by Sarah Hegger
Like Garrett.
She didn’t want to forget Garrett’s caresses.
A wooden chest rested at the base of the bed. Beatrice found a comb and began to work through her hair. She wanted to remember his touch, and everything about him. The ache for him almost bent her double.
“Ivy,” she whispered. “Ivy and The Lady of the Weeping Willow.”
Chapter 22
Beatrice couldn’t sleep. She lay, fully dressed, on her bed and tried. A maid had brought her a tray of food and it lay spoiling beside the bed. Beatrice drank some of the wine. Earlier this night, she’d been so hungry she would have fallen on this tray like a madwoman. Now, the food merely made her feel ill.
It must be close to dawn. Godfrey was still awake. She could hear movement in the house and the soft opening and closing of doors. Always, when she was younger, Godfrey had a tale for her or a funny ditty to make the night pass. She wanted to feel like that child. If her father were here, she might have curled up in his lap, but Godfrey would have a story to pass the time.
She pulled on a pair of slippers and padded to her door. It opened onto a passageway leading to a cozy hall. She’d find Godfrey there, beside the fire. He liked to nurse his wine and stare at the flames. Beatrice slid silently down the passage.
“Are you certain she is sleeping?” It was a man’s voice, but pitched high, almost girlish.
Godfrey replied. “Aye, the maid looked in on her.”
He spoke of her. The maid had opened her door and Beatrice had wanted to be alone, so she kept her eyes shut until the woman went away again. Surely Godfrey wasn’t sharing the tale of her ruin?
She stepped closer to listen and stopped.
She was doing it again. If she’d only stayed away and not spied on Henry and Godfrey, she would not have decided to rescue her family and none of this would have happened. Of course, Garrett had already appeared in her life. But perhaps she would have found the strength to resist his seductions.
Liar.
“I had a difficult time finding her,” Godfrey said. “She took a detour or two. I had to retrace my steps a couple of times. Fortunately, London is the sort of city where there are eyes and ears everywhere.”
So, it was Godfrey who’d been chasing them. Her silly imaginings had built a marauding army at her back.
“What will you do with her? She cannot go home.” A pewter flagon clinked, and then the sound of something being poured.
Beatrice’s heart missed a beat. Did her mother know of her disgrace and not want her home again? Did her father or Roger know she was ruined and had cast her out?
She half turned to return to her room. She shouldn’t listen to this.
“She will not go home.” Godfrey was right. Her imaginary cottage was the place for her. If her father wouldn’t help her, surely Godfrey would. He’d been kind and understanding tonight.
“I will miss her,” Godfrey said.
She would miss all her family, but they might visit. A chair scraped and a man laughed. High-pitched and light. Not Godfrey.
“I would have avoided this if I could,” Godfrey said. “She is my favorite niece.”
A warm glow lit her chest. He was her favorite uncle.
“I will regret her death.”
Beatrice stopped in her creeping away. She wasn’t ill. Did Godfrey think she would waste away because she didn’t eat?
“How will you kill her?” the other voice asked.
Godfrey chuckled.
Nay. She’d heard that wrong.
“What an evil wretch you are?” Godfrey teased. “Is it the details you want?”
Part of her mind split from the other. It hung over her and looked down at her. There she stood, in a dim corridor, her hands pressed to her mouth. And she shook. Her uncle spoke of killing her. How peculiar.
Her head whirled. She trembled so hard she had to lean against the wall. The stone was cold on her back.
“Fortunately, Wulfric’s bastard has provided the perfect opening.”
Garrett. Wulfric’s bastard was Garrett. Her breathing rasped and she kept her hands locked around her nose and mouth to silence it.
“Let me guess?” said the stranger. “Lover’s tiff, he gets violent. Strangles her? Beats her to death?”
Beatrice’s belly heaved. She fought the impulse to gag.
