Or perhaps, perhaps Lady Howe truly loved her husband. The man who may have killed a stubborn Fulke in order to obtain a strip of land from his widow.
“I will also leave you tansy syrup,” Bess said to Lady Howe. “A few drops, twice a day for the next few days.”
An old recipe to hold the child in the womb, but one she’d seldom had opportunity to use. In London, women were more likely to request physic that would hasten the birth of a child than attempt to hold on to one.
“You must tell my husband. I will forget.”
Bess refreshed the linen, squeezing out the excess liquid into the bowl, then returned it to Lady Howe’s belly. What she ventured to say next brought Bess nearer the reason she had leaped at the chance to visit Highcombe Manor. “I should make a note upon a scrap of paper. For I expect Sir Walter has many tasks to occupy his mind.”
“Indeed so.” Lady Howe’s eyes sparkled with pride. “But he never complains about his duties. He attends to them with great seriousness.”
“The past few days have likely been difficult ones for him.”
“I know not of what you speak, Mistress.”
“The incident of which I am thinking involved my brother-in-law. However, if Sir Walter did not tell you, then he meant for you to not be concerned.”
“Who is your brother-in-law?”
If Sir Walter came upon them as they discussed Fulke, he would be outraged. “Fulke Crofton. Have you ever heard of him? Your husband sought to purchase land from him.”
“I cannot say that I have, but then my husband rarely burdens me with such concerns.” If she lied, she was expert at falseness, for her body, her countenance did not betray her. “I am sorry if there have been troubles for Master Crofton though.”
“You are most kind.” And she was. Sweet and pure as fresh cream.
There was a knock upon the door, and Sir Walter entered. Bess stood to offer a curtsy, her heart hammering in fear he might have overheard.
“Sit, Mistress Ellyott. Sit.” A crisp wave of his hand accompanied his words, exhibiting no lack of confidence that he would be obeyed. Nothing in his manner, though, suggested he had heard their conversation. “There is no need for formality here.”
“Sir,” she said, retaking her spot upon the stool.
“Are you well, dear heart?” he asked his wife. Lady Howe nodded, and he turned to Bess. “I have heard there are stones from Cyprus that are to be worn about the neck to preserve the child in the womb. Do you have any of those?”
“I do not. But I have a syrup for her to take that should work as well.”
“I sent my servant for the apothecary, but I am told the man is ill. And you have come instead upon my cousin’s recommendation.” He examined her. “He has vouched for your skills, and you have my thanks for offering to help. Others have failed before, and I would not have Cecily suffer again.”
“See how good he is to me, Mistress Ellyott? He fusses and frets like the old nurse I had as a child. And he stays with me often, neglecting his duties to his manor and town.” She smiled at her husband, her face as radiant as an angel’s.
“While you are here, Mistress, I would extend my sympathy for your brother-in-law’s passing.”
His manner was kindly. He did not look evil. More importantly, he did not look guilty.
“I am grateful for your kind words, Sir Walter,” she said.
A wry smile flickered. “And no doubt unexpected, coming from someone who had once argued with Master Crofton.”
Bess inclined her head.
“Wat, who is this fellow—” Lady Howe gasped. Grimacing, she pressed fingers to her belly. “There is a pain! I shall lose the child!”
“Shh,” Bess said to the young woman, running hands over her abdomen and feeling no contractions. The pain was likely a passing cramp. If there were more though … “Breathe slowly and deeply, madam. Do not become alarmed.”
“I should have been with you earlier,” said Sir Walter. “You needed me.”
The deep breaths had given Lady Howe ease. “Nay. You are good to me always.” She pressed the hand he rested upon the counterpane. “And I mind not your afternoon walks. They bring you peace.”
With care, Bess assessed Sir Walter’s reaction to his wife’s revelation that he regularly left the house in the afternoon. His countenance remained unchanged, and he appeared as innocent as any lamb.
“I also find a lengthy walk calming, Lady Howe,” said Bess.
