by Jane Feather
Lionel read the question in the forest depths of her eyes. And he read her fear. He moved swiftly to dispel the moment. “So, how are you feeling today? You look rather less like a half-drowned kitten.”
“A half-drowned kitten!” Pippa exclaimed, shaken out of her intensity by such an unflattering description. “I did not look like that. It's most ungallant of you to remind me of my mortification . . . of what you saw.”
“Yes, it is, I ask your pardon. But actually you did look rather pathetic. . . .” He held up a hand to forestall her irritated protest. “Only to be expected, of course, in the circumstances.”
“Maybe that was so, but 'tis still unchivalrous of you to bring it up.”
“An apt phrase.” He grinned at her and she couldn't help her own reluctant response.
“That's better.” Casually he brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “You haven't answered my question. How do you feel today?”
Her cheek seemed to come alive beneath the brushing touch. And yet it was nothing out of the ordinary, no more than a punctuation mark. She flicked at her cheek with the back of her hand as if a fly had settled there, and answered calmly, “I have good days and bad ones. Today, thank God, is a good one.”
“The nausea will pass around the twelfth week,” he informed her.
Pippa decided she'd had enough prevarication. Lionel Ashton had had the upper hand for too long. “You have neither wife nor child, and yet you know such things. Are you a physician under that cloak, Mr. Ashton?” Her steady gaze challenged him to answer her as he had refused to do in the grove.
This time he showed no signs of snubbing her with a coldly distant negative. “No, but I was my mother's last born, and the only boy,” he replied cheerfully. “For some reason the women in my family showed no discretion when discussing such things.”
“Oh, I see.” That answered her question most satisfactorily. “How many sisters do you have?”
“I had five.”
She heard the minute hesitation, then the tiny emphasis on the past tense and understood that this she did not probe. The air around them had suddenly become sensitized and she had the sense that another step would take her into quicksand. She wondered if perhaps he had lost all of his sisters. It happened sometimes, when disease would take an entire family. But she would probe no further.
“My knowledge tells me that you should perhaps avoid lifting heavy things,” he suggested, indicating the bowling ball at her feet.
“Oh, but 'tis a light one!” Pippa protested.
He shrugged. “As you wish. I merely pass on what I've heard.” He glanced around as if in search. “You have no female relatives with you?”
“My sister is in France. My mother and her family are in Derbyshire.” Pippa tried to conceal the ache of her loneliness. “The Lady Elizabeth I may not see. Even letters between us are banned.”
He glanced at her sharply, his attuned ear picking up a false note. He guessed that Robin of Beaucaire was combining his mission for the French ambassador with a personal one for his sister. He had a great deal of respect for Lord Robin and would have enjoyed joining forces with him in the business they both shared, but Lionel could not risk breaking his cover. Not even Noailles knew the identity of the spy who provided him with the deepest secrets of Philip's council. Lionel, on the other hand, knew the identities of all the principal clandestine players in Elizabeth's court, and he'd been aware of Robin's mission almost at its inception.
Of course, Pippa, close as she was with her brother, might know something that he did not, but it would not be wise to probe, however casually, at this juncture. Pippa was too clever and had lived too long in the atmosphere of danger to give anything away by accident. Most particularly not to someone she considered a sworn enemy to her own loyalties. Once this promising new confidence between them had grown stronger perhaps he could introduce the subject. But slowly, slowly. Lionel had always believed in the tortoise rather than the hare.
Pippa's gaze returned to the game in progress on the green. “I believe it's my turn.” She bent to pick up the ball and balanced it in the palm of her free hand. “See, Mr. Ashton, 'tis not in the least heavy.” She laughed at him.
He shrugged again and said once more: “I pass on only what I've been told, madam.”
Pippa heard the faintest note of reproach in his tone. For some reason it gave her pause. “Perhaps you're right,” she said. “But I must continue to play this round or my team will forfeit the game.”
