Honor Bound

by C. J. Archer

  So many ifs.

  "Well, if not you then her." She nodded towards the door and he turned.

  His mother stood straight as an arrow, severe as a thunderstorm. He hadn’t realized she’d followed him all the way to the shop.

  "You must be elated, Mother." He couldn’t keep the harshness out of his tone, or out of his heart.

  She blanched and her mouth crumpled. Suddenly she didn’t look so hard. "I only want what’s best for you."

  "Then you’d better hope that I find her because there’ll never be anyone else for me. Understand?"

  "Good for you," Meg said. "So what are you going to do now?"

  "Find her. Bring her back. And you," he said to his mother, "are going to the JP right now to tell him you were mistaken."

  She stood like a statue carved from black marble. Eventually, she nodded, just a slight, barely perceptible nod, but it was an affirmation nevertheless.

  The door opened behind her, causing her skirts to billow like a puff of black smoke. She stepped aside to allow the three newcomers to enter. A gentleman wearing trunk hose and a long furred cloak of dark velvet with a tall hat was clearly in charge, while the other two wore the simple clothing of regular Londoners. All wore stern expressions.

  The bad feeling in the pit of Nicholas’s stomach grew.

  "I’m looking for Mistress Isabel Camm, also known as Isabel Merritt," the gentleman said.

  "I am Sir Nicholas Merritt." He decided it was time to use his full title. "And you are?"

  "Sir Henry Helpman, Justice of the Peace. I’ve come here to arrest your wife on the crime of exalting the law of the devil with witchcraft."

  Nicholas glared at his mother and tried to accuse her of lying, again, but his throat had closed up and all that came out was a harsh, strangled gasp.

  His mother’s face turned white and she shook her head over and over as she stared at the three men. "No," she said. "No, I have an agreement with the Lord Mayor. She’s not to be arrested until sundown. We had an agreement!"

  "I know of no such agreement," Helpman said. He signaled his men to move forward with a jerk of his head. "Now, where is she?"

  CHAPTER 16

  "There must be a mistake," Constance said to Sir Henry in her haughtiest tone. "You can’t arrest her until sundown and only then if she is still here in London."

  The Justice of the Peace’s pearl drop earring jiggled as he shook his head. "I know of no such arrangement."

  "But the Lord Mayor was a friend of my husband’s! He promised me he wouldn’t do anything until sundown." Nicholas could hear the desperation in the high-pitched whine, so out of character for his mother.

  At least she hadn’t lied to him. She clearly hadn’t expected to be betrayed by his father’s old friend. Nicholas wondered how friendly they had been since he’d never heard mention of London’s Lord Mayor before. But his mother still couldn’t claim innocence in the matter considering she’d organized the witch hunt in the first place. His patience with her, with the whole damn lot of them, had worn gauze-thin.

  He watched as the two men, most likely constables, quickly searched the shop, much to Meg’s annoyance.

  "She’s not here," she said, hand on hip like a petulant child.

  Nicholas caught her attention and shook his head slightly. She frowned back, mouthed "what?" and gave him a shrug. He desperately wanted to tell her not to give them any information, no matter how insignificant she thought it. The longer they could keep Helpman and his constables looking through the premises, the more time it would give Isabel to leave London and his jurisdiction.

  Nicholas’s only hope was that he could slip away and try to find her himself. Before Helpman. Before Fox.

  "Search every room," Helpman ordered his men. "We’ll flush her out."

  "She’s not a rat," Meg snapped as the men left through the back door.

  "Worse," Helpman said without looking at her. "She’s a witch."

  Meg scoffed. "Don’t be ridiculous. She’s no more a witch than anyone else in this room. Except maybe her," she said with a nod at Constance.

  "She’s right," Nicholas said. "This is ridiculous. My wife is innocent."

  Helpman crossed his arms and stayed near the door, not looking so smug with his constables out of the room. "We have testimony that says otherwise," he said. "That’s enough to arrest her on suspicion of witchcraft."

  "It was my mother’s petty rivalry that led her to seek out the Lord Mayor and accuse Isabel. She wants to revoke her accusation, don’t you, Mother?"

  "Yes," his mother said quickly, still looking pale against her black gown. "It’s all been a mistake. My son is right, the matter is a personal family one. I wish to end this now."

  Helpman said nothing, just smirked.

  "This instant," Constance said with a hint of her old ferocity.

  "That isn’t possible. There has been another accusation made against her."

  "Who by?" Meg, Nicholas and Constance asked.

  "I’m not at liberty to discuss such matters with you," Helpman said, sounding bored.

  Rage flared within Nicholas, snapping every last remnant of self-control he’d been desperately trying to hold onto since he learned of Isabel’s departure. He flew across the room and grabbed Helpman by the throat just above his enormous ruff. He squeezed, watching with a sense of satisfaction as the JP’s face turned scarlet, his eyes bulging from their sockets. Sir Henry scrabbled pathetically at Nicholas’s arms and chest, his feet kicking out wildly as he tried to free himself.

