by Julia Latham
In the kitchens, he explored the many chambers nearby, from the buttery with its linens and silver plate and spoons, to the pantry, reached by stairs circling down into the undercroft, where vegetables and barrels of salted meat were kept cool. In the butlery, he paid particular attention to the barrels of wine and ale.
For her ears alone, he remarked, “’Twould be easy for anyone to fill a tankard here and not be seen.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “We have never had the need to station guards throughout the castle.”
“And your cook seems easily distracted.”
“He is good at his craft,” she said, feeling the need to defend the man.
“Then perhaps he needs someone to assist him with all other details, for my partner found arsenic in a cupboard, easily accessible.”
She stared up at him in the dim chamber. “Does not every castle have arsenic to control the rats?”
“Aye, they do. But many limit its access, so that there is always a record of who used it.”
“We do not do that,” she admitted, her chest heavy with sadness.
“I imagine you will now.”
She nodded.
“Please show me the most direct route to the viscount’s chambers.”
She hugged herself, imagining someone leaving the kitchens, carrying a plate of poison through shadowy corridors. This person watched a man die a slow and agonizing death. What kind of monster could do such a thing?
It wasn’t a long trip, simply down a corridor, up the circular stairs, down another corridor to the front of the keep, where the viscount’s chambers overlooked the courtyard.
“There are no hidden passages, or other corridors to travel between the two areas of the keep?”
She shook her head. “Of course there are longer ways to get here, going through other sections of the castle.”
Outside the viscount’s door, Robert said, “You said there are no regular guards, even here?”
“Lord Drayton thought himself so safe,” she added wistfully. “The curtain walls had never been breached, even in past centuries when neighboring lords besieged each other.”
He went inside, and although she followed him, she remained near the door. He glanced at her as if curious, but did not insist she accompany his every step.
The room was decorated as befit a viscount, with wainscoted paneling on the walls instead of simple plaster. The inner chamber, where the lord slept, had wall hangings to keep in the warmth, and stained-glass windows letting in colored light. To the left, a door led into the solar, where the Lord Drayton had private meetings—and private meals, she thought, swallowing back a lump of sorrow.
Robert beckoned to her and she followed him through. A table and chairs dominated the center, with cupboards of fine plate lining one wall.
“Where do the doors lead?” he asked.
“One to a privy, the other out into the corridor.”
“To bring his lordship a private meal, one could come through his bedchamber or the corridor.”
She nodded.
To the left of the outer chamber, the door opened onto Francis’s bedchamber, and she followed Robert in. Francis’s four-poster bed was smaller than an adult’s. The chamber had several coffers for his possessions, and on the table near the hearth he had displayed his rock collection.
She smiled as she fingered his newest find, remembering his excitement when he’d brought it to her.
But Robert was exploring the room, just as he’d done in the master chambers, looking behind hanging wall cloths, opening the windows to peer out to the courtyard below.
“Where does the far door lead?” he asked.
“My chambers.”
An unreadable expression crossed his face before he smiled and opened her door. She should bristle that he didn’t even ask permission first, but how could she? Everyone was a suspect until he found the murderer. He could not treat her differently, even though she was helping him.
Robert felt as if he became even more alert when he crossed the threshold into Sarah’s bedchamber. He reminded himself she was conveniently connected to his lordship’s chambers. She’d been the man’s mistress. She knew and understood a man’s needs.
He would have thought her bedchamber would be more…welcoming to her lord, that there would be cushions and fine fabrics and even displayed gifts.
Instead, the room was at best functional. There were no mementoes scattered on cupboard shelves, not even a cushioned chair before the hearth. She had one coffer for her clothing, and pegs pounded into the plainly plastered walls to hold several gowns and a cloak. At least there was a carpet to keep her feet from the cold wooden floor.
She stood near the door, arms crossed over her chest, as if she were holding herself back. From what? He was invading her privacy of course. He wanted to move about the room and touch the things that were hers, but that would reveal more about him than her.
“Your bedchamber is conveniently near his young lordship,” Robert said.
She nodded. “’Twas also convenient when the viscountess lay dying just beyond. I could reach her easily in the middle of the night, to offer comfort and the herbs that helped her to sleep.”
And she could conveniently reach his lordship, whether to climb into his bed, or poison his food.
Why wasn’t he consumed with hatred—or at least disgust?
“’Tis easy to see why the boy grew close to you,” he said, “since he saw you with his mother so often.”
“As Lady Drayton grew weaker, she asked for my help more. I relayed her orders to the household. She lingered for a year after I came to help ease her.”
“You could not heal her?”
“She’d had a weak heart since childhood. The physicians even recommended that she never have a baby, but she ignored them out of love for her husband. Francis’s birth was hard on her, I was told, and soon even the stress of climbing the stairs took her breath away. No healer can cure such an ailment. Gradually, her heart failed her and she passed away in her sleep. I was able to ease her pain, but that was all.”
