“Damn the man and his evasive tongue. Last night Walsingham swore to me he had no intention of arresting Ned Lambert. But the old devil had to have been plotting this all along, to seize Jane instead.”
“Walsingham must have had some reason—”
“Reason! What reason could he possibly have for arresting one of the kindest, most gentle ladies in all of London?”
“None, I suppose. The woman is an angel.” Cat was unable to keep the bitter edge from her remark, but Martin appeared to take no heed of it.
As he snatched up his cloak, she blocked his path, making one last desperate effort to reason with him. “Martin, Walsingham told you your part in all of this is at an end. He all but warned you to involve yourself no further. I understand your…your feelings for Jane Danvers, but all you will succeed in doing is endangering yourself. I don’t see how you can help her.”
“I don’t know either, but I have to try.” Martin’s gaze met hers, his green eyes seeming to beg for her understanding.
Cat understood all too well. Asking Martin le Loup to ignore a damsel in distress was like expecting the fire not to burn. Especially the woman he wanted to make his wife and Meg’s mother.
Cat experienced a surge of jealousy, but she managed to swallow it. She even managed a thin smile as she said, “Oh, very well. Go see what can be done to rescue your lady love. I would ask you to be careful, but one might as well expect the Pope to become a Puritan.”
Martin returned her smile. “I will take care. I swear I will return to you…and Meg before you know I have gone.”
“We’ll be here.”
Martin reached for her hand, but Cat evaded his grasp, striding out of the study swiftly. Martin watched her go with regret, wishing he could have told her.
It was not love drawing him to Jane’s rescue. It was guilt.
THE TOWER OF LONDON HAD STOOD SENTINEL OVER THE port of London since the twelfth century. Fortress, palace, prison, the white tower surrounded by its strong curtain wall was a source of both pride and terror to Londoners.
Martin recalled how on his first visit to the City, he had taken great glee in reminding one arrogant Englishman that the stout keep the man boasted of had actually been built by William of Normandy and was constructed of imported French stone.
That barb felt like a lifetime ago. As Martin followed the yeoman warder deeper inside the fortress, it was as though he could feel the full power of the English realm bearing down upon him.
The chill that settled in his bones came from more than the dank stone walls. Martin could hear the groans of despair emanating from the cells, the clank of chains. The prison reeked of fear and hopelessness. It horrified Martin to think of the gentle Lady Danvers walled up in such a place.
How such a thing had come to pass, Martin still had no idea. He had been unable to track Walsingham down and demand an explanation. Either the secretary was avoiding Martin or Walsingham had difficulties of his own. At Whitehall, Martin had heard more rumors. The Queen of Scots was going to be arrested, and it was said Elizabeth was not pleased.
Unable to confront Walsingham, Martin had turned to the only other course he could think of. He had bribed one of the Tower guards to allow him to visit Jane. At least he would be able to see how she fared and discover from her the nature of the charges against her.
As Martin trailed the guard over the rough uneven floor, he felt he might as well have been shackled himself, his every footstep weighted with guilt.
If he had been honest with Jane, if he had at least warned her that Walsingham had targeted the Lambert family for investigation, could Martin have somehow prevented Jane from coming to this? To what degree was he inadvertently responsible for her arrest?
That was something Martin could only know after he had spoken to Jane. He dreaded facing the lady and confessing his own treachery in acting as Walsingham’s spy.
Martin sought to steel himself as the warder unlocked the door to Jane’s cell.
“I can give you ten minutes,” the guard reminded him tersely. “No more.”
Martin nodded as he entered the cell and the door was locked behind him. He was a little relieved to discover the room was not the rat-infested dungeon he had been imagining, with Jane in chains, huddled on a bed of straw.
Her ladyship was imprisoned as befitted her station, in a chamber with a high arched roof and three crosslet windows. It was furnished with a tester bed and a small table spread with a modest repast of bread, wine, and cheese. A pallet had been provided for Lady Danvers’s maid, but Jane was alone.