“Or drowning,” Godfrey said. “It is much kinder, and she is my favorite niece. After that, the bastard will simply disappear.”
Silently, Beatrice backed away from the door.
“And Arthur?” The voice pursued her down the passage. “Will he not seek justice for her death?”
“Arthur is in Westminster. He has no idea his daughter is in London, or the news she carries. By the time my brother gets word his daughter is dead, he will be in no position to seek retribution. And Wulfric’s bastard will not see the light of day again.”
“You have thought of everything.” The voice warmed with praise.
“I have been planning this for some years.” Godfrey’s smugness made her shiver. He was bragging of killing her. “Calder played his part. He is poised to attack Anglesea. Arthur will be too busy dealing with his daughter’s death to help them.”
He’d planned it. Godfrey had it laid before him like a map. The only thing he didn’t know was that she stood in the corridor listening to his plan.
Beatrice backed away, her slippers soundless against the stone.
She fumbled on the latch when she reached the chamber. The chamber she was meant to be peacefully sleeping within. While her uncle, her stomach dipped alarmingly, planned her death.
The inside of the chamber stared back at her dispassionately, ridiculously normal whilst around her the world tilted and dipped. The conversation rang over and over again in her head. A tiny part of her mind refused to believe it of Godfrey. Yet, she’d heard him say those things. She desperately wanted to know why. Godfrey was her uncle, a man she’d been raised to respect and love. Memories flooded her mind. Godfrey at table with them, laughing at a jest her father made, telling her long, improbable stories by the hearth.
It made no sense.
None of this made any sense.
Garrett.
Always, her mind insisted on returning to Garrett. Godfrey planned to use Garrett to blame for her death. The room did one of those belly-dipping swirls. It defied belief to be standing here thinking of her death. As if it were fated.
Not bloody likely. She raised her chin.
The whys and wherefores would have to wait. She wouldn’t remain here, calmly and passively, waiting for her death to stalk her.
“Think, Beatrice.” She spoke the words out loud. “For once in your life think. It may be the last thing you do.” Her throat closed, and she reached out a hand to steady herself. The wall against her palm was solid and reassuring.
The chamber sat on the ground floor of the manor. She regretted not paying better attention when she was brought here. Then, she’d been still reeling from the revelations about Garrett. Her broken heart would also have to wait.
She crept over to the casement. It opened easily. The courtyard stood quiet beneath her, bathed in a benign moonlight totally at odds with her splintered life. Beyond the yard was a high wall. Her chausses and her tunic had been taken away with the rest of her belongings.
No matter. Beatrice crept back to her door and bolted it. She didn’t want some inquisitive maid raising the alarm before she’d had a chance to put some distance between herself and this house.
Quickly, she searched her chamber for anything to aid her. The chest was full of bed furs. The tray of food held a small eating dagger. Beatrice snatched up the linen napkin and fashioned a small pouch. Her resources were pitiful, and she had no coin. She grabbed the small loaf of bread and added it to her makeshift pouch with the knife. There was no cloak or shawl in the chamber and she dared not tarry any longer.
She slipped up onto the c
asement sill. The yard remained quiet. Outside the walls of the manor, she could make out the sounds of the city. Jumping into the yard, she clung to the shadows. She stayed close to the house as she moved, looking for any way over the wall. The gate would be manned. She felt sure of it. The wall was high and stout as she scrutinized its length. Finally, she found it. Beatrice let her breath out.
A large tree planted near enough to the wall to be useful.
Pausing for a quick glance, she dashed across the open courtyard toward the tree. She rested a moment with her back against it. Her heart hammered in her ears. No cry broke the silence, only the sound of two voices passing close to the wall. Light spilled across the yard from the hall. Godfrey was still in there with his unknown companion.
Beatrice pulled the back of her gown between her legs and tucked it into her girdle. The top limb hovered beyond reach. Placing her foot against the bark of the trunk, she tried to get enough leverage to reach it. Her foot slipped, scraping her shin against the bark. She dropped back to the ground with a hiss of frustration.