“He has taken to strolling even in the rain, Mistress Ellyott,” she continued. “Except for the other day when it rained so very hard. He went out at midday; otherwise he’d have returned drenched.” Her laughter over her husband’s foolishness bubbled up from her throat.
“Do you mean that dreadful rain of this past Tuesday, Lady Howe? I was caught out in it myself, returning from tending a child who had burned her hand.”
“Aye,” she replied. “And ’twas most clever of him to avoid such foul weather. To stroll in the rain invites sickness, does it not?”
“Indeed.” If Sir Walter had gone out at midday, he could not be accused of causing Fulke’s death. He had been here, at his wife’s side during the afternoon, when Fulke had come to harm.
Bess searched about for a sense of relief but still remained uneasy.
“Are you unwell, Mistress Ellyott?” Sir Walter asked.
“Forgive me. I was allowing myself a moment of weakness by envying your daily strolls, Sir Walter,” Bess said hastily, removing the damp linen from Lady Howe’s navel and rolling it into a ball to carry home.
She collected the tincture of tansy syrup and handed it over to him along with the instructions on its use. He appeared so grateful that a pang of guilt struck. I had wished him responsible. Still wished him responsible, and could not shake the sense that she was hunting in the dark for a truth just out of reach.
A manservant came to the chamber door, and Sir Walter went to speak with him.
“My cousin was called away by Gibb, Mistress Ellyott,” he said. “A vagrant has been spotted near the mill and must be removed.”
“Is it that fellow Cook saw near the woods?” asked Lady Howe, her fingers curling upon her blanket. “The thin-bellied one in brown robes? Cook claims he is a Jesuit.”
Bess inhaled sharply, but neither of them appeared to notice her sudden disquiet. He had to be the man she’d seen at Langham Hall. He had to be.
“You must not become alarmed, dear heart.” Sir Walter bent over his wife and kissed her upon the forehead. “I would go with Kit to help run down this fellow. He has been causing mischief. Will you be well while I am gone?”
“I shall be well. See to your duty, husband. But take care.”
He nodded and departed.
“He is a silly man to fret so,” said Lady Howe. “You should return home, Mistress, before night falls and catches you out upon the road. If you desire an escort—”
“I shall be fine, madam,” she said. “But you do not wish me to remain with you?”
Just then, a young servant girl stepped into the room.
“I feel so much better, and she will stay with me,” said Lady Howe, indicating the girl.
“Fare thee well, then, madam,” Bess said, gathering up her belongings and tying her cloak about her shoulders. She was eager to be gone so she could think over what she’d learned.
A servant showed her out, and she hurried from the house, her thoughts tumbling like loose stones rolled in a rushing stream. Vagrant. Jesuit. Brown robes. Langham Hall. Links in a chain. A chain that could see the Langhams hanged.
* * *
Bess did not slow as she rushed along the road, putting distance between herself and Highcombe Manor. What would she say to Margery when she reached home? What should she tell the constable? She no longer knew if she could preserve the Langhams and Margery from harm, or if she should even try.
Your desire to save the world will bring you harm one day, dearest Bess.
Martin woul
d chastise her thus. He had done so when she had tried to nurse a mud-soaked kitten abandoned by its mother, clutching the tiny animal to her body to warm it, only to lose the creature within hours. When she had brought home Joan, shivering and filthy, more rags and bones than a female of flesh, who had, she thought thankfully, been far stronger than a poor grimalkin.
And when she had brought home Laurence, not so thin as Joan but as ready to shy from contact or a kind word as a whipped dog. He had proved strongest of all.
All about her, the gloom deepened with approaching nightfall. The damp of the day’s rain was causing a fog to lift from the fields, concealing the contours of trees and hedges. The vagrant had been seen near the mill, a good half mile from the roadway, but the distance did not ensure that she was safe. She should not have refused Lady Howe’s offer of an escort.
