She could stand it no more, had to know what was afoot. She took a tentative step toward the door, then another. She paused just on the threshold.
What would she do if someone was attacking them? Had managed to attack Parker?
She looked back into the room and saw the brass poker in its fine filigree stand by the fireplace. She strode back, swung it up, and held it before her as she entered the passageway.
She crept forward, one cautious step at a time. A small rustle, a quiet groan, sounded behind the half-open kitchen door at the end of the passage, freezing her to the spot.
The groan came again and she slid along the wall, crouching down as she reached the door. She paused, listening intently, but it was unnaturally quiet.
She could not wait a moment longer.
She took a deep breath and stood, threw the door open with a crash, poker raised. At first it seemed no one was there, until she heard the muffled groan again.
Mistress Greene lay on her side before the fireplace, curled tight as a bud.
With a cry, Susanna flung herself down next to her, searching for injuries.
“Mistress Greene, where are you hurt?”
The housekeeper raised her head off the rush-strewn floor, and Susanna saw a small pool of blood beneath her, soaked up by the dried leaves. Blood smeared her cheek and had begun to dry in thick rivulets above her eyebrow.
“The boys?” she asked in a weak voice.
Susanna glanced around, but there was no sign of the boys. No sign of Parker, either.
He would never have left Mistress Greene to lie here if he’d seen her. So either he hadn’t seen her, or …
Susanna stood.
Parker would not have gone quietly, and he would not have been easy to take.
She raised the poker again and crept to the back door. It was ajar, and the cold air flowed in, viscous and heavy.
The yard was empty. In the light from the lantern hanging above the stable door, she could see it was open, and from inside the stable Susanna could hear the thud and grunt of a fight.
She grabbed a pile of clean rags from the table and ran back to Mistress Greene, lifting her head gently and pillowing the cloths under it.
“Don’t go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
As she returned to the back door, she saw the cleaver Mistress Greene used to chop chicken carcasses lying on the table. She picked it up and hefted it in her right hand, the poker in her left. Then she ran out into the yard, keeping an eye on the archway where Gripper had grabbed her that morning. No one lurked in the street that she could see.
She hovered around the stable entrance, trying to peer without getting too close to the door.
She saw a foot almost on the stable threshold. It was small, pathetic, illuminated by the wedge of lantern light that cut into the stable’s gloom.
Eric.
Since she’d found Mistress Greene, a rage had been building at these people who would not stop coming. Who thought nothing of the lives they were destroying.
Her anger was cold as the air she breathed, and Eric’s foot made the rage grow colder. Cold as a blizzard.
She ran through the door, stooped over double, and crouched next to Eric. He had been struck senseless, but she was relieved to hear him take a shuddering breath.
Peter Jack lay two feet away, his face a mess of bruises and cuts. His eyes fluttered open, stared at her blankly for a moment, then closed again.
She stood and heard the thump of a body against the wooden planks of the stable stall, a grunt of effort as flesh struck flesh.
Parker, who had already spent his day fighting for his life and for information to protect hers.
Enough was enough.
Furious, she hefted her weapons and made for the stall just as two men burst from it: Parker locked in battle with some tradesman or laborer, by his dress.
Blood streamed down their faces and matted their hair. The fine linen and velvet of Parker’s clothes were as ripped and torn as his attacker’s rough wool. Wild beasts fighting to the death.
They fell to the floor and Parker’s attacker grabbed his head by the hair, lifted it up to crack it down on the wooden planks. The man drew back his lips in a snarl, and Susanna saw blood coating the whites of his teeth.
She ran forward, the poker already swinging down, and caught him a hard crack on the back of his head.
He grunted in pain and shot her a look of disbelief, then half-stood to come after her.
Parker rolled away and began to heave himself up, but his attacker shook his head as if to clear it and turned his attention back to Parker.
It had become personal for him, Susanna could see. She was the only one armed with anything more than fists, she was the only one standing on her feet—but he dismissed her out of hand as a threat.
His mistake.
With a cry, she rushed him, swinging the cleaver and the poker together. He turned and blocked the poker’s blow just in time, flicking it from her hand.
He didn’t even see the cleaver.
Susanna heard the thud of metal into flesh, felt the vibration down the wooden handle in her hand.
She’d never heard a more horrendous noise. Felt a more terrible sensation.
Bile rose in her throat and she stumbled back, blinking at the sight of the cleaver buried deep in the fleshy part of his right upper arm.
She tripped backward, fell to the floor, the world suddenly all white and strange, filled with a buzzing noise and tiny colored lights.
She dipped her head to her knees, panting, knowing she could not afford to faint.
Up. She had to get up.
She moved to her hands and knees, finally got her feet under her and stood, swaying.
“You bitch!” The attacker had lost his startled expression, replaced by outrage and venom. He braced himself and pulled the cleaver from his arm.
The blood gushed and spurted from the wound as if it would use up every drop in his body.
“I’m going to kill you.” He took a step forward, but his footing was unsteady, his eyes unfocused and dazed.
Fear ripped her from her fog. Susanna looked for Parker and saw him standing at last, breathing deeply. As the attacker took another faltering step, Parker lurched forward and shoved him over.
The man went down without a sound and lay still, looking up at the open beams of the stable ceiling.
“We need to stop the bleeding,” Parker said, and he pulled off his tattered sleeves, ripping them from their laces.
He bent down to their attacker and Susanna knelt beside him. Smelled the sweat and blood and rage coming off Parker, mingled with the sweet barn scent of hay and horse.
“I don’t want this one to die,” Parker said as he tightened his sleeve around the wound.
“You want to question him?” Susanna looked at the man’s face, white and clammy with sweat. “Will he talk?”
Parker turned to her, touched a bloodstained finger to her cheek. “He will when I’m through with him.”
You use your right and left hands equally well.” Parker watched as Susanna bathed Eric’s head wound. “A good person to have in a fight.”
She shrugged. “I was born favoring my left hand.” Her mouth turned up in a humorless smile, and he realized she must have been taught to use her right hand because of the stigma attached to using the left.
“My father and brother too.” Her smile turned genuine. “They would have been more use to you, no doubt. I faint at the first blow struck.”
“You are no warrior, and there is no shame in that. You struck your blow, no matter what you did afterward. The outcome could have been much different without Mistress Greene’s cleaver and your aim.”
She shook her head. “You were getting to your feet, Parker. You would have overcome him.”
“I might have overcome him, I might not have. When I entered the kitchen and chased the ruffian out, I had no notion there were two of them.” He should
have anticipated that they would up the stakes. The man had led him straight to the barn and into a trap. His fist clenched so tightly on the damp cloth he held that a trickle of water ran down his forearm.
Susanna gasped and put down the cloth she was using on Eric. “There were two? What happened to the other one?”
“Dead. Lying somewhere in the hay of the stable with my knife in him.” That reminded him, he needed to retrieve it. And his sword.
He had never been disarmed in a fight before. Never been taken so much by surprise.
He flicked his gaze over Eric and Peter Jack, lying still and pale on their beds. He had helped Susanna put Mistress Greene to bed, and now they were tending to the boys.
There was movement behind them, someone pushing open the back door, and Parker spun to meet the new threat.
“Parker?” The woman standing there started, putting out a hand to steady herself against the door frame, a look of fear on her face. “I came as quick as I could.”
“Your pardon, Maggie.” He must look bad if Maggie blanched at the sight of him. He’d once seen her wade into a brawl to help an injured man.
She patted her heart. “Thought you were about to set upon me.”
He shook his head. “I thought the ruffians had returned.”
“No matter. Where are my patients?” She stepped fully into the room, and Parker spied her shy little apprentice, carrying some of the satchels full of herbs and ointments the healer used. She was a thin, sylphlike figure with golden hair, a fairy to Maggie’s hag.
“Mistress Greene is in her chamber, through this door and to the right. The boys are in here.” He gestured to the little room behind him and saw Susanna standing in the doorway.
“M’lady.” Maggie curtsied, and her apprentice shadowed her action.
Parker tried to see Susanna through their eyes. Her gown was fine wool, her shoes of fine leather. But there the resemblance to a lady ended. Her cheek was smudged with blood, and with a start, Parker recalled stroking it earlier with his bloody fingers. Her cap was missing, and her hair tumbled wild around her shoulders.
“Please.” Susanna stepped forward, holding out her hands. “Tell me how I can help you. Anything you need, I will do.”
Maggie nodded in approval. “I’ll check the patients and give ye my list.”
Parker noted with relief that he was no longer needed. He bowed. “Ladies, there are things I must attend to in the stable.”
Susanna looked at him sharply, her eyes wide.
“We no longer have time for pity, my lady,” he said, knowing she was thinking of what he was prepared to do to get answers.
She hesitated a moment, then her gaze fell on the boys’ still, white faces. She nodded.
He turned and walked out into the yard, his pace steady. He had never had much use for pity, even before he became a leashed wolf for the King. Now he had gnawed through his tether, and the wolf was running wild.
11
The Chiefe Conditions and Qualities in a Courtier: To consider whom he doth taunt and where: for he ought not to mocke poore seelie soules, nor men of authoritie, nor commune ribaldes and persons given to mischeef, which deserve punishment.
Of the Chief Conditions and Qualityes in a Waytyng Gentylwoman: Not to speake woordes of dishonestye and baudrye to showe her self pleasant, free and a good felowe.
He saw to his knife and his sword first; he felt naked without them.
Then he turned back to the injured attacker, propped up against a bale of straw, his legs tied securely to the center support of the stable. The man was sliding into shock. He was shivering violently, and his face felt cold and clammy to the touch.
Parker threw a horse blanket over him and gave his cheek a little tap.
“Huh?” The man turned blindly to face him, fighting to open his eyes.
“You the one who set the wharf boys on my lady last night?”
The man mumbled something unintelligible, and Parker gave his cheek a sharp slap.
“Wha …?”
“Do you want to live?” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice. The raw honesty.