The light in the hall flickered and went dim. Godfrey must be leaving the hall. Beatrice couldn’t wait any longer. She tried again. Her legs scraped against the bark, tearing effortlessly through her thin hose. Any moment now, Godfrey might open the door to her chamber. What would he do if he tried and found it locked? Her fingers grasped the limb and she scrambled to gain purchase. Using her knees, toes, shins, whatever she could, she half scrambled, half walked up the trunk until she got her arms over the limb and hauled herself over.
She panted and took a moment to dangle across the limb and catch her breath. The house remained silent. A light flickered behind another casement and grew stronger. Godfrey in his chamber, she guessed. He’d not checked on her. He remained oblivious to the fact she’d heard him. It was a tiny advantage, but she’d use it. Beatrice swung her legs over the limb and edged forward. The bark abraded the inside of her thighs as she inched toward the wall.
The branch didn’t quite reach the wall, but came close enough for her to get one foot on the top, and then the other. She teetered precariously as she peered down. Her vision swam. She quickly lowered herself to a crouching position, and then straddled the wall for safety. The drop to the ground yawned beneath her.
Beatrice stared at it in dismay. The wall hadn’t seemed as high from the other side. She was likely to break something if she attempted the long drop.
“Stop it,” she said. “You are going to end up with a broken neck anyway.” Or drowned. Panic pressed against the back of her eyes.
Below her, a stone protruded slightly from the others. Her slippers were thin and she might gain a hold. She swung her legs over and found the stone with her toes. It gave her a pitiful ledge, but she levered her weight over. With her free foot she searched the wall for another hold. Her toes barked against another small imperfection in the rock. She inched over the top. The second toe hole was farther away than she’d anticipated.
Her arms were wrenched to their fullest as she tried to keep grasping the top of the wall. One leg splayed to the side as she clung like a spider. She dared not look at the ground.
“Jump, Beatrice,” she whispered. “Let go and jump.”
Her hands slipped.
She hovered in a black void before her feet hit the ground. The impact shot through her legs and snapped her teeth shut on her tongue. The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth as she crumpled onto the street.
Pain shot through her hip and she had to spit blood, but she was intact. The relief of it almost made her giddy.
“What are you doing?”
Beatrice jammed her fist into her mouth. She scrambled away until her back hit the wall. A small form materialized out of the darkness and loomed over her. It was skinny and messy, tufts of hair stood up unevenly on his scalp.
“Newt?”
“Aye, my lady, and what are you doing?”
Beatrice dropped her head back against the wall. A bubble of laughter rose up from her chest and broke over her lips. She couldn’t seem to stop. Newt was here. She had no idea how or why, but suddenly the situation didn’t seem as desperate.
“Are you addled?” Newt crouched beside her and peered at her face.
It only made Beatrice want to laugh more.
Newt frowned at her. “I will ring for the guard.”
“Nay.” She stopped laughing and grabbed the boy. “I am escaping.”
“From what?” Newt shifted his arm away from her hand.
“My uncle is trying to kill me.” Saying the words out loud only made them seem ludicrous.
Newt raised his eyebrows and glared at her doubtfully.
“I speak true.” She tugged on Newt until he was close enough for her whisper. “I heard him tonight, talking to someone. Godfrey is planning to kill me.” Her mind balked. It couldn’t be true. But it was true, and she straightened her shoulders. “I need to get to my father, Newt. Will your help me?”
“I do not understand any of this.” Newt straightened. “But I thought my eyes were lying to me when I saw you on yon wall.”
“I can explain.” Beatrice clambered to her feet. “But not here.” She looked about her. A man rounded the corner and started toward them. “I must get away from here. When I’m safe I will tell you everything.”
“Come.” Newt motioned for her to follow.
