Chapter Sixteen
PERHAPS THE LUCK WAS WITH HIM FOR ONCE, MARTIN thought as he crept through the garden toward Robert Poley’s house on the fringe of London. The night sky was overcast, shadows chasing across the face of the moon, making visibility poor for honest citizens, but perfect for anyone bent on more unlawful pursuits.
Martin crouched in the bushes, peering up at the two-story timber-frame house, which appeared dark and silent at this hour. He knew that Babington and Poley had gone out for another rendezvous at the Plough Inn with Father Ballard and John Savage. Savage’s suspicions of Martin would likely be exacerbated by his absence but that was the least of Martin’s worries at the moment.
His chief concern was how to climb up to Babington’s room on the second floor without rousing the household or slipping and breaking his neck.
Stealing a furtive glance about him, Martin stole across the expanse of lawn, heading for a large oak tree. It had been a long time since he had climbed a tree and he found it a difficult prospect in the dark. The rough bark abraded his palms, his boots slipping as he scrabbled for toeholds.
He hoisted himself up to a divide in the trunk where he was able to pause and contemplate the stout branch that angled off to his left. The limb extended conveniently close to Babington’s window ledge. But was it strong enough to hold Martin’s weight or would it snap and send him plummeting to the ground?
The wind whipped a lock of hair into his eyes, an ominous rumble of thunder sounding in the distance. Martin realized he had no time to sit and ponder his options. He was tempted to offer up a silent prayer, but it hardly seemed wise to call the Almighty’s attention to oneself when engaged in such nefarious enterprise.
Steeling his courage, he inched out onto the branch. When it swayed beneath his weight, his breath caught in his throat. But the limb held. Working his way to the end, Martin swung himself up onto the window ledge.
His skills as a thief in Paris had been restricted to picking pockets and cutting purses. He’d had a few friends who were more venturesome than he, breaking into shops and houses.
Of course, most of them were dead, having wound up doing the hempen jig at the end of a hangman’s rope. Not the most comforting recollection to be having at the moment, Martin thought. Instead he sought to recall all he had ever been told about breaking locks and jimmying windows.
Neither skill proved necessary. Not only had Babington been imprudent enough to leave his window unlocked, he had left it cracked open as well to air the room.
“My bon chance continues,” Martin murmured as he cautiously forced the casement open farther and eased himself inside.
The room was so dark he could barely make out more than the shadows of the tester bed and wardrobe trunk. Martin swallowed an oath when he almost tripped over a low stool. He could scarce see his hand in front of his face. He was going to have to risk lighting a candle.
Fumbling in the pouch attached to his belt, he drew forth the flint, tinder, and small wax taper he had brought. The seconds that passed felt more like hours to his tautly stretched nerves. But he succeeded in coaxing the wick to light at last.
Shielding the flame from the draft, he subjected the room to a swift inspection. Babington clearly intended his sojourn at Poley’s house to be brief. Sir Anthony had brought few of his belongings with him.
Martin found a brass candle holder and propped his taper on a small writing desk. A quill pen lay across a letter that Babington had begun and not yet finished. Martin snatched it up hoping it might be Babington’s reply to the Queen of Scots, naming his fellow conspirators.
But if it was in code, Martin would never be able to read it and discover whether Ned’s name was on the list. As he scanned the page, Martin was relieved to see the letter was not in cipher. To his disappointment, the missive was not addressed to the Scottish queen but Robert Poley.
Robyn,
I am ready to endure whatever fate shall befall me. I am the same as I always pretended. I pray God you be as true and ever so remain toward me…
Martin frowned at the place where the words trailed off as though the writer had run out of time or simply lost the heart to continue. Poley had been right about Babington having doubts about the enterprise he had embarked upon. Misgivings that came far too late.
The tragic romantic young idiot, Martin thought. Suppressing the compassion he could not afford, he replaced the letter and quill carefully so they looked undisturbed.
