What a pathetic parcel of fools they were, willing to believe anything, men more drunk on hope and desperate dreams than they were with wine.
Walsingham had more than enough reason to have them all arrested, but like Babington, he too was waiting for that next letter from the Scottish queen. The one that might give Walsingham the evidence he needed to achieve his true goal, the death of Mary.
T
hese conspirators were little more than the means to an end. Martin could not but wonder how dangerous Babington or any of his friends would have been if Walsingham had not secretly encouraged them, allowed them to communicate with the imprisoned queen. Drawing them all ever tighter into his net, ever closer to the gallows.
Walsingham would have had Ned Lambert there too if he could. During his last meeting with Martin, the secretary had made a most insidious suggestion.
“So you have never seen Lord Oxbridge at any of these conspirators’ meetings? You might offer to take him.”
“To what end?” Martin had exclaimed indignantly. “To lead him into treason?”
“An honest man cannot be lured into anything.”
No, but a weak one might be tempted even to his doom. Martin was certainly surrounded by enough evidence of that, he thought as he surveyed the flushed faces of his companions.
He took a swallow from his cup, but the wine left a sour taste in his mouth—or was that his conscience? He had supped with dead men tonight and he had little stomach for the part he had played in their doom.
“Captain Fortescue?” A servant poked his head around the screen to inquire.
Martin started to say there was no such person present when he remembered the priest’s assumed identity.
“Yes?” Father Ballard replied with a trace of impatience at being interrupted.
“There is a gentleman here asking for you, sir.” The servant leaned closer to whisper something in Ballard’s ear. A subtle change came over the priest’s face. He gravely excused himself, following the servant from the table.
The others were too deep in their cups and plots to pay much heed, but Martin was instantly on the alert. Mumbling an excuse about the need to relieve himself, Martin left the table and tracked the priest through the crowded taproom.
He followed Ballard out into the alley behind the inn. Hanging back near the shelter of the doorway, Martin observed the priest in urgent conversation with a tall thin man, his features obscured by the night and a dark cloak.
Strain as he might, Martin could only catch snippets of the exchange. The tall stranger clutched at the priest’s sleeve.
The Huntress: A Novel (Dark Queen) Page 22
