He was successful now, by God. He had everything he’d ever wanted...except, of course, for the right kind of wife. That lying dog Gui de Beauvais had cheated him out of that which he’d most longed for, God damn his soul to eternal torment.
Rolf paused and unfisted his hands, took a deep breath. He mustn’t think of all that now. This was his time of day, his special time, when the mercers and their customers went home for dinner and he had the entire hall to himself. He relished having this quiet time to wander up and down the aisle and admire the dazzling silks hung like overlapping pennants in the booths to either side of the vast enclosure.
Noontime sun streamed into the booths through small windows high in the stone walls, highlighting the satin sheen of the richly-hued samites and the coinlike seals woven into the ciclatons. The sunlight particularly enhanced the gossamer beauty of the sendals, airy and translucent as the wings of faeries, and the orphreys, shot through with gold and silver threads.
Rolf paused at his favorite booth, that of a Florentine merchant who specialized in silks dyed the sumptuous shades of red for which his region had become renowned. These were the silks he’d most admired as a boy, and they still struck him, every time he laid eyes on them, as almost wickedly beautiful, as if they’d been soaked in the blood of angels. They hung in all their vivid splendor from the ceiling rafters to the floor of beaten earth, dozens of them in shades of scarlet, rose, violet, vermillion and every possible variation. He glided his hand from one to the other, watching them ripple and quiver as he stroked them.
"Rolf."
He turned, not expecting to hear a woman’s voice in the empty market hall and surprised—nay, astounded—at who that woman turned out to be. "Elswyth?" He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her. She’d put on weight, and...
Jesus Christ, was that a sleeping shift she had on? And a filthy one, at that.
"What the devil are you wearing, Elswyth? What are you thinking of, going out dressed like that?"
She had a wineskin looped across her chest. Ducking her head, she lifted it off and uncorked it. "I’ve come to toast our future together."
He snorted. "Our future? Our future? What are you talking about, woman?"
"Our future. You and I." She held the wineskin out to him, her eyes as oddly shiny and fixed as dark little glass beads.
"You and I?" The woman was bereft of her senses; there could be no other explanation. "Elswyth, you and I have no future together."
"Then why did you tell me you wanted to marry me?"
Did he? He couldn’t remember; he said that sometimes, to soften them up. "‘Twas a long time ago, Elswyth."
"‘Twas but a year ago, Rolf. You told me you wanted to marry me."
Rolf sighed. "Well, then, I’m sure I did at the time, but sometimes things don’t work out as one—"
"I gave myself to you."
"Yes, well—"
"Because you told me you wanted me for your wife."
"Elswyth—"
"And then, not two weeks later, you left for Paris. And when you came home, it was with her."
He laughed bitterly. "Believe me, my dear, I’m no more pleased about that particular turn of events than you are. ‘Twas a mistake, and I regret it with all my heart."
"Verily?" Her eyes lit with human animation for the first time.
"Would that I’d never met the woman, much less married her."
"She stole you from me." Elswyth stalked toward him; he backed up into the floating silken banners. "I was devastated."
"‘Twas...complicated," Rolf hedged, remembering how eagerly he’d negotiated the union with Ada, sight unseen, so excited was he at the prospect of being wed to the daughter of a baron.
"She was young and beautiful," Elswyth persisted, showing her little yellow teeth, "but unscrupulous. She stole a man who was promised to another. She tempted you. You couldn’t resist her."
"Quite right," Rolf said, seizing upon her rather skewed but opportune perspective. "I was as much a victim in all this as you, my dear. Now, if you’ll excuse—"
"‘Tis exactly as I thought—which is why I took the steps I took."
Rolf hesitated, not sure he wanted the answer, but unable to resist asking. "What steps?"
She smiled as if at a slow-witted child. "You didn’t really think a rheum of the head could last six months, did you?"
Rolf stared at this demented woman in her dirt-stained shift, this...this apothecary who’d prepared his wife’s tonic every day for six months. He backed up a little further, into the cool caress of silk; she closed the distance. "That was no infusion of yarrow," he said, both appalled and impressed.
