“So he’ll doubtless maintain,” Lucilda Denby said. The blonde woman, a mercer’s spoiled wife, looking bored, readjusted her green wool skirts. “Besides, Richard, liking the result doesn’t mean he brought it about. Unless you can show us Henry knows how to travel time, we have no grounds to question him. We can’t scry the truth with everything in such upheaval, so it’s your word against his, with bad blood between your families for two hundred years.”
Most of the councilors, other than Lucius, nodded. Eldred Carstairs, an elderly baronet, appeared to be dozing. Poking him, Lucius nodded to Richard to continue.
“Heard there was a near riot in Smithfield Market yesterday,” Eldred said suddenly. “Not enough bread to go round.”
“If this continues, we can expect more of that.” Sarah Marling, a wiry, keen-eyed tavern owner, leaned forward. “Before we accuse, let alone question, someone with so many friends, we need proof.”
“I would give it to you if I had it,” Richard admitted. Even the necromancy scroll wouldn’t prove Wyndon could splice time.
Frustration and loss welled into Richard’s throat. Kit, he thought, and then forced himself to steady.
Richard swept the table with a gaze as earnest as he could make it. “Cousins, our messengers’ reports show we’re moving toward a famine once current food stores begin to run out. The wind and rain damaged barns and blew away many of the winter crops. The forage and hay are rotting—unduly fast, even considering the heavy rain. Add to that, people’s lives are in upheaval. We’ve a duty to act.”
“Yes, but we must act in a way that’s effective,” Sarah said, “and we don’t yet know of one.”
Hugh noted, “The Thames is frozen a foot thick. Folk are already setting up a frost fair on the ice. They’d best take their pleasure while they can, for the cold will likely freeze what little remains in the fields.”
“Add to that,” Lucius said, “Animals are mysteriously sickening. For all we know, people will be next.”
“I read something about mystery sicknesses at Pendragon once.” Surry frowned as though searching his memory. “Could be, all this is nature’s way of dealing with change.”
Bentham shook his head. “Dreadful. Simply dreadful. We should organize relief plans. If we can repair the roads enough to reach affected areas, some of the Gifted could help dry out that food.”
“Not when it’s already rotted.” Richard could barely keep from shouting. People were dying, the dead were walking, and they wanted to prattle on about frost fairs and relief schemes.
“If not,” Bentham said, “Henry de Vere has offered to help procure supplies from France.”
Lucius shot a warning glance at Richard. Given the widespread knowledge of his quarrel with Wyndon, Richard had to be careful in pressing his suspicions.
Lucius said, “We’re talking about rather a lot of grain and hay. How will Henry pay for that?”
Bentham shrugged. “Not my problem. Good of him to do it.”
“Yes,” Lucilda. “Very good.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said sharply, “but come back to the point. If time is changing, that violates the natural order. Which may well explain this freakish weather and the resulting problems. Including people dying before their times or living past them.”
“We’ll vote,” Lucius said. “Who favors questioning Henry?”
Richard raised his hand. Nodding, Sarah did the same. Hugh, Eliza, and Lucilda folded their hands on the table. Lucius looked to Eldred.
“I don’t like Henry.” The baronet cast a pointed look at Richard. “I abstain.”
Richard set his jaw. With three votes against and two for, Lucius voting only in a tie, nothing would happen. He needed to prove Wyndon’s involvement.
Chapter 16
Beneath the wide brim of Richard’s plumed beaver hat, his face looked drawn and tired. Miranda doubted he even noticed the coach’s rattling, bouncing progress over the cobblestones.
Of course, he’d lost one of his closest friends to the time shifts. He must be frantic to put things right. So he was on his way to meet secretly with the head of the Conclave Council.
There’d been no more snow, but the Thames had supposedly frozen solid, something Miranda would believe when she saw it. Despite the heated bricks beneath their feet, their breath made puffs of fog in the chilly air. No man as clearly weary as he was needed to be out in the cold.
“Richard,” she said tentatively, “I understand why you want to meet this man outside the Council chamber, but I don’t see why you wanted me to come.”
His gaze shifted back to her, sharpening into an intent stare. “I want to share your visions with Lucius, and it’s best if you describe them to him. Perhaps tomorrow, after we explore your visions tonight, would be better, but I feel as though we’ve no time to waste.”
By exploring them, he meant using the water from Morgan’s pool. The visions were frightening enough in snatches. The thought of plunging fully into one sent shivers down Miranda’s spine.
Seeking a distraction, she peered out the coach window and tried to see the river. “It’s hard to believe people play on the ice. Especially now, with the weather so harsh and food becoming scarce.”
“Food is scarce every time the weather turns so harsh. In 1649, the year the king’s father was executed, the weather was as harsh as this, with crops failing and the civil war still raging. Yet there was a fair on the Thames, as there is today, though it was later in the winter.”
“Amazing.”
He smiled. “Folk will rarely pass up the chance to make extra coin, especially if doing so diverts them from their troubles.”
Miranda quirked up one corner of her mouth. “Let me guess. Everything costs more on the ice.”
“But of course.” Though he smiled, the weariness in his eyes remained. “The crowds give me a chance to talk with Lucius and not be remarked, as we would be at either of our homes. Your presence also makes this seem more like a social outing.”
The coach slowed, harness jingling, and stopped. A footman opened the door. Folding down the steps, he said, “Have a care, milord, mistress. It’s slick underfoot, it is.”
“Thank you, Harry,” Richard said. “You and Thomas can wait at the Twisted Cockerel. We’ll meet you there.”
Richard climbed down and held his hand out for her. “This is Middle Temple Lane. From here, we’ll walk down to the ice.”
His firm grip on her elbow steadied her as she stepped onto the slick cobblestones. “Hold onto me,” he said.
She took one gloved hand from the soft, sable muff his grandmother had loaned her and laid it on his arm. Carefully, they picked their way over the icy cobblestones. On either side, tall buildings of red brick with names painted over the arched entries lined the cobblestoned passage. Several of them had stuccoed overhangs, and each floor jutted out slightly farther than the one below it.
“Those are barristers’ chambers,” Richard said.
Glancing ahead, she caught her breath. Beyond a winter-brown orchard at the bottom of the hill on the left, the Thames sparkled icy white. A village of tents covered its surface, with throngs of people going to and fro.
Staring at the scene, she said, “I confess that I thought you were joking at first, but there truly is a fair out there. On the Thames, of all places.”
“It happens from time to time,” he replied. “Usually in January or February, occasionally in December. Never in October.” He shook his head. “The hard freeze runs from London Bridge down almost to Westminster.”
Walking through the withered orchard at the bottom of the street, they had a wide view of the river.
A row of tents directly in front of the Temple stretched across to the far bank. Behind the tents, a ring of people watched a wrestling bout. A miniature ship on runners glided toward the bridge, towed by three men and bearing several others. A horse-drawn cart on the usual wheels crossed its path.
To one side, a ring of spectators watched a bull-baitin
g. Miranda averted her eyes hastily. “If they mean to kill the poor beast, they should just do it,” she muttered.
“Yes. We’ll stay away from there.”
The wind shifted, bringing the sounds of flute and violin and the scent of roasting meat. And something noxiously smoky. Miranda covered her nose.
“Sea coal smoke from London’s hearths,” Richard said. “On such a cold day, it can’t rise and hangs over the city worse than usual.” Smiling, he added, “The wind will change in a moment.”
A group of men in laborers’ rough garments milled about the riverbank, carrying shovels and spades. “A penny,” a man’s coarse voice cried from the group. “A penny for them as is out o’work from the freeze?”
“That means a penny each,” Richard murmured, “and I’d give you odds they’re all beggars anyway.” Yet he slid his arm free of her hold, pulled out his purse and gave them each a penny.