The man’s eyes tried to focus on Parker’s face. “Nearly gone anyway.”
Parker lifted his knife and moved it without hesitation to the man’s right eye.
He closed his eyes just moments before the tip touched, and the blade bit into the lid. “I’ll talk.”
Parker moved back an inch. “Then talk.”
“I pass on things to some o’ the lords.” He tried to pull himself together, to stay coherent. “Small things coming from France or the Netherlands.”
“What things?”
“Little wooden boxes sometimes. Heavy coins.”
“You’ve looked in the boxes.” Parker did not make it a question.
“Aye. Screwed open the coins too. Some were made in haste, and I could see the join.”
“What was in them?”
“Letters. And I can’t read, ’afore you ask. I don’t know what they said.”
“And you are doing this for …?”
“Never met him.” His voice strengthened. “One night he come up behind me on me way home from the tavern. Thought I was done for. Knife at me throat, an’ all. Says a sailor will give me something to pass on later that day.”
“I certainly hope the money was good.” Parker swiped the drop of blood from the man’s eyelid off the tip of his knife. “And that you enjoyed it while you could. You’ve been passing treasonous letters from Richard de la Pole to his supporters against the King, and I don’t think they care much for that in the Tower.”
All the blood drained from the attacker’s face. His throat worked, trying to swallow. “I swear, I swear, I didn’t know.” He began shivering again.
“You know that matters not at all.” Parker made to stand, and with his good arm, the man grabbed him.
“Please. I’ve been honest. I’ll tell you everything. Everything, I swear it.”
“I’m too weary. You are the third to attack me and mine this day alone. The sixth since I met that ship in Deal. I’ll let the Tower do the work for me this time.” Parker pried the man’s fingers from his arm.
“Please.” He was crying, heaving air into his lungs. “Do you think them what picked up those letters aren’t to do with the Tower? With the King? If they find out I’m there, I won’t last five minutes.”
Parker looked at him, considering. “You can identify them?”
The man painfully tapped his head. “I got a good eye for faces. I c’n remember faces and the days we met.”
“We draw up a list.” Parker crouched down again. “Dates, times, the ship you received each message from, and the name of the courtier you handed it to.”
He nodded eagerly.
“What is your name?” Parker stood.
“Marcus, m’lord.”
“I’ll send the healer out to you, Marcus. When she has finished dealing with the victims of your handiwork.”
Marcus winced. “Your pardon, m’lord—”
“Stop.” Parker’s voice was harsh. “You attacked two small boys and a woman for money. You cannot be sorrier than I.” He began walking toward the door, then turned back. “If you lie to me just once, if you try to run, if you steer me wrong—by God, you’ll be begging me to hand you to the Tower.” He held Marcus’s gaze, saw the stricken look in his eyes, and delivered his final warning. “I am at the end of my patience, with no mercy left in me.”
As he walked into the yard, he looked toward the lane and wondered wearily who would be trying to breach his home next.
Defensive moves were no longer enough. It was time to start moving his own pieces in this mysterious and deadly game of chess, before someone removed his queen—a painter from Ghent who had somehow touched his soul.
Harvey’s wife.”
Susanna opened her eyes as Parker sank wearily down next to her before the study fire. She struggled to shake off her exhaustion. At last the house was qui
et. The body in the stable had been taken away. The other attacker had been taken to Father Haden, lest someone try to silence him before he could fulfill his promise to Parker, and Mistress Greene and the boys seemed to be resting easily.
“You think all this is to stop me giving Harvey’s message to his wife?” They had both thought it, just before Mistress Greene had cried out, but Susanna had since dismissed the notion.
“If it was for her. What exactly did Harvey say?” Parker’s eyes seemed feverish in the firelight, the contours of his face stark.
“He gave me the message for the King, said he knew how the messages were getting through. Then he stopped suddenly and stared over my shoulder, his eyes filled with horror.” Susanna curled her fingers around her wrist where Harvey had grasped her, so weak he could barely hold on. “Then he said: ‘My wife. I have provided for my wife’s future. She holds my secrets.’”
“Did you look over your shoulder?” Parker asked.
Susanna shook her head. “I wanted to, but I was afraid. I knew there could be no one behind me, but the way Harvey looked, so focused, it felt as if Death truly could be standing at my back. I was too much a coward to look.”
“It was good that you did not.”
The way Parker spoke, so hard and flat, made her frown. “You think someone was behind me?”
He nodded. “Someone Harvey knew.”
“He was telling them something. Warning them his wife had a secret hidden, that they could not kill her without risking discovery.” Susanna leaned forward and grabbed Parker’s arm in excitement. “We must go to her.”
He nodded, but she could see his energy had been leached out by the long day. “Tomorrow is soon enough. I need rest.”
“Did you get Maggie to look at you?” Susanna recalled the beating he had taken in the stable, and compressed her lips as he shook his head.
“No time, and all I have is bruises.”
“Are you sure?”
He gave her a lopsided smile, leaning back against his chair. “Are you offering to play the healer, Mistress Horenbout?”
In a Treacherous Court Page 7