“And during this time, did not Francis have a nurse?”
“Aye, but she and her husband had to move from the county to help relatives near the Channel.”
“Was this nurse gone well before his lordship took sick?”
“Aye, she was.”
Her eyes widened, as if she realized his suspicions had to include everyone. So far, he didn’t think she realized how close to her own life his questions skirted—or why. The longer he could keep her innocent of suspicion, the more freely she would speak to him.
“I understand that Lord Drayton ate private meals in his solar when he was working.”
She nodded, coming a step farther into the chamber. “He was a busy man, with many manors and property to oversee.”
“Who brought him his meals?”
He saw her swallow before answering. “Usually he sent for a kitchen maid, but it was never the same one each time. Even I brought him an occasional plate,” she added, lifting her chin.
Of course, that was something she couldn’t hide—many would have known she brought food to his lordship.
“There were many people who handled his meals,” she continued, “but only one in charge of the kitchen, where the food was made. Surely you do not think Cook would want to kill Lord Drayton?”
“It seems unlikely, although I do not rule it out. But motive is important in such a crime. Why would Cook want to kill him?”
“His position here was quite secure. Ask anyone—Lord Drayton was vocal with his appreciation of what was served each night.”
“Then was someone with him regularly when he ate, someone who could slip arsenic into his meal or tankard?”
“He was ill over many weeks,” she said softly. “More and more of his business was conducted in his chambers. Gradually people came to meet with him there almost exclusively.”
“And when he was too ill to perform his duties?
”
“He still had visitors who came to comfort him—until the physician began to suspect the black death.”
Everything Sarah said could be proven by many members of the household, so she would not be foolish enough to lie.
He found himself distracted again as she walked across her bedchamber. She went to a small table where her brush and combs and a hand mirror were laid out neatly side by side. Unable to stop himself, he followed her. A variety of ribbons were spread out, so that she could see which one matched the day’s gown. Without conscious volition, he ran his finger down the fine material of the ribbons. He heard her intake of breath, but didn’t let himself look at her.
Also occupying the table were several bound books, parchment and quill, and a wax tablet. One book was of poetry, another a history of England, and the last about common plants.
Did she have these on hand for Francis? But then, she wasn’t his tutor. She wanted more from life than simply to be taken care of.
But of course, she’d allowed herself to be taken care of before.
He was too close to her bed, with its heavy curtains tied back to the posts. Many cushions were piled above the bedclothes to give her comfort in the night.
He glanced over to her at last. She did not seem embarrassed at his boldness, only more and more curious, as a frown gathered on her forehead.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a clear, cool voice.
Chapter 9
Sarah told herself to be offended by Robert’s behavior, but instead she found being alone with him in her bedchamber far too exciting. When he’d touched her hair ribbons with his large fingers, she’d shivered as if he’d stroked her skin.
And now he was lingering near her bed, and if only for her own peace of mind, she’d had to ask his purpose.
“Your bedchamber is another way that someone could have accessed the viscount’s lodgings.” His smile was far from innocent, even though his explanation was.
She rolled her eyes. “There are doors into each room of the master chambers.”
“Yet I had to see for myself.”
“So my ribbons interest you?” My bedclothes? she stopped herself from saying. And then she felt her face betray her with a hot blush.
“Everything about you interests me,” he admitted.
She held her breath.
“And I fear that you interest others in the household as well.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded.
“Do you worry that my attention to you will harm your standing?”
She blinked in confusion. “You already said they will think you flirt with me. I accept that.”
“And you do not think some might be suspicious about why you’re allowing my forward behavior?”
“Suspicious? I am a young, unmarried woman.”
“Yet I will have to do much more to show my interest,” he said.
And then he was walking toward her, his broad smile replaced by one more subtle, more wicked. He took her hand, and she inhaled, startled.
“Soon I will take your hand in the great hall,” he said, studying her hand as if fascinated.
She wanted to scoff at his effect on her, but she couldn’t. Her small hand seemed swallowed by his. His skin was rough with calluses, tanned by the sun, with dark hairs along the back, so very masculine against her fingers.
“Will you forget this is a pretense between us,” he murmured, then lifted her hand to his mouth, “and blush when I do this?”
He pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers. She wanted to snatch her hand away—and she wanted to turn it over and let his mouth touch her palm.
“Already you blush.” Laughter shined in his vivid blue eyes.
“How can you blame me?” she whispered. “We are alone here.”
“But I only kiss your hand. You have been married, you have been a man’s mistress. Surely you cannot care about so simple a thing as a kiss on your hand.”
She gaped at him, forgetting his “practice” flirtation. “What did you say?”
He frowned. “Caring about a kiss on your hand?”
“Nay, before that! Did you say I have been a man’s mistress?”
“Aye. ’Tis common knowledge here.”
“But—” She pulled her hand away and backed up a step. “I have only shared one man’s bed, and I was bound to him by the vows of marriage. Of what foolish ‘common knowledge’ do you speak?”
The flirtatious twinkle faded from his eyes, and now he watched her closely. “You know it is my duty to talk to various members of the castle. When I was trying to understand the hierarchy of the servants, I asked why the young lord’s nursemaid was also in charge of the household.”
“’Twas because I helped Lady Drayton in such a capacity.”
He cocked his head and quietly said, “All believe you succeeded Lady Drayton in her husband’s bed after her death.”
“What?”
She covered her mouth with both hands, for fear her cry was heard in the corridor. She had made no secret of her purpose with Robert today, but then she’d been ignorant of how others saw her.
She felt hot with fury and disbelief.
“They saw the respect Lord Drayton showed to you,” Robert continued, “granting you power in his household, so everyone else offered the same. Do you deny their claims?”
“Of course I do! Lord Drayton was as a father to me. I could never—I would never—” Her words trailed away as a sick feeling of confusion sank deep inside her.
“Sit down,” Robert said. “You suddenly look pale enough to swoon.”
She pushed his hands away, backing up until she could clutch the back of a wooden chair. “I do not swoon. I just…need to think. I feel…like I do not even know myself, or what my life has been here.”
He continued to watch her as if he could read her mind. But then he could study her face where she usually revealed all with each foolish expression.
“You know what your life has been,” he said firmly.
“Do I? Everyone down there, all of my friends—” She broke off, thinking briefly of Margery. “They all believe I gave myself to a nobleman in exchange for comfort and security.”
“You do not know how they viewed it. By the respect they show you, ’tis obvious to me they believe you comforted Drayton. Sir Anthony allowed you to remain Francis’s nursemaid, a definite mark of respect.”
“But—” She couldn’t form words as her thoughts jumbled together. “Is that all Simon wants of me?” she whispered sadly. “He thought me a man’s mistress, thought I would—”
“Stop this. Any man would want you for wife. ’Tis not your fault that your bloodlines were not pure enough to be a viscountess.”
“I never even thought such a thing!” she cried. “Why would I, when I was already a failure as a wife?”
His eyes narrowed.
She didn’t give him a chance to question her. “God above, now I understand why Cook and the other kitchen servants were surprised by my outing with Simon. I thought they didn’t think of me as a normal woman who wanted romance. Instead they must simply have wondered why he bothered courting me, when he could easily have me for a price.” She heard the growing bitterness in her voice.
“Stop this,” Robert said firmly, stepping forward to grip her shoulders. “No one thinks you a prostitute.”
“And now they’re leaving you to me,” she continued, her voice rising shrilly, “because they think I’ll distract you from your mission, protect them, even if ’tis with my body.” To her mortification, she choked on a sob.
He gave her a little shake. “You are exaggerating everything, Sarah. You have been in control of this household for at least a year. Why wouldn’t they all assume you would deal with me? They are grateful for your assistance to me, just as they’ve been grateful for your care of Francis and your care of them. You don’t seem to realize that even though they all are mistaken in one belief, it did not affect their respect for your compassion
and hard work.”
Her hard work on her back. But she didn’t say those terrible words aloud. He was trying to comfort her, even though he didn’t understand how her world had been shaken. She suddenly felt as adrift as during her marriage, belonging nowhere. But that didn’t mean she deserved to be abused once again.
She took a deep breath and stepped away from him. “You think I am overreacting,” she said, trying to sound calm.
“I do not presume to understand what you’re feeling. But I believe you should not think the worst. Perhaps you can begin to correct the misunderstanding, slowly, one person at a time.”
She nodded, but she felt distracted, trying to grasp all the implications. “So people must think I’m choosing between you and Simon as my lover.”
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the bedpost. “You’re drawing conclusions too quickly. Do you not think many women would be with a viscount if he asked them—or perhaps even feel pressured to accept? Why would you think they blame you for such a thing? He was lord of all here, and they might believe you had no choice.”
“He was a good man,” she said in a soft voice. “He would never treat a woman so.”
“Regardless, you seem to be able to understand people, to guide and oversee them as you do. Does anyone here resent you, or look down upon you?”
“Not that they’ve shown me,” she said, hearing her quiet bitterness.
“But you could look into someone’s eyes and see something hidden.”
She sighed. “Aye. I’ve had to develop that skill.”
Although she, obviously, could not see into the heart of a murderer.
Again, she felt his focus intensify.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I was a naive fool when I married, and I had to learn the hard way what people thought of me.”
Robert found it difficult to hold back his curiosity. He wanted—needed—to know everything about her.