A sturdy, broad-shouldered man stood by the wide, shallow stairs down to the river. “Need any help climbing down, sir?” Gesturing to one of the boats clustered around the foot of the stone stairway, he added, “You can step into m’boat. Froze in place, she is.”
“My thanks.” With movements so swift she almost missed them, Richard took out his purse and slipped the man a coin. “Waterman,” he explained quietly under the fellow’s thanks. “He truly is out of work today, with no one needing a ride across. The watermen and the lightermen, the fellows who move goods across the river, organize the fairs, but what they charge tradesmen and punters to join in doesn’t make up for all they lose.”
The passage of so many feet had worn away the ice on the stone stairs, but Richard offered his arm again. “Watch your footing,” he advised her.
She laid her hand on his wrist. He was so careful of her, as no one had been since her early childhood. Many men of his rank would’ve stood on ceremony. That he didn’t made him that much more appealing. Yes, he was well favored and financially secure, but what mattered more was that he was also kind and determined and highly skilled. Any woman would be drawn to such a man.
There could be no harm in enjoying his attention for the time she had it.
Stepping carefully, she said, “It’s like a city on the ice. Astounding.”
“These fairs started in James I’s reign, but I’ve heard Henry VIII once went to Greenwich by sleigh when the river froze and Queen Elizabeth walked on the ice.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs. Peering through the crowd, he said, “We’re to meet Lucius by the dancing, at the far bank. Let’s stroll through the tents on our way.”
“As we would if we’d come to enjoy the fair,” she said.
“Yes.” Richard’s face went stony, and pain flashed in his eyes. He must be thinking of his friend. Miranda squeezed his arm briefly. He patted her hand but kept his gaze straight ahead.
The tents held a wonder of items. Books, ale, a skittles game. In one, a printer named Croom made cards with visitors’ names on them for sixpence.
“Would you like one?” Richard asked Miranda.
She hesitated. Sixpence sounded rather dear to her, but she knew it wasn’t to him. “Yes, if you please.”
He gave the printer the money and her name. A few minutes later, the man passed over a card that read, “Printed by Croom for Miranda Willoughby on the frozen Thames, October 1674.”
She thanked Richard and tucked it into the muff. “It’s a memento I’ll treasure.”
“I hope we’ll have other reasons to look back on this day with pleasure.”
If they could make the Council confront Lord Wyndon, that might help undo the changes. Richard’s friend would return.
And Miranda would never have met any of them. She swallowed hard but said nothing. There was nothing to say.
They wandered outside again. The city’s recent edgy mood seemed not to reach the ice. A drum joined the flutes and violins in a lilting air that came from behind the tents.
Just beyond them, with London Bridge looming across the sky, a ring of dancers spun and bowed on a sheet of canvas laid over the ice.
Richard guided her toward the music. Its bright, infectious melody seemed to defy the dark events of recent days. But it brought him no cheer. His face remained grim as he watched the dancers.
“When this is over,” he said, “if you care to learn to dance, I’d be happy to teach you. That’s ‘Peppers Black.’ Do you recognize it?”
Miranda was about to answer when her foot slipped. She clutched his arm. He grabbed for her and slipped as well. Stumbling for footing, they slid into a draper’s cart laden with bolts of bright fabric. He grabbed it with one arm and yanked her close with the other.
Breathing hard, she stared up at him. He looked relieved, but his eyes also held unexpected warmth. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Are you all right?” His eyes locked on hers.
She nodded. “Thanks to you.” The words had a strained sound born of her awareness of his nearness and the warm concern in his eyes.
Abruptly, his expression closed over. His eyes became bland. “Let’s see if we can find something to eat while we wait.”
Turning away was probably for the best. She might regret that there could be nothing between them, but that wouldn’t matter anyway if they succeeded in fixing the timeline.
Escorting his guest over the ice, Richard kept his expression cool. Yet he remained aware of her at his side, her face bright with curiosity as she looked around the fair. He’d come damnably close to kissing her, and that could lead nowhere. She deserved what he couldn’t give her, an honorable courtship.