What he needed to find was that mysterious canvas bag Poley had mentioned. And find it swiftly unless he wanted to be caught in a storm. It would be a long trudge from here back to Cheapside in the pouring rain.
Martin moved quietly but efficiently about the room, rummaging through an ambry and a wardrobe chest, looking behind furnishings. He was rewarded when he discovered the canvas sack tucked under the bed.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he drew the bag out into the light. Good fortune? His luck tonight was nothing short of miraculous. He was not a gamester but it was a pity he had not had time to hazard a few hands of cards before returning home.
Martin delved inside the sack, hoping to find a thick packet of letters. His fingers struck up against a heavy rolled canvas. Martin drew it out and unfurled it, examining it close to the candlelight.
It was a painting of six gentlemen attired in their finest garb, Babington positioned proudly in the center, the painting etched with some sort of Latin inscription.
What the devil? Martin frowned, incredulous. This is what Babington had been guarding so protectively? A portrait of him and five of his…
Martin sucked in his breath as the realization struck him. So sure of their success, Babington and his band of conspirators had posed for a portrait, recording their images for posterity. The fools, the bloody damned fools!
Martin studied the faces of the other men, most of them unknown to him, but that was of little importance. He would leave it to Walsingham to sort out their identities. Martin cared about only one thing. Ned Lambert was not among them.
With a taut smile of satisfaction, Martin rolled up the portrait. As he thrust it back into the bag a flare of lightning lit up the room. In the mirror opposite he caught the shadowy image of a cloaked figure hovering behind him.
He didn’t know when or how, but he was no longer alone. Someone had followed him through the window. It took all of Martin’s will not to flinch, not to betray his awareness of the other intruder. He proceeded with securing the portrait in the canvas bag, drawing the strings closed. Every muscle tensed, every nerve on the alert.
When he heard the floor creak behind him, Martin dropped the bag and whirled. In one swift lunge, he pounced. Seizing his opponent by the throat, he drove him back against the wall.
The hooded figure gasped, clutching at Martin’s wrists in an effort to break his hold. Martin mercilessly tightened his grip.
“Martin,” the intruder wheezed. In the struggle, his hood fell back. Or rather hers did. Martin stared down in disbelief into widened blue eyes, familiar strands of fiery hair tumbling loose from a chignon to straggle about a face that was turning an alarming shade of red.
“Cat!” Horrified, Martin released her, his hands falling back to his sides.
Cat staggered away from the wall, rubbing her neck and inhaling gulps of air.
“Mon Dieu. How badly did I hurt you? Are you all right?” he demanded anxiously.
Any other woman would have swooned at such a rough assault or even trembled. But Cat looked up at him and actually managed to grin.
“That—that was amazing,” she rasped. “I had no idea you could strike so swiftly. Perhaps you are somewhat capable of looking out for yourself.”
“Somewhat?”
“I knew it was you so I wasn’t fighting after my usual fashion. Lucky for you. Otherwise, I’d have rammed your bollocks so hard you’d be wearing them for a cap.”
The image was evocative enough to make Martin’s privates shrivel closer to his body.
His concern rapidly dissolved into anger.
“Damnation, woman.” It was all he could do to remember to keep his voice down. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“I asked you first. How did you even get in here?”
“I just waited and followed you, up the tree and in the window.” Cat scowled. “Although I’m a damned sight better at climbing than you are. I thought you were going to break your fool arse.”
“Never mind my arse.” Martin bent closer to her until they were practically nose to nose, hissing in each other’s faces. “Why aren’t you back at the house? Who is guarding my daughter?”
“I left Jem and Samuel sitting up, armed with pistols, the doors and windows all barred. Things have been quiet enough I am confident Meg will be fine. I am more concerned that nothing should happen to her idiot of a da.”
“Her da is just fine. At least he was until you sneaked up behind him and gave him an apoplexy.” Martin stormed away from her to retrieve the canvas bag he had dropped.