  "Tell me who," Nicholas said, his voice sounding strange.

  Helpman gurgled as his eyes rolled back and spittle foamed at the corner of his mouth.

  "Nicholas! Stop! Let him go."

  Constance’s words penetrated Nicholas’s dizzying onslaught. The rush of blood between his ears slowed to a steadier trickle, but still his heart beat loudly, his breathing came hard. He let go and Sir Henry fell to the floor, coughing and spluttering. He sat up and rubbed his throat where red welts were already forming.

  "You’ll pay for that," he rasped.

  Nicholas took a step towards him and Helpman scampered back towards the door, bunching the rushes up behind him. "Tell me who else has accused Isabel and I’ll overlook your intrusion here today."

  "Overlook?" Helpman whispered hoarsely.

  "I am willing to overlook your presence, however I will not overlook your rudeness. You insult me, my wife, you disturb the good people at Shawe’s apothecary and you have the temerity to mess up their floor. Unless you want to be physically thrown onto the street, I’ll ask you again," he said, very slowly so the idiot could understand, "who else has accused Isabel of witchcraft?"

  Helpman had the good sense to look afraid and Nicholas even thought he might get an answer out of him, until the constables returned. They took in their senior officer’s condition, looked at Nicholas and cracked their knuckles, undisguised pleasure on their faces.

  "My son has the ear of Privy Councilors," Constance cut in through the charged mood.

  Helpman and the constables turned to her. Nicholas didn’t. Instead he watched the three men, weighing up which one to remove from the equation first.

  "You wouldn’t want to anger Sir Francis Walsingham now would you?" his mother went on.

  That got Nicholas’s attention. "Mother, enough," he growled.

  "Walsingham?" Helpman said. When the biggest thug cracked his knuckles again, the JP held up a hand like a master controlling his hound. "In what capacity do you know the principal secretary?" he asked Nicholas.

  "In a most secret capacity, Sir Henry," Constance went on, tilting her chin in undisguised pride.

  Nicholas glared at her. Not so secret now. He’d always wondered if his mother knew he had taken over his father’s spying duties. He’d never told her. It seemed she had known anyway, or guessed.

  "Oh," said Helpman. He stretched his neck as if removing any lasting kinks. "Well, it changes nothing. Your wife is still u
nder arrest, Sir Nicholas."

  "She’s not ’ere," one of the constables said.

  "I can see that," Helpman said without moving his lips. "However, I see no reason to keep the identity of her other accuser from you." Again he stretched his neck and adjusted his ruff to try to hide the marks on his throat. "If the fellow comes to harm, I will of course immediately have a suspect." He flicked something off his sleeve but the sharp glares of the constables remained pointed at Nicholas.

  "Just tell me," he said, his patience at breaking point. Isabel could be far away. Fox could have caught up to her.

  Fox! Of course! It had to be him. He’d fatally wounded Nicholas and then visited Ashbourne House to expressly learn of his victim’s fate. Fox must have expected to hear of Nicholas’s death, only to have Isabel tell him he was perfectly fine. Did Fox realize then that she was a witch? Did he suspect her of healing the wound?

  Or had Fox also been watching her over the years? Perhaps he’d seen her use her magic to move something when she thought no one was looking, or she’d invoked the seeking incantation within his hearing. If he’d been slyly watching her for his own devious purposes then he could have witnessed a small slip-up that gave rise to his suspicions.

  Oh Hell.

  Nicholas had to find her. Warn her. For whatever reason, Fox had switched his focus from killing Nicholas to getting Isabel arrested for witchcraft. It was a sickening new twist.

  He had to get out of there and do something. Looking for Isabel would be like finding a single coin in the entire Treasury but he had to try. But instead of heading to the door, he stepped closer to Meg.

  "Did you see which way she went?" he said. "Or Fox?"

  "Uh, he went that way." She pointed right along Bucklersbury Street. "I didn’t see Izzy leave.

  "Thank you," he said with a wink. "Good day, gentlemen," he said to Helpman and the constables as he strode past them to the door.

  The Justice of the Peace jumped back out of the way. "Don’t you want to know?" he said as Nicholas opened the door. "It was her apprentice, the Fox lad."

  Nicholas closed the door on them all.

  ***

  Isabel awoke in a bedchamber with a gag in her mouth and a pike through her head. At least, that’s what it felt like. She tried to reach up and feel the damage but she couldn’t move. Her hands were tied behind her. No, not exactly behind her, behind the back of the chair she was sitting in. Her feet were also tied to the heavy chair’s legs.

  She groaned and nearly choked on the gag stuffed into her mouth. The ensuing coughing fit increased the pounding in her head. Lord, it hurt. Not just her head, but her shoulders, her back, and her wrists and ankles where the ropes rubbed her skin raw. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will away the headache so she could clear her mind but she couldn’t concentrate. Her head felt thick and full, like a mental gag had also been stuffed into it. Could the pain alone be slowing down her thoughts?