"Oh, it was," she assured him. "Olive made it up in four-pinte batches all winter."
"Then...what..."
She smiled. "Have you ever heard of woman’s bane?"
"Woman’s...I...I don’t believe I’ve—"
"Most folks call it wolf’s bane, or sometimes leopard’s bane, but I prefer woman’s bane, because it can be so handy for solving a woman’s problems." She laughed; there was a slightly frantic edge to it. "It comes from the root of a plant called monkshood. The ancients called it the Queen Mother of Poisons. Do you want to know why?"
"Nay." It couldn’t be. It was impossible. He’d always thought of Elswyth as rather soft and dull-witted, a woman who would yield to him and then go placidly about her business until he was ready for her again. Could he have misjudged her so dramatically?
"A tiny bit of woman’s bane," Elswyth said, "a very tiny bit, can help folks to sleep and take away pain. But just a tiny bit more can make a person sicker than they’ve ever been, and in the proper dose, ‘twill bring on a swift and rather unpleasant death. That’s why Olive doesn’t even know I grow it out back. I don’t keep it in the shop—I go out and dig it up as I need it."
"As you need it." Rolf appraised her soiled shift, the dirt imbedded under her nails and caking her feet. No doubt she’d dug up a little bit every day for the past six months.
"At Christmastide," Elswyth said, "Master Aldfrith told me your wife had a rheum of the head and needed a daily dose of yarrow. Every day, before Olive brought the tonic over, I’d set her to some chore and slip just a wee bit of woman’s bane into the phial. Olive never knew. Neither did anyone else."
"And Ada just got sicker and sicker."
She laughed again, shrilly. "Don’t you see how perfect it was? When the time came, I could give her enough to finish her off, and everyone would think she’d just wasted away. And with that scheming little bitch dead of natural causes, you’d be free to marry me."
"Why are you here telling me all this?" he asked, thinking it seemed foolish of her to divulge her chicanery to anyone, even him, and convinced now that Elswyth was no fool. Mad as a ferret, mayhap, but no fool.
Elswyth’s dark little eyes turned hard and glassy again. "Six weeks ago, Olive told me there was a man coming to your house at compline that day to take your wife to Paris—a serjant named Graeham Fox."
"Ah."
"Ah," she mocked. "Well, naturally, I couldn’t have that. How could you marry me if you had a wife living in Paris? That bitch had to die, not just go away."
"As it happens," Rolf said appeasingly, unnerved by the lunatic glare in her eyes, "he never came back for her."
"Only because I saw to it that he wouldn’t."
Rolf just stared at the woman. By Corpus, he had underestimated her.
"You know, you can find almost anything you want in West Cheap," she said. "I made some inquiries and found three men willing to crack Serjant Fox’s skull open for the fifty marks he’d be carrying."
So that’s why that bastard never showed up that evening. His respect for Elswyth increased tenfold. "Did they do it? Did they actually kill him?"
Elswyth smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. "He never came back, did he?"
An incredulous little giggle bubbled out of Rolf’s chest. "God’s tooth, woman. You’d go to such lengths ju
st to marry me?"
"It meant everything to me. So you can imagine my dismay this morning when I found out what you’ve been up to with my daughter."
His giggle turned high-pitched, nervous. "I can’t imagine what you’re talking a—"
"I know everything, Rolf, including that she’s carrying your bastard. I heard it from her own lips."
Shit. He shrugged negligently, contorting his mouth into what he hoped would look like a charming, boyish grin, although he’d never been very good at those. "What can I say, my dear? I’m a man, and Olive..."
"She tempted you."
"Yes. Precisely. She tempted me, and I couldn’t re—"
"I still want you, you know."
Jesus Christ. "Ah. Yes. Marvelous."
"I need you," she said. "I need to be with you always. Forever."
"Well, unfortunately, there’s still the little problem of my wife."
"Your wife isn’t a problem anymore."
He swallowed hard. "Nay?"
"Nay. I’ve taken care of her, just now. She’s gotten what she deserved all along."