Bess increased her pace. A rabbit darted across the road, and a sparrow lifted on beating wings into the dark of the cloud-covered sky. Not far away, she heard boys calling to each other, one crying out with laughter. On the horizon, smoke rose from countless chimneys. A dog barked, and the church bell tolled. She could see the flare of a torch as a watchman began his rounds. Everyday sights. Everyday sounds. This close to town, this close to all that was regular and normal, she could not be in danger.
Ahead, the burned remains of the plague house and the tumbled stones of the priory stood bleak and lonely. Bess hugged the edge of the lane. In the misty gloom of oncoming evening, the ghosts rumored to haunt the rubble seemed all too real.
And my imagination has grown fevered.
She was almost upon the ruins when an unearthly, low wail echoed off the priory walls. The sound was followed by a thump and a rustling. An animal, a loose stone had surely caused the noise.
Heart pounding, she slowed. “Is someone there?”
Would stones answer?
Clutching the strap of her satchel, she rushed along. From behind her came the sound of running feet. No. No! She sped up, tripping over the hem of her petticoat. She dared look back. The person was upon her, his arm raised into the air, a rock in his hand.
As he swung it, she screamed.
CHAPTER 13
She raised her hand to fend off his attack. His arm collided with hers, sending a jolt through her body. The stone he swung crashed hard upon her shoulder. She stumbled, her leg twisting beneath her, and fell, the grit of the road digging into her palms.
Pain seared her ankle, shot up her leg. She scrabbled to her knees, trying to get away. Expecting another blow. Which did not come. Breathing hard, she cast a glance around her. Where had he gone? The light was fading fast. If he waited nearby, she could not see among the shadows.
“Come!” she shouted. Stupidly. She had no weapon besides a satchel filled with jars of physic that were likely now broken.
Her attacker did not appear though. He had to have fled.
She tried to stand, but her ankle would not hold. Taking slow, deep breaths, which turned to mist before her face, she reached up to feel her shoulder. A lump swelled the size of a Seville orange, and her fingers came away sticky. She did not need illumination to know it was blood.
She closed her eyes and wondered how long it would be before someone found her. Joan would grow concerned and send the watch out. Surely, she would. The cool evening air chilled the sweat that dotted her forehead, and the cold ground beneath her made her shiver. Bess thought she heard the sound of horse’s hooves. Or was it the ebb and flow of raised voices? She could not tell if the noises were real or a dream.
“Here!” a man shouted.
A horn-paned lantern bobbed nearby. The person carrying it thrust it before her face. The flare of light made her recoil.
“’Tis the herbalist!” he shouted. “Master Marshall’s widowed sister.”
Along the road, a knot of onlookers collected, a huddle of shadows in the gloaming. From among them, a man came and kneeled at her side. He wrapped an arm around her to provide support. “Mistress Ellyott.”
She peered at him, his face limned by the lantern. “Constable.”
“Have I not warned you of the dangers of wandering about at night alone, Mistress?”
“I fear I do not listen.”
“Are you badly hurt?” he asked.
“He struck my shoulder with a stone,” she said, wincing as pain lanced down her arm. “And I have twisted my ankle badly. But otherwise, I am unharmed.”
He looked down and noticed the blood upon her fingers. His eyes when they met hers were filled with concern. “Did you see the fellow? Can you provide any description at all?”
“I saw just an arm,” she said, her attempt to recall nauseating her. “He was about your size. I can say no more.”
“Can you stand, Mistress?”
“Without retching the day’s meals onto the ground?” she asked. “Not yet.”
“Then we wait until you are able.”
“Constable, come here. Quick,” a man called from the depths of the ruins.
“You. Help Mistress Ellyott.”
The constable gestured to one of the fellows who’d gathered to stare. The fellow separated from the others, hurrying over. It was the town’s barber, a jovial fellow, and he winked as he took the weight of her body, which the constable had yielded.
“I have you, Mistress,” he said.