  Or was something else causing the sluggishness? Her apothecary instincts told her she’d been given a potion, but in her confused state she couldn’t say what. She couldn’t even remember the names of the herbs that would affect her in such a powerful way. Everything was so...foggy.

  Nevertheless, she tried again to concentrate, this time on the bonds tying her to the chair. She forced everything from her mind—the pain, the rising panic, the simmering anger—but nothing happened. Her witchcraft wouldn’t work.

  Had Fox known about her powers? Had he come prepared with a sleeping potion? He must have followed her with the intention of capturing her but for what reason, she couldn’t say.

  She might have been able to work out the answers if she wasn’t under the influence of his herbs. The rat. When she got her hands on him, he would experience her wrath, and when she felt better, she would unleash all her powers on the swine.

  She lifted her heavy head with difficulty and focused on her surroundings. She seemed to be in a bedchamber. The weak afternoon sun shone enough light through the window to cast long shadows over the bed. A jug and two cups occupied a small table. Her bags were nowhere to be seen. Nor could she see any food. Or anyone else. She was alone.

  Raucous laughter filtered up through the uncovered floor and into her aching head. She strained to hear, fighting off the overwhelming urge to sleep, and heard the low rumble of people talking. A lot of people.

  She must be lodged at an inn.

  Perhaps it was the one just outside Bishops Gate near where Fox had attacked her. What was it called? The Mermaid? Whale? Something to do with water...

  Hope made her heart race, but then she remembered Constance and the threat of arrest and fear made it race even faster. She needed to be further away from London. Much further away.

  But Nick was in London. And her work. She should stay, fight the charges. Shouldn’t she?

  She shook her head, trying to clear it of the thick fog but only succeeding in increasing the pounding against her skull. It felt like the devil himself was building a house in there.

  Her head slipped forward, too heavy to hold up, and her chin bumped her chest. With great effort, she raised it and kept her gaze on the window. She had to stay awake. Be alert. Listen. Think. Concentrate.

  But she could feel the battle slipping from her grasp. Her eyes felt itchy, raw and her head just wouldn’t stay upright. A moment before darkness finally engulfed her completely, she heard the door to the chamber open behind her and someone enter.

  ***

  Nicholas’s horse jostled against the other beasts of burden traveling in the opposite direction into the City proper through Bishops Gate. His hired gelding must have been used to the crowds because the noise and activity didn’t seem to bother him. Negotiating the traffic was painfully slow but once they’d left the City behind, he let the horse have its head while he kept his eyes peeled for Isabel. He couldn’t be certain she’d left via Bishops Gate, but it was the fastest route out of London from Bucklersbury if she’d turned right out of the shop as Meg had said. He hoped she hadn’t hitched a ride on a cart but was still on foot. That was the only chance he had of catching her. If she had been picked up, she could be anywhere. Within two days she could easily secure passage on a ship and leave the country altogether.

  Or Fox could get to her first.

  Fingers curled around his insides and squeezed. He had to find her. And this time it wasn’t going to take him six years.

  It was late in the afternoon and a group of weary travelers on horseback headed into The Swan Inn on his right to find rooms for the night. He wouldn’t be one of them.

  Nicholas spurred his horse along Bishopsgate Street Without and up to the liberty of Norton Folgate where any sort of pleasure could be bought. Being outside the City’s jurisdiction, gaming houses, brothels and disreputable taverns filled the narrow, dirty lanes. Vagabonds and footpads lurked in the shadows and he shuddered to think that Isabel might have come this way on foot. He hoped she had found somewhere to stay for the night. Somewhere safe and warm and—

  Isabel! He couldn’t believe it. She knelt on the side of the road up ahead, rummaging through her bags. He’d recognize that deep green gown of hers anywhere with the white cuffs and distinctive embroidery on the bodice. It was the only gown she’d taken from Kent. He resisted the urge to shout. He didn’t want to frighten her. He might be the last person she wanted to see. He kept the horse’s pace slow when all he wanted to do was race up and embrace her.

  Lord, he couldn’t believe his luck. She hadn’t gone far at all.

  But as he drew closer, something didn’t feel right. Her shoulders were too wide, her crouching position was too...masculine. And Isabel would be wearing her cloak over her gown and her hat wouldn’t be a battered old thing with a broad brim like a man’s.

  "Hail!" he called out.

  The vagabond, a crumpled fellow well past his middle age, looked up. "These’re mine," he said gathering the bags to his chest. "I didn’t steal 'em."

  Isabel’s
belongings lay scattered in the mud like old rags. Nicholas’s anger flared at the callous disregard for her things. He gripped the reins tighter to keep from leaping off the horse and squeezing the life out of the old man. Instead, he stabbed the vagabond with a glare.

  "Where is she?" he growled.

  The vagabond reeked of filth but amidst the grime, Nicholas couldn’t see any signs he’d struggled with anyone. Perhaps Isabel wasn’t harmed. Perhaps she’d simply had her bags stolen.

  "Who?" the old man asked. No, he couldn’t have harmed Isabel. She was too strong, too quick witted for this decaying piece of scum.