"She’s..." The air went out of Rolf’s lungs. Could it be true? A strange giddiness overtook him. Was he free, at last, of the sickly, baseborn little wife who’d been such a vexing cross to bear?
"She’s dead. You’re a widower. You could remarry whenever you want." She held the wineskin out to him. "Come— drink with me to our future together."
He retreated yet further into the comforting embrace of the silken banners, eyeing the wineskin warily. Claims of devotion aside, the woman was a raving loon. "How do I know what’s in there?"
Another hysterical little burst of laughter. "You think I’d want to poison you? Here." Holding the wineskin to her mouth, Elswyth swallowed down a generous portion of its contents, then handed it to him.
Reassured somewhat, Rolf took a tentative sip. It was a cheap, overly sweet vintage, but there was nothing unusual about it, no hint of adulteration. He drank more, eager to soothe his strained nerves.
"How did you administer the lethal dose of—what is it?—woman’s bane?" Rolf asked.
Elswyth cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard him right. "Lethal dose? No, no, no, I didn’t kill her with poison."
Rolf paused in the act of squeezing some more wine into his mouth. He swallowed slowly. "I don’t understand. You said you were going to —"
"My plan changed," she said matter-of-factly. "Had to. The sheriff caught wind of what I was up to, so I had to come up with something different."
"Something different." The sheriff was on to her? Apprehension shivered up Rolf’s spine, crawled over his scalp, chilling him right down to the bone. "What do you mean?" he asked, swallowing past his strangely thick tongue. "How did you kill her?"
"By fire."
Fire. That smoke. Rolf sniffed the air, or tried to; his nose and throat and mouth felt numb, dead; he couldn’t smell anything. The wineskin slipped out of his fingers and fell to the ground.
"‘Twas an ugly house," she said in a drunken voice, swaying slightly on her feet.
"You set fire to my house?" Rolf’s voice was as oddly slurred as hers. He tried to grab the front of her shift, but she wasn’t where he thought she was, and he ended up grasping two of the silken hangings and pulling them down. "You goddamned crazy bitch! Tell me you didn’t burn down my house! And—Christ, all my silk!" He’d be ruined—ruined, just like his father. "Tell, me, damn your eyes!"
She was laughing, damn her, laughing, but then the laughter degenerated into a fit of gagging. Elswyth sank to her knees, clutching her chest, her breath coming in quick strident gasps.
"What’s wrong with you?" he asked, even as his own chest tightened and his breath emerged in huffing little puffs and his vision swam and he knew oh God what was wrong oh God no, no, no—
"One of...the reasons," Elswyth wheezed, "they call it the...Qu-Queen Mother of Poisons...is because it’s so h-hard to detect in, in, in—" Her body jerked, shuddered, her lips drawing back in a grotesque grimace, her eyes wild, blood trickling from her nose.
"No!" He was cold, so cold, an icy river crackling through his veins, his teeth clenched in agony, a mad shriek filling his ears, can’t breathe oh God can’t breathe no no no no—
Had to get help, had to get out of there. He took a lurching step and slipped on a puddle of silk, his legs wobbling out from beneath him, flailing, thrashing, hands clutching at the shimmering pennants, yanking them down around him.
He landed slowly with a hard dull silent thud, everything sideways now, silks floating over him, over both of them in celestial fluttering wings of bloodred, crimson, plum, pink, ruby...her face with its flat empty eyes right there in front of his, beckoning him to join her in eternity so they could spend their future together.
I need to be with you always. Forever.
He really had underestimated her very badly.
***
THE SILK TRADERS’ market hall was unusually quiet in an odd, strained way when Undersheriff Nyle Orlege arrived shortly after his midday meal to question Rolf le Fever.
He strode through the front entrance of the massive stone enclo¬sure to find dozens of men in fine silken tunics clustered around one of the booths, conferring in hushed tones—except for one black-haired fellow jabbering away anxiously in what sounded like one of the Italian dialects.
"Does anyone know where I can find Rolf le Fever?" Nyle demanded in his most booming, don’t-ignore-me voice.
Heads turned, surveying him with interest, especially the manacles and chains dangling from his belt. Looks were exchanged; slowly the crowd parted, carving a path into the booth around which they were gathered.