Beatrice had trouble keeping up with him. Newt disappeared like another shadow in the night. He had an almost preternatural sense for when someone was coming and a sharp hiss would warn her to make herself invisible. He ducked and weaved through the cramped, winding lanes until Beatrice had no idea which end was up.
The smell grew worse as they moved, until Beatrice was forced to keep her hand over her mouth. She thanked God her stomach was empty enough to provide no threat.
Finally, Newt ducked beneath the struts of a house and motioned her inside.
Beatrice eyed the small opening. The boy had a lot less meat on his bones. An imperious hiss had her crawling on her hands and knees after him. It was a tight fit, her hips scraped against the wood before the gap widened into a small bolt hole. Neither of them was able to stand in the tight space. A pile of old rags formed a pallet in one corner.
“Is this where you sleep?” Beatrice was appalled. The boy had gathered a small collection of odds and ends like a magpie. A tarnished buckle, a chipped jug, and a small pile of old tapers cluttered the top of an upended bucket. He owned almost nothing. Beatrice’s heart gave a twist. The meanest churl at Anglesea lived better than this.
“Now.” Newt waved her over to his pallet of rags. He took up position on the floor near the entrance. “Tell me.”
Beatrice started with her arrival in London, skipped the bit about her and Garrett alone, and got to where her uncle had come to find her and hauled Garrett away.
Newt listened, nodding sagely every now and again like a small, dirty, wise man. “How did he find you?”
She stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask. “I have no idea.”
“Hmm.” Newt dipped his head, gnawing his bottom lip like a rat.
“What?”
“Either he had a spy in your camp—”
Beatrice opened her mouth to deny it.
Newt held up one grubby finger to stop her. “Or he was following you the entire time.”
“Those men you saw.” Missing bits of the puzzle dropped into place.
“Mayhap.” Newt shrugged.
“I must reach my father as soon as possible,” she said. “Do you know how to get out of the city? If he found me before, my uncle will be able to find me again.”
“My lady?” Newt’s chest puffed up. “Not only do I know how to get out of this city, I know a man who can take you right to Westminster.” His eyes shifted in his crafty face. “Nobody finds Newt when Newt does not want to be found.”
For the first time in what seemed like years, Beatrice smiled.
“Shall we?” She made a jaunty motion toward the entrance.
“What of your man?” Newt squatted by the wall. “I would guess your uncle has him stashed somewhere.”
Beatrice flinched at his words. The pain throbbed like a raw ache, lurking beneath the urgency of the moment.
“He is not my man.” She clambered off the pallet to hide her reaction.
“Your uncle will kill him for sure.” Newt shrugged and turned to leave his burrow.
Fear rose up around Beatrice’s throat. Garrett would die. It wasn’t her concern. Garrett had lived his entire life by his wits and his devious brain. He could use those to save himself.
Newt shot out of the narrow gap.
Beatrice followed him. “Wait.” She grabbed for the rapidly disappearing tunic in front of her.
Newt stopped and turned his head as far as the narrow passage would allow.
“How did you find me?”
Newt gave a soft chuckle. “I was waiting for you, was I not? I saw you and the big man enter the gates and I followed you. It was quick thinking of him to find those warehouses.”
“You saw us and you did not approach?” What a strange boy.
“Not my way,” he grunted.
“So, were you there? When my uncle came.”
“Might have been.” Newt tried to scramble away again, but Beatrice held fast.
“So, you knew most of what I told you.”
“Lady,” Newt whined, “my knees are getting powerful sore on this ground. There is a rock right beneath me.”
The ground pressed against her knees, too. “And if you knew where I was, you might know where Godfrey’s men took him.” Beatrice could not get his name past the lump in her throat.
Newt clamped his lips together.
“Newt.”
“I might.” He hunched his shoulders.
“I freed you from the stocks, Newt.”
“And I helped you tonight.”
Not so fast, Beatrice tugged his tunic again. “I fed you.”
“I found food for us.”