She left him with a quick and apologetic smile that puzzled her. Why did she feel she should have taken his advice? He was a man who meant nothing to her, someone who had no right to dictate to her or direct her in any way. And yet she felt she had been disobliging. It was most disconcerting.
She forced herself to concentrate, taking in the position of the bowls on the green. If she could knock those two together and spin the one into the lonely bowl on its left, then she would have won and need play no more.
She frowned, trying to block out the heedless chatter around her. No one took anything seriously, she thought crossly. If they would just be quiet for one moment. And then miraculously the moment came. The voices died down all at once as sometimes happens when a large group seems to take a collective breath. Pippa sent the ball in a perfect roll, heard the satisfying clunk as it hit its intended targets, and watched with a broad grin as the right one spun off into the other target.
A babble of voices arose again around her, congratulations and a smattering of applause. She turned in triumph to look at the poplar tree but Lionel Ashton had gone. He hadn't even waited to see her play.
She could not hide her disappointment from herself. She had wanted him to see her win. It struck her as a thoroughly childish response.
It was all very irksome. Pippa shook her head as if to clear it and strolled over to the spectators to receive her husband's congratulations as was expected of her.
Stuart greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and gracefully pinned a rose to the neck of her gown. “Well played, my dear. I could not have bettered that shot.”
“Praise indeed from such a master,” Pippa murmured, aware that she sounded churlish. But she found his public attentions intolerable these days when he never came near her in private. She was convinced now that his attentions were a sham designed to cover him while he played in some other woman's bed.
Stuart took her arm. “Let us walk a little, if you're not fatigued.”
“Fatigued? How should I be?” she said, forcing a smile, no more willing than Stuart to draw unwelcome attention. “Bowls is not an exhausting game. Mostly one just stands around.”
“Then let us walk down by the river. It will be cooler.”
“As you will, husband.” She was puzzled. The make-believe had been attended to, he had no need to embellish upon it. He must want something from her. Well, it could only be interesting to discover.
He tucked her hand into his arm and smiling benignly at those around them led her away from the green with the air of one bearing off a prize.
“Your gown is not one I've seen before,” he observed. “I like that particular shade of green.”
“Pen sent me the material, a bolt of the finest damask, from France, and several yards of Valenciennes lace,” Pippa said, beginning to wonder whether her husband had indeed sought her private company just to discuss a new gown. “The color is so delicate, like apple blossom.”
“Beautifully set off by the dark red underskirt,” Stuart said seriously. “A most pleasing combination.”
“I thought so,” Pippa agreed. They had reached the riverbank now. The wide path was crowded with courtiers, but the late-afternoon air had no freshness to it, it hung heavy and stale with the day's odors.
“Will this weather ever break?” Pippa murmured almost to herself as she fanned herself vigorously. “'Tis already September.”
Stuart did not immediately respond. He struck off down a side path that led into the cooler shade of the w
eeping willows that lined the riverbank.
“So why are we taking this cozy little walk?” Pippa asked. “After all, 'tis unlike you these days to seek out my company. You could just as easily have complimented me on my gown at the bowling green.”
Her voice was sharp but she made no attempt to moderate it. She was sick to death of the charade and maybe now she could drag some explanation out of him. At this point she didn't care whether he would confess to an undying passion that made his wife repulsive to him. Whatever the truth was, she would find it easier to endure than this limbo.
“You must forgive me, Pippa, but I have had much on my mind,” Stuart said in a low voice.
“Then why would you not share these things with me?” She stopped on the path, looking up at him. She saw the conscious flash in his eyes, the way his gaze shifted abruptly, and two red spots that flared high on his cheekbones.
“That is a question I might ask of you, madam,” he stated harshly. “I believe there is something you should tell me.”
Pippa stared at him. “Like what, Stuart?”
“You should know.”