The first thing Nyle noticed as he walked toward the booth was that some of the sheets of red and purple silk hanging there had been torn down and lay strewn about haphazardly. He’d just about decided some drunken youths had gotten in here during the dinner hour and vandalized the place when he caught a whiff of death—all too familiar in his profession, especially in high summer, when bodies ripened within minutes.
And then he saw the legs emerging from beneath the careless heaps of silk, two sets of them, a man’s in yellow silk chausses and bejeweled boots and a woman’s, bare and filthy.
"Bloody hell," Nyle said.
Chapter 24
* * *
"HOW DOES YOUR leg feel?" Joanna asked Graeham as she unlocked her front door.
His splints had come off this morning. It was late in the afternoon now, and they’d had a full day, much of it on their feet. First had come Thomas’s funeral at St. Giles, the lazar-house where he had finally succumbed to his terrible burns after six long days—though he’d been sedated with sleeping draughts most of that time, and died peacefully. Then, this afternoon, Olive and Damian Oxwyke had been quietly joined in matrimony at the door of St. Mary Magdalene on Milk Street, and Joanna and Graeham had been there to watch.
"‘Tisn’t bad at all," Graeham said, following her into the salle. Unencumbered by the splints, his natural gait was graceful in a powerful, long-legged way, but it had grown a little stiff as the day had worn on.
Joanna smiled as she hung up her mantle and unpinned the veil she’d worn over her braids. "You don’t need me to rub it, then?" When Master Aldfrith had removed the splints, he’d recommended a nice firm massage to ease any discomfort in the leg, and had sold him a liniment for that purpose. Catching her eye, Graeham had smiled and said that seemed like a splendid idea.
"Cheeky little vixen." Graeham came up behind her and cupped her breasts through her violet kirtle, caressing them until she felt breathless. Nuzzling her hair, he said, "I’m aching to be rubbed."
"No, really, if you don’t want me to..."
With a growl of mock exasperation, he swept her up, causing her slippers to fall off, and carried her into the storeroom, where the liniment was. It was cool and shadowy in here, the windows having been shuttered all day.
Setting her on her feet, he unb
uckled his belt and pulled off his tunic. He sat on the edge of the cot—where he no longer slept, having shared her bed in the solar for the past week and a half—and tugged off his boots and chausses, leaving himself in his shirt and drawers.
"I was surprised to see Lionel Oxwyke embrace Olive after the nuptials," Graeham said, stretching out full length on the cot. "Especially given what it cost him to terminate Damian’s betrothal to that young girl."
Elswyth’s letter to her daughter, in which she confessed to every detail of her mad scheme to join herself for eternity with Rolf le Fever, had nevertheless made no mention of Olive’s liaison with the guildmaster, or her pregnancy. Damian, who knew about the illicit relationship —it was the secret Olive had been so distressed to have him unearth—proclaimed to the world in general and his father in particular that he had sired Olive’s unborn child and meant to make her his wife posthaste. Lionel Oxwyke was, of course, livid about the situation, but custom and the Church were on the young couple’s side; for a woman to quicken with child outside of wedlock was no grievous sin— provided the man did the right thing and married her.
"I’ll bet I know why Master Lionel has warmed up to Olive the way he has," Joanna said, opening the little jar of fragrant liniment. "A few days ago, she told me she was going to concoct some sort of elixir for his stomach. It must have worked, is all I can think."
Graeham smiled. "Did you see the way Olive was looking at Damian while she spoke her vows?"
Joanna smiled. "And the way he was looking at her—aye. Rolf le Fever will be a distant memory soon enough, I think. By the time that baby comes, they’ll have forgotten who really fathered it."
"Love has a strange kind of power," Graeham said. "It seems to be able to change the very nature of things, like alchemy." He met her gaze and then looked quickly away.
Joanna turned her back to Graeham and sat on the edge of the cot by his legs, facing away from him. Graeham had not spoken to her of love, had not returned her whispered declaration after they’d stumbled out of Rolf le Fever’s burning house. Perhaps he hadn’t heard it.
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