by Jane Feather
Anthony forced his attention back to the cards in his hand. “Two spades, gentlemen.” He took up his wine goblet and glanced with seeming idleness around the hall.
She was wearing the orange gown again, and again he thought she looked like some flaming orchid with her pale coloring and her glossy dark hair massed at her nape against the brilliant glow of the gown.
She looked directly at him as she stood between Lady Granville and Lady Rothbury. There was no mistaking the message in those velvet eyes. It was a penetrating demand for his attention. There was nothing sensual about the look, none of the luminous promise, the flickering embers of desire, the wicked mischief that her eyes so often revealed.
He gave an infinitesimal nod and turned back to his cards.
Olivia was satisfied. He would come to her.
She turned to Mistress Hammond with a demure inquiry about one of the tapestries on the walls of the great hall. Mistress Hammond launched instantly into an elaborate description that reduced her audience to glassy-eyed boredom but gave Olivia at least the opportunity to prepare her message to Anthony. She would have little time to pass it on. It would have to be succinct.
Anthony played his card, neatly destroying his game, and endured the angrily derisive complaints of his partner, who had lost five guineas on Caxton’s poor play.
“So sorry … so sorry … of course, I yield my place.” Anthony fluttered his hands in distress. “I fear my lord Daubney has had ill luck with his partners this evening. But I am such a poor cardplayer. Mr. Taunton, perhaps you can compensate for me?” He gestured to the gentleman who was standing at the king’s elbow.
“Yes, yes, if you wish it,” the man said eagerly. “I own I have long wished for the honor of playing with His Majesty.”
Charles smiled faintly. Candlelight set the rings on his white hand sparkling as he indicated that this other esquire hungry for royal notice should take Anthony’s seat.
Anthony bowed to his sovereign and melted into the throng. Olivia was still in the knot of people around Mistress Hammond. She was clearly restless, shifting from foot to foot, opening and closing her fan, but he noticed with a touch of bitterness that she had learned from their clandestine love enough of conspiracy to keep her eyes from wandering, seeking him out, now that she’d signaled her message.
“Lady Granville … Lady Rothbury. How delightful to see you here. I hardly dared hope that I would have the honor of meeting with you again.” He simpered as he bowed to the two married women.
“The honor, Mr. Caxton, is all ours,” Portia said with a distinctly ironic flash of her green eyes.
Anthony caught the flash, but he turned to greet Olivia. “Lady Olivia. I am so happy to see that your gown suffered no ill effects from my clumsiness.”
“We were fortunate, Mr. Caxton.” She curtsied, her eyes demurely lowered. “But if you would make recompense …”
“Anything, dear madam. Anything I can do to make you think well of me again.” He raised her hand to his lips. As he did so, he caught the faintest glimmer of appreciative amusement on Lady Rothbury’s countenance, another flash of those green eyes. He glanced at Lady Granville and she averted her gaze with that slight touch of hauteur he’d noticed before.
So Olivia had confided in her friends.
“My shawl,” Olivia said. “I find myself a little chilly and I wonder if you would escort me to the carriage so that I may retrieve it.”
“It will be my pleasure, Lady Olivia.” His tone was noncommittal as he gave her his arm.
Olivia laid a hand on his arm and felt the muscles beneath the dark blue silk immediately harden beneath her fingers. Just touching him in this way brought a wave of heat flooding her skin, setting her head spinning. Her grip tightened, her fingers involuntarily biting into his arm, as he led her from the hall.
The courtyard was bustling with soldiers as the watch was changed on the battlements. “What is it?” Anthony demanded quietly. “I assume you’re not seeking a lovers’ tryst.”
He sounded so cold, so hard.
“May we walk in the privy garden?” Olivia whispered. His bitterness was only to be expected—she had caused it—but it hurt most dreadfully. She wanted to scream at him that it was as hard for her as for him. Demand that he understand how she felt. But if ever there had been a moment for that kind of revelation, it had passed.
Anthony without comment directed their steps across the courtyard to the chapel and the garden beyond it.
There were a few couples taking the evening air in the walled garden, and no one looked curiously at the new arrivals.
“So, what is it you wish to say to me?” His voice was low but curt.
Olivia kept her eyes on the gravel path. “You have fallen under suspicion,” she murmured. “I wanted to warn you. They are saying you’re not what you seem.”
She felt the muscle in his arm jump beneath her hand, but his step didn’t falter. He glanced around once, quickly, as if assessing the situation, then said, “So you let something slip.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course I didn’t. I said I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t break a promise.”
“Hush,” he commanded. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Tell me what you know.”
In soft, rushed tones Olivia related the supper table conversation. “My father said it was just a whisper.”
“And where did the whisper come from? If not from you, then from one of the friends in whom you confided my secrets?” His tone was harsh.
“No,” Olivia repeated firmly, but her hurt was clear in her voice despite its strength. “I needed their help to get here tonight without causing comment. They knew of nothing until now … when it didn’t matter anymore. You’re already under suspicion. No one I know has betrayed you. My friends would not betray a friend of mine. Friends don’t betray friends.”
He glanced down at her. She met his gaze steadily, although he could read the pain in her eyes at his accusation.
“I came to warn you,” she repeated.
Slowly he nodded. “In friendship?”
No, in love. Olivia hesitated, then she said, “If you like.”
He gave a short laugh. “Well, I thank you for your friendship, my flower. I’m sure it’s more than a dishonorable man deserves. Now I must go before they set the dogs on me. I will leave you at the hall. If I leave you here alone, it will draw attention.” He strode with her across the courtyard, then moved his arm from beneath her hand.
He looked down into her pale face in bleak silence for a minute, then as if he couldn’t help himself he slowly raised a hand and cupped the curve of her cheek before saying with quiet finality, “Goodbye, Olivia.” He turned on his heel and strode towards the gatehouse.
Olivia stood in the light from the open doorway. She struggled to compose her expression. She could not go back inside, into that noisy oblivious throng, with tears clogging her throat, pricking behind her eyes. She felt as if she had lost all touch with herself, her knowledge of who and what she was. She would never see him again. He would be gone from the island before they caught him, and she would never see him again. It was what had to be and yet her heart wept in protest.
But go back into the hall she must. She must do nothing to draw attention to Anthony’s abrupt departure. She took a step towards the light, then a familiar voice in the courtyard gave her pause.
“My lord?” It was Giles Crampton, hurrying across the courtyard from the gatehouse.
“Giles, what news?” Cato appeared out of the shadows of the barbican wall.
Olivia guessed he had been making his way to the hall. He had not seen her as yet. She trod soundlessly back down the stairs. There was a niche in the wall, untouched by the light of the pitch torches around the courtyard. She pressed herself into the tiny dark space and listened.
“We took the Yarrows, sir. I’ll swear Caxton never lays his ’ead in that room of theirs. It ’as his things in it, but he’s not been there in months, if ever.”
“Are they talking?”
Olivia held her breath. She seemed now to inhabit some cold, clear space where her mind was lucid, emptied of all emotional turbulence. The Yarrows must be the people in Newport, where he was supposed to lodge.
“They’re about to be disembarked at Yarmouth, sir. I’ll go along an’ welcome ’em. Just thought to let ye know where we’re at.”
“Good. Bring me any information as soon as you have it.” Cato turned to mount the steps to the hall, then he paused, saying over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything you don’t have to do, Giles. No need for … for heroic measures.” His tone was ironic.
“Goodman Yarrow’ll tell all ’e knows an’ the ’istory of the universe into the bargain afore ye can get close enough to say ‘boo,’ ” Giles said scornfully.
“Then see that no one says more than ‘boo,’ Giles.” Cato disappeared into the hall. He had little stomach for torture. There were occasions when it was necessary. It was a fact of ordinary life, let alone war. But a civilized man moderated its use.
Olivia waited until her father would be well into the hall, engulfed in the throng, before she slipped back up the steps.