“What are you asking me, Stuart?” she demanded directly. He could not possibly have guessed at her pregnancy. She hadn't decided when she would tell him, but for the moment it was something precious to herself, and, deep down, she knew she harbored the unworthy thought that he wasn't entitled to the triumphant satisfaction of the prospective father. He had done nothing to deserve it. She was punishing him, but why shouldn't she deny him just a few extra weeks of complacency?
He stopped on the path. “I believe you to be with child.”
“Oh.” Pippa continued to stare at him. “And why would you believe that, Stuart? You have not shared my bed for close on four weeks,” she pointed out bitterly.
His color deepened. He coughed, stumbled over his words. “Your maid . . . Martha . . . she said—”
“You questioned my maid!” Pippa exclaimed in outrage. “You would not discuss this with me! Indeed, you come nowhere near me except when you must. And then you go behind my back, asking my maid for—” She stopped with a gesture of disgust, turning her back to him.
“No . . . no, Pippa, it's not like that.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. It quivered beneath his hand but she did not turn back to him.
“So what is it like, Stuart? You find your pleasure in some other bed, and now you have a nicely impregnated wife to make everything look perfect. That's what it's like, isn't it?” Her voice was low and bitter as aloes.
“No,” he protested. “No, 'tis not like that. I love you, Pippa.”
“Oh, don't give me such lame protestations, Stuart. I thought better of you,” she said tiredly. “At least do me the courtesy of honesty. You take your pleasure in another woman's bed, while you fulfill your marital duty by getting an heir on your wife's body. My felicitations, my lord.” She shook off his hand, spun around, and stalked off back to the riverbank and the palace.
Stuart took a step after her and then stopped. What good would it do? There was nothing he could say to change any of this. He could swear with absolute truth that there was no other woman. He could swear with absolute truth that he had not got an heir on his wife's sleeping body.
But then he would have to tell the truth, and that could not be told.
He followed Pippa back to the riverbank. Once again he thought how simple it would be just to slip beneath the brown water, let the slimy tangle of weeds trap him, hold him down. Then it would all be over.
Over for him. Not for Gabriel. He had to protect Gabriel. Renard's spies watched the musician as they watched Stuart. He could not spirit him out of London, they would be on them within a day. His only hope was to see this through, and then beg for Gabriel's freedom when Philip and Renard and Gomez had what they wanted . . . when they had Pippa's child.
Stuart thought of last night, in the South Bank tavern. They had talked, Gabriel had played for him, and they had slept in each other's arms. He had woken with the dawn chorus and for a moment had had the illusion that all was well with the world. But only for a moment.
Eight
“I fear Renard intercepted the last messenger we sent to Noailles,” Sir Thomas Parry said as he stood in the midafternoon sunshine in the stable yard of the Bull Inn at Woodstock, bidding farewell to his visitor. “You will have a care, Lord Robin?” He gestured significantly to the oiled leather package Robin was stowing in his saddlebag.
“Of course, Sir Thomas.” Robin sounded a touch impatient. Parry had kept him overlong that morning repeating information, asking yet again for details of Mary's court, and gathering together the letters he wished Robin to carry to Noailles and to his other agents in London. “And you will be sure that the Lady Elizabeth gets my sister's letter.”
“'Tis on its way now,” Parry declared. “With a present of game from a local squire.” His pronounced Welsh accents were plummy with satisfaction.
“We have found that Bedingfield shows no inclination to suspect presents of food. I imagine some of it finds its way to his own table.” Parry chuckled, his several chins shaking. “Such gifts provide an excellent conduit for passing messages to Lady Elizabeth. Of course, we have a friend in the kitchens who knows what to look for.”
“Of course. You are to be congratulated on such a smooth and devious operation,” Robin said dryly. It was not surprising Bedingfield couldn't keep control of his prisoner and her affairs. There were more holes in his palace-gaol than a sieve and Thomas Parry was a master at exploiting them.