With a deep inhalation, she turned her head to see where the constable had gone. “What is going on?”
“I cannot say,” answered the man. “Do you want to try to stand now?”
“Aye.”
With a great deal of gentleness, he lifted her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily on her one good leg.
“This man,” she croaked, addressing the crowd. “The man who came from the ruins and hit me. Did any of you see him flee?”
Her question was met by murmurs and shrugs.
“A man,” she repeated, more insistently. “You must have seen him run off.”
“It has grown too dark to see, Mistress,” said the barber.
She looked to where the constable bent over an indistinct shape, a black outline against the ground. “Take me there,” she said to the barber. When he hesitated, she repeated her demand.
He helped her limp over. The man with the lantern had moved off to search among the stones, but he returned to cast its light over the form. The yellow glow showed legs, a threadbare coat tangled about a torso, a body facedown in the muck and mud, and a shock of red that was not all blood.
She gasped.
The constable turned at the sound and straightened. “Mistress.”
“Rodge Anwicke.” She could not tear her gaze from the boy’s body. “He is dead?”
“Aye,” the constable answered. “Murdered.”
Bess crumpled, the barber struggling to hold her.
“I will take her from here,” said the constable to the barber. “The rest of you, search for the vagrant.”
The fellow with the lantern thrust it forward to show the way.
Kit Harwoode wrapped an arm tightly around her. “Lean against me, Mistress.”
Without hesitation, she did.
* * *
The journey back to Robert’s house was slow. Every time Bess winced in pain, the constable stopped and would not proceed until she assured him she was able to go on. A group of inquisitive boys followed them, caught up in Bess and Kit’s progress like fish entangled by a trailing seine. Through the streets of town came the call of the hue and cry. Doors were thrown open, and folk spilled into the roads, torches and lamps in hand. The person who had killed Rodge Anwicke must be found.
A lantern, no doubt lit by Joan when Bess had not returned before nightfall, glowed at the gate to Robert’s courtyard. She was home at last.
Joan met them at the door.
“Mistress?” She stared at Bess’s shoulder, her eyes widening in alarm. Blood must have seeped through the wool of Bess’s cloak. “Bring her into the hall, Constable. A fire already burns there.”
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Margery stood up from the settle. “What has happened?”
“Mistress Ellyott has been wandering about at night again,” said the constable, easing Bess onto Robert’s chair.
She set down her satchel, hearing the clink of broken jars within it. “Rodge Anwicke is dead, Margery. His killer sought to quiet me.”
Margery went as pale as Joan. She should not have been so blunt, but niceties no longer served.
In the entry passage, Quail barked at several boys attempting to crowd into the house. Joan shouted at them to get out and join the hue and cry. She slammed the door and rushed across the hall, bound for the still room and Bess’s supply of salves.
Margery bent to undo the ties of Bess’s cloak. A knot of concern wrinkled her forehead. “When I returned from church and you had not come back from Highcombe Manor … I was right to be alarmed.”
“Aye, Margery,” said Bess.
The constable stood aside. “You are in capable hands now, Mistress. I must attend the coroner. This time, I do not doubt what his conclusion will be.”
“Rodge was killed for what he knew about Fulke’s death. Tell him that,” said Bess. Joan came back with an earthenware jar, a pitcher of water, and a stack of cloths with which to clean the wound. “Tell him he must now believe that Fulke was murdered.”
“I will tell him, but I make no promise he’ll listen.” He turned to Joan and Margery. “Take good care of her. I’d not have it otherwise.”
He offered a bow, so unlike him it took Bess aback, and marched out of the room. Joan hurried ahead to open the door.
When she returned, it was with a lifted eyebrow and a quirk of her mouth. “Well.”
“Read not too much into his concern, Joan,” said Bess, wincing as Margery undid the laces binding her sleeve to her gown. The sleeve stuck to the shift beneath, which tugged upon her shoulder wound, causing it to bleed afresh.
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