Suddenly Portia was there beside her. “Take my arm,” she whispered in Olivia’s ear as she stood for a minute almost paralyzed in the light. “Just remember that we’ve been walking outside. You were feeling faint with the heat.”
“Yes,” Olivia said, taking the arm. “So I was.”
Seventeen
TOMORROW NIGHT. At eleven, at the change of the third watch.
In the quiet of his prison chamber, the king touched the scrap of paper with the candle flame and watched it disintegrate. At last it was to happen.
He went to the barred window and examined the bars. The nitric acid he’d been given would burn through the two middle bars. He kept it on his person at all times. The governor conducted regular searches of his prisoner’s chamber but had not yet had the effrontery to search the royal person. The rope that would take him over the wall was cleverly concealed within the bedropes that formed the frame of his bed.
He had become aware of increased security in the last several weeks, and this evening, when Hammond had escorted him to his chamber and bidden him good night, the king had sensed a new watchfulness. Did they know something? Or just suspect?
This would be his last chance, the king knew. One more failed attempt and they would move him from the relative comfort of his island prison to somewhere as secure as the Tower. The Scots were ready to cross the Border in his support. If only he could reach France, then the movement to return him to his throne would produce a groundswell that would topple Cromwell and his Parliament like sheaves of corn before the scythe.
What was Edward Caxton? This man on whom the future of a country’s sovereignty rested. A mercenary. An actor. Not a pleasant man, at least not in the king’s estimation. He found Caxton’s twisted smile disconcerting, and the cool gray eyes seemed to see so much more than his mere surroundings. And the indolent, foppish manner concealed a power, a cynicism that chilled the king. He couldn’t understand how other people didn’t notice it, but then, they didn’t know Caxton was to be the king’s savior. They weren’t looking for something beyond the surface the fawning courtier chose to present.
But was this cynical, cold side to the man the real Cax-ton? Sometimes the king had glimpsed something else. A flash of genuine humor, a merriness in the deep-set eyes, a lightness to his step. He was a warm and attractive man then.
Not that it mattered what kind of man he was. It mattered only that he should succeed. The king sat down beneath his barred window and listened to the wind of freedom, the shriek of the gulls circling the battlements. The clock in the chapel tower struck one.
In just twenty-two hours he would make his bid for freedom.
GOODMAN YARROW AND HIS WIFE stood in the base court of Yarmouth Castle. It was full dark and they’d been left there unattended for hours it seemed, ignored by the soldiers who hurried up and down the stone steps leading to the earthen gun platform above. They could hear the sea crashing against the walls, and Prue shivered in the dampness of this cold, gray, square fortification.
A soldier appeared from the gateway. He shouldered his pike as he marched across the courtyard, and his step slowed as he passed them. He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Keep a good ’eart.” Then he continued his march to the gun platform.
“What’s ’e say?” the goodman demanded, cupping his ear.
“Told us to keep a good ’eart,” Prue whispered. “Reckon he’s one of us. Fer the king, like.”
The goodman clapped his arms around his chest. “Much good that does us.”
“ ’Tis a comfort,” Prue said grimly. “You jest keep a still tongue in yer ’ead, man. Don’t say nothin’ at all. You may not think summat’s important, but it could be. I fer one’ll be silent as the grave.”
There was a bustle at the gatehouse and Giles Cramp-ton strode into the base court. “Sea’s pickin’ up. Reckon it’s goin’ to storm,” he observed as he came over to them. “ ’Ope it wasn’t too rough for ye.”
Goodman Yarrow spat his disgust at such an implication; Prue merely regarded Giles with disdain.
“Island folk, o’ course,” Giles said easily. “Well, why don’t ye come inside in the warm.” He gestured to the door to the master gunner’s house. “There’s a fire in the range.” He swept them ahead of him into the house.
Prue looked around in disbelief. She’d expected a dungeon, not an ordinary domestic kitchen.
“Mary, ’ow about a cup of elderflower tea fer the goodwife,” Giles called cheerfully to a plump woman tending a bread oven.
“Right y’are, Sergeant.” In a minute she bustled over with a tin cup and set it on the table.