“We do our best, my dear sir, we do our best,” Thomas declared, thrusting out his barrel chest.
“I must be on my way. I would be back in London by nightfall.” Robin held out his hand in farewell. His page had been instructed to wait for him with a spare horse in the village of High Wycombe so that he could be back in London by late evening if he rode fast.
Back in time to make a delayed moonlight rendezvous with a young lady on the banks of the River Thames.
Farewells completed, he swung onto his horse and rode out of the Bull's stable yard.
Robin reflected that the greatest fear for Elizabeth was of an assassination attempt by Mary's supporters. Mary intended to keep her warehoused in that draughty ill-kempt palace, out of sight and out of mind, but Elizabeth with her pleas and her plots to circumvent her imprisonment was making absolutely certain that she was never out of her sister's mind or the minds of her councillors.
There was much muttering in the country now about how England would be better off with a queen who practiced her father's and brother's religion instead of one who would take the country back to the old and mostly forgotten ways. Elizabeth was very much a threat to her sister's secure hold on the throne and it would not take much for someone to decide to get rid of the threat she posed altogether.
Robin, together with the rest of his family, had supported Mary's accession on her brother Edward's death. But Mary's harsh treatment of Elizabeth, followed by the Spanish marriage and the increasing threat of the Inquisition, had turned many of her supporters against her. Robin, fiercely protective of his stepsister who had suffered so unjustly with Elizabeth, had joined their number.
Robin encouraged his horse into a spirited trot. He had pleasanter matters to contemplate. He reached the inn in High Wycombe in three hours and found his page awaiting him.
“Hal's been saddled and ready to go this last hour, my lord,” the boy said, scrambling up from the ale bench outside the inn door. “You're later than expected.”
“Aye, I was kept overlong at Woodstock.” Robin swung down. “Any news in the last week?” He stuck his head around the inn door and called for a mug of ale.
Jem looked sly. “There's a rumor going about, sir.”
“Oh?” Robin took the foaming pitcher brought to him and drank it down in one long draught. He set the pitcher on the bench and regarded his page. “What kind of rumor?”
“I heard tell, my lord, that the queen is with ch
ild.” Jem delivered his information with a smug grin. “Thought you'd like to know. 'Tis on every tongue.”
Robin whistled under his breath. “And how did that get about so quickly?” But he knew the answer. A piece of news of that importance would fly on the air the minute anyone put it into words.
He mounted his fresh horse and set off again, leaving Jem to care for the tired gelding his master had ridden from Oxford. He dismissed Elizabeth and her sister from his thoughts, looking up into the darkening sky where a great yellow harvest moon was rising over the treetops. A beautiful night for a romantic rendezvous.
Would Luisa be walking in the garden as she'd promised? Eagerness now put spur to his horse.
It was past curfew when he reached Aldgate, but he carried a carte blanche signed by the queen herself. It was an honor Mary had given to Robin's father for his loyal help in securing her throne and it had naturally devolved upon his son. Robin ensured that he did nothing to jeopardize this useful document. There were times when the ability to enter and leave the city, at times forbidden to the general public, was very useful.
The guards waved him through the wicket gate and he rode swiftly down to the menacing edifice of the Tower. There, after transferring the precious packet of letters from his saddlebags to his doublet, he stabled his horse at an inn where he was well known and walked to the water steps at the Lion Gate.
“Ho! You there!” he called softly to a boatman leaning on the oars of a small skiff.
The man pulled swiftly to the steps. “Where to, sir?”
“I want your boat,” Robin said, taking a leather purse from his doublet pocket. “I'll pay you a sovereign for the use of it for three hours.” He thunked the purse into the palm of his other hand so that the substantial chink of coin was easily heard.
The man jumped readily to the quay, holding the skiff's painter. “I'll 'ave an evenin' in the Black Dog, I reckon.” He gestured to the light that spilled from the open door of a tavern set just back from the quay and offered Robin a toothless grin.