“I hear Lord Trentford called this morning,” he said.
“Yes, he was very kind.”
“Do you like him?”
She hesitated. “Well enough, I suppose, but if we can undo the changes in history, that likely won’t matter.”
“Still, you shouldn’t pass up a chance to build a better life. After all, the quest may not succeed.”
His next words felt like ground glass in his throat, but he pushed them out. “Should you receive an offer you like, I will gladly dower you.”
Her face paled. Staring straight ahead, she said, “That will not be necessary. Indeed, my lord, I cannot let you do such a thing.”
“Richard, remember.” He shouldn’t sound so abrupt. His pointless attraction to her wasn’t her fault.
“M’lord! Mistress,” a friendly voice called.
Richard craned his neck toward the sound. Lucius picked his way over the ice toward them. A burgundy wool cloak shrouded his lean form, and the white plume on his wide-brimmed, black hat fluttered in the cold breeze.
“Good day, Lucius.” Richard smiled and waved to him as though this were a chance encounter. He and Miranda met Lucius before he reached the crowd around the dancers. They could speak privately if they kept their voices down.
Richard said, “Lucius Balfour, meet our cousin, Miranda Willoughby. Miranda, Lucius heads the Gifted’s Conclave Council.”
Lucius touched his broad hat’s brim. “Good day to you both, cousins.”
“Good day,” Miranda replied. Now that Lucius had arrived, all her attention was on him rather than the frivolous pursuits on the ice behind them.
Lucius glanced from her to Richard. “You wanted to speak with me, cousin?”
“I wanted to make you aware of Mistress Willoughby’s visions,” Richard told him. “I’m certain Wyndon knows more than he admits, and her visions tie him to some of the recent events.”
Lucius turned to her. “You’re a seer, then, cousin?”
“A fledgling one, yes.” She described her dream about the bear following Richard and the one about him dueling Wyndon.
When she finished, Lucius shook his head. “It’s not enough, not with the support Henry has on the Council.”
“But the bear I saw—” she started.
“Not specific enough, I’m afraid,” Lucius told her. He glanced at Richard. “Everyone kno
ws of the enmity between you and Wyndon. We need something so definite as to be almost ironclad, or we’ll never carry a vote to question him.”
Richard answered, “He’s studied necromancy.” Choosing his words with care to avoid revealing Edmund’s existence, he added, “My own studies imply that there’s a realm between life and death that touches various times, as I said at the meeting. What if he has exploited it in some way?”
Lucius shook his head again. “I trust you, Richard, but suspicion alone isn’t enough to sway most of the others. I wish we had more leeway.” He shifted his cloak over his shoulder. Frowning, he looked down at the ice. “It seems to have grown warmer rather quickly.”
“It does,” Richard agreed. Intent on the conversation, he hadn’t noticed. He glanced across the ice. A new, faint sheen, probably not visible to ordinary eyes, marked the surface of the ice.
Lucius’s frown deepened. “It usually takes days for the ice to melt. Of course, it usually takes weeks to freeze, as well.”
“We should go.” Richard offered Miranda his arm. “We can continue this on firm ground.”
“I believe you’re right,” Lucius said.
A loud crack, like the strike of lightning, split the air and stilled the music and voices. A moment later, screams followed. The three Gifted wheeled toward the sound. The ice was breaking.
People rushed toward the banks, slipping and falling and scrambling up again in a mad dash toward safety. A long crack in the ice caught the wheel of the passenger cart. The cart fell deeper into the ice, and the crack widened. The cart listed, spilling its passengers.
“We can help,” Richard said to Lucius. “I’ll return when I’ve seen Miranda to the bank.” If she fell through—
“I can make it alone,” she said despite the fear in her eyes. “You and Lucius can help others.”
Lucius was already striding toward the cracking ice.
Richard shook his head. “I need to see you safe first.”
With an arm around her waist to steady her, he hurried across the ice and up the Temple stairs to the bank.
The Herald of Day Page 20