Prue drank gratefully, but the kindness did nothing to lull her suspicions, which came to full fruition when Giles said, “Ye’d prefer a pot of ale, goodman, I’ll be bound,” and led her eager husband into the pantry at the rear of the kitchen.
Her man would babble everything under the influence of ale, she thought despairingly. The sergeant had read his prisoners correctly, and he knew where to put the pressure and what incentive to use.
“That was a right good drop o’ tea, mistress. I thankee kindly,” she said. “Ye want some ’elp wi’ the bakin’?”
“Oh, aye, if’n ye’ve a mind,” Mary said. “I’d count it a kindness. Can’t ’ardly keep pace wi’ the men’s bellies these days.”
In the scullery Giles chatted gently to Goodman Yarrow about the man Giles knew as Edward Caxton. Emboldened by the ale, relieved by the absence of threat, the goodman roamed far and wide over his limited knowledge of the man the islanders called the master. But he was slyly aware as he talked of how unimportant was the information he was providing.
“Master of what?” Giles refilled his tankard.
“A frigate,” the goodman said proudly. “Pretty a ship as ye’ve seen.”
“And where’s her anchorage?”
The goodman shook his head mournfully. “That I don’t know, sir. I’m tellin’ ye the truth. There’s few folk on the island what knows that.”
“Tell me who might know.” Giles regarded him steadily over the rim of his own tankard.
The goodman looked uncomfortable. “ ’Tis ’ard to say, like. Those what ’elps the master only knows a few of t’others. An’ Prue an’ me, like, we don’t know nothin’ very much. The master, ’e jest comes and goes.”
He could see that the sergeant was not very impressed, and hit upon a name. “There’s George at the Anchor in Niton. ’E might know summat.”
Godfrey Channing had already put them on to George.
Giles had sent men to have a word with the landlord some time ago.
“So what does this master do wi’ his frigate?”
The goodman buried his nose in his tankard. This he did know. And it was information that could condemn the master.
“Come
on, man, out wi’ it!” Giles leaned forward across the table and now there was menace in his eyes. “Go easy on yerself,” he said softly.
Goodman Yarrow glanced around the pantry. It was an unthreatening place, but he could hear the slosh of the moat washing against the south wall under the rising wind. This was a fortress. A moat on two sides, the sea on the remaining two. He could die in its dungeons and no one know.
Goodman Yarrow was not a brave man.
“Smugglin’, an’ a bit o’ piracy, I ’eard tell,” he muttered.
“Piracy, eh?” Giles nodded. “An’ what is it that he smuggles? Goods … or summat a little more interesting, maybe?” His eyes narrowed as he watched his prey wriggle like a worm on the end of a hook.
“I dunno. I dunno.” There was desperation in the goodman’s voice. He knew nothing, but there were rumors.
“For the king, is he?”
The goodman lowered his head. But it was enough for Giles. He had his confirmation. Caxton was a smuggler and a pirate. A mercenary with Royalist sympathies. A man who could blend into the king’s court, but who also knew how to slip in and out of secret anchorages, to plot a course to France, to evade and outdistance pursuit. They had their man.
“This frigate, she ’ave a name?”
Goodman Yarrow shrugged helplessly. “Wind Dancer, I’m told, sir.”
Giles nodded, observing, “Pretty name.” So far he was doing well with Goodman Yarrow, but maybe there was still more he could get out of him, some little nugget of information, something that the goodman didn’t even know was important.
“Y’are an island man. Where would you find deep channel anchorage fer a frigate?” He refilled their tankards once again.
The goodman seized his eagerly and took a deep draft before saying, “In a chine, o’ course.”
“Which side o’ the island?”
Goodman Yarrow shrugged again. “Them’s all down the coast from Yarmouth to Shanklin. Some deep, some not.”
“Give me a name, man. Somewhere to start lookin’.”
“Why you so interested in the master, anyways? There’s smugglers aplenty along these coasts.” The goodman, emboldened by ale, felt the first stirrings of rebellion.