Cat followed hard on his heels. “Doing fine, is it now? I knew you were up to something dangerous, but I never expected even you would be reckless enough to resume your old ways as a thief.”
“A thief! What are you talking about? I am not stealing anything.”
When Cat stared pointedly at the bag in his hand, Martin grimaced. “Oh, well, yes, I am stealing this.”
“That painting you were so occupied in studying when I clambered in the window?” Cat sniffed. “That’s daft. I doubt it will fetch enough to make it worth risking your neck.”
Martin glared at her. “I survived on the streets of Paris for years on my wits and nimble fingers. I hardly need you to lecture me on how to be a successful thief—”
He broke off, tensing and listening. Sounds carried from beyond the door, footsteps and muffled voices. Martin could not catch what was being said, but the fearful tone was clear enough.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he growled at Cat. “Awakened the entire household.”
“Me? It was you stomping about and slamming me against the wall—”
Martin clamped his hand over her mouth. “We have to get out of here now. I have no time to explain, but I must secure this painting. Will you trust me, help me?”
Cat stared at him over the mask of his fingers, her blue eyes seeming to pierce deep into his. He feared she’d put up one of her usual arguments, but she nodded almost without hesitation.
Martin blew out the candle and they both headed for the window. Cat swung out onto the branch and scrambled down the tree first. The woman was so cursed nimble she might well have truly been a feline. Martin tossed the canvas sack down to her and followed suit. His progress down the tree was far more awkward and noisy, shaking branches and rustling leaves.
By the time his boots struck the ground, a servant had appeared at the window above him. A gray-haired old man in a nightcap held a candle in his wavering hand. He squinted down at Martin and cried, “Ho! You there! Stop, thief.”
Martin relieved Cat of the canvas sack and the pair of them tore out of the garden and down the street. Martin risked a look back over his shoulder.
The elderly servant had succeeded in rousing the rest of Poley’s household or perhaps Martin himself had done that. He could hear other voices and picked out the gleam of a lantern.
“Come on. This way,” Martin said, although he had not the least notion where he was going himself. He was completely unfamiliar with this part of the city. He seized Cat by the hand, desperately tugging her down a narrow alley. Not the safest maneuver perhaps, given the dangers of London at night.
But even the footpads and cutthroats seemed to have retreated within doors in the face of the oncoming storm. Successive bursts of lightning illuminated the way as Cat and Martin emerged onto a square of closed-up shops.
Martin dragged Cat down behind a conduit, using the massive public fountain for cover while he fought for his second wind and strove to get his bearings.
“Where—where the blazes are we?” she panted.
“No idea. Too damned far from home, that’s certain.”
“Why didn’t you have the wit to hire a horse?” Cat grumbled.
“Horses are of little use in a robbery unless you’re a highwayman.”
“I think one would come in mighty useful right about—” Cat began. But Martin shushed her, listening intently for any sound of pursuit.
He heard nothing beyond Cat’s quickened breathing and the gurgle of the fountain. When the first splash of water struck his hand, he thought it came from the conduit.
But the first fat wet drop was swiftly followed by a second and third. Dismayed, Martin glanced upward as the sky gave another angry rumble. The heavens opened up and began to pour.
“Merde!” He groaned, tugging frantically at the fastenings of his doublet in an effort to thrust the canvas bag beneath his shirt.
His luck had finally run out.
THE JOVIALITY IN THE PIGEON’S TAPROOM CONTINUED UNABATED despite the storm or perhaps because of it. The Southwark tavern was thronged with patrons laughing, singing, swilling ale, and rejoicing to have escaped the deluge drumming against the building’s slate roof.
The only one not sharing in the merriment was the quiet gentleman who occupied a table alone in the farthest corner. Few remarked on his presence. Those who did snorted in scorn of the man’s fair looks, his long softly curling hair, trim sandy-colored beard and mustache.
He bore the look of a foreigner, no doubt one of those simpering Frenchmen was the contemptuous verdict passed upon him. A contempt that Ambroise Gautier returned in full measure. He pressed a scented handkerchief to his nose. Faugh! It reeked worse than a kennel of wet dogs in here. No, he decided. The dogs would smell better than this horde of Englishmen sweating into their damp woolen garb.
The Pigeon catered to the lowest sort of clientele, watermen, dock laborers, itinerant musicians, actors…The Dark Queen’s agent shuddered and tried to take a sip of the piss that the tavern keeper had assured him was the finest wine to be had in all of London.
The tragedy of it was that the landlord was probably right. His lips twisting into a disgusted moue, Gautier pushed his cup away from him. He was sure he must have borne far worse trials in the service of his royal mistress, but Gautier was having trouble recalling them.
He would have sold the silver buckles off his shoes for a good Bordeaux right now, if for no other reason than to celebrate the success he had achieved.
Against all odds, he had located Martin le Loup and his wretched daughter in this teeming city of crude, stinking Englishmen. But perhaps a toast would be premature.
He had found the little witch, but getting his hands on the Silver Rose was proving a greater challenge than he had anticipated. Between her father and that redheaded Irishwoman who worked for the Lady of Faire Isle, the girl was closely guarded.
Gautier had brought two of his most trusted men with him from France. Enforced by such seasoned mercenaries as Jacques and Alain, Gautier might have been able to mount a successful assault on le Loup’s house. But Queen Catherine would expect him to handle this affair as discreetly as possible without drawing any attention from the English justices.
Gautier’s task would have been so much easier if all he needed to do was kill the child. But above all else the Dark Queen wanted that damnable Book of Shadows. If Gautier dared return to Paris without it, he might as well slit his own throat.
He had formulated a plan, but he needed assistance. Fortunately, he had a fair idea where he might find the help he required.
Gautier’s eyes narrowed as the person he had been waiting for entered the tavern. The young man darted inside, rain water streaming off his cloak and doublet, turning his feathered cap into a soggy mass.
The young man’s friends called out greetings, teasing him about his sodden state.
“Damnation, Sander. About time you arrived
.”
“We thought you’d been washed away.”
“You look like a drowned rat.”
“You’d have been better off in one of your gowns, lad. You could have tossed your skirts over your head.”
Alexander Naismith merely laughed and flicked his finger in a rude gesture. He stripped off his cap and shook out his wet hair, revealing a brief glimpse of the ugly stump where his left ear should have been.
Naismith’s friends tried to beckon him over to the table to join them, but the boy declined, insisting he needed to change into dry clothing first. He headed for the stairs that led up to his lodging above the tavern.
Gautier tossed a few coins down on the table and swiftly rose to his feet. A drunken actor leaped up onto his chair and began to declaim some melodramatic speech in slurred accents.
Amidst all the hoots and catcalls from the other patrons, Gautier reached the stairs and followed Sander unnoticed. The boy’s boots left a trail of water down the hallway, but his soaked state seemed to have done little to dampen his spirits.
Naismith whistled a jaunty tune as he unlocked the door to his room. He started a little when Gautier accosted him, hanging back in the shadows of the landing.
“Alexander Naismith?”
Naismith craned his neck, squinting in Gautier’s direction. “Who is there?”
“One who has witnessed your performance,” Gautier purred. “I am a great admirer.”
The boy laughed. “I have many of those, sir, or should I say monsieur. Unfortunately, I am not in the market for any more admiration. My current patron is a most jealous—”
He broke off as Gautier stepped out of the shadows. Naismith went white with recognition. He made a frantic effort to bolt inside his room and close the door. Gautier was too fast, too strong for him.
Ramming his shoulder against the door, he forced his way inside. Before Naismith could draw out his dirk, Gautier had him pinned to the wall, his blade at the boy’s throat.
A flare of lightning illuminated the young actor’s wide, terrified eyes. “W-who are you? What do you want? If you are after my purse, y-you will find little in it besides a few pennies—”
The Huntress Page 28