She was seated upon a low stool beneath one of the crosslets, struggling to use the meager light for her stitching. She glanced up as Martin entered, her face working with some strong emotion, her lips trembling.
Martin understood he’d been her only visitor since her arrest. He half expected her to leap up and hurl herself sobbing into his arms. Most other women certainly would have done so.
But Jane made a swift recovery. She rose with dignity and extended her hand as graciously as though she were receiving him in her sitting room.
“Master Wolfe.”
Martin would have found it easier to deal with tears. At least he could have held her, tried to comfort her. Her quiet courage was enough to unman him, driving the spikes of his guilt deeper.
“Your ladyship.” Martin swept an elegant bow, trying to match her pretense. But something about the tilt of Jane’s chin reminded him of Meg when she was trying too hard to be brave.
Unable to keep up the charade, Martin seized her hands between his own. “Jane, I came as soon as I heard.”
“How very good of you.”
“There is nothing the least good about me.” Awareness of his duplicity made it hard for him to look her in the eye. “I am the most accursed villain, the vilest wretch.”
His outburst clearly surprised her. She attempted to laugh. “No, according to the Crown, that would be me.”
“I don’t know how you came to be arrested, but I swear I’ll have you freed before the sun sets.” A reckless promise and Martin sought to curb himself. The last thing Jane needed from him was some of his usual bombast.
“As soon as I find Walsingham, I am sure I can amend this matter. I—I have some acquaintance with the secretary—”
She cut him off with a sad shake of her head. “That is a very kind offer, Marcus, but this is a little different from a tumble into the Thames. I fear you will not be rescuing me this time.”
Martin squeezed her hands. “This is all some sort of nightmarish misunderstanding. It has to be. What do you stand accused of?”
“Conducting secret meetings with an enemy of the crown, a Catholic priest.”
“That is utter nonsense.”
“No, it isn’t.” Jane withdrew her hands from his grasp. “I am guilty as charged.”
Martin stared at her, too astonished to reply.
She continued, “That is why when the warder offered to allow my maid to stay with me, I refused. I saw no reason poor Mistress Porter should be forced to share my imprisonment. I alone brought myself to this pass.”
Martin found his voice at last. “You are telling me that you participated in the plot to assassinate Queen Elizabeth?”
“No!” Jane looked appalled by the very suggestion of such a thing. “Upon my honor, I had no idea Father Ballard was involved in any such conspiracy. In my more bitter moments, I have felt angry and disappointed in Elizabeth, even betrayed, but I still regard her as my sovereign queen. Never would I seek to harm Her Majesty.”
She sighed as she admitted, “But I have been meeting with Father Ballard ever since he arrived in London, smuggling him into Strand House late at night to say mass, to administer the sacraments of confession and communion. Acts of faith that in these regrettable times are now considered acts of treason.”
After all the dangerous risks he had taken himself, Martin was the last person with the right to reprove Jane. But he could not help remonst
rating gently, “Good Lord, Jane. I understand your feelings, or at least I am trying to. But you knew harboring a Catholic priest is illegal. Is your life really worth a mass?”
“No, my soul is. We have never discussed religious beliefs. I have no idea what yours are, nor do I need to know. I have never sought to pass judgment on the faith of others.”
Jane turned to the window, the light passing through the narrow crosslet playing over her pale features, her face steely in its resolve.
“I and those whom I am responsible for, the servants of my household, we have been raised to believe in the truth of the Catholic religion. From the time we were born, it has been our source of strength, making the suffering in life and even the prospect of death bearable. To have that all taken away with the stroke of a pen, a royal seal upon a parliamentary decree—”
Jane’s lips thinned into a taut line. “It is hard, cruel, and unendurable. Yes, I would risk my life for a mass, to bring such comfort to my people, even if I must defy both my queen and country. Because it is the right thing to do.”
She turned back to Martin with a wan smile. “It seems I have inherited my share of the rebellious Lambert blood after all. It is rather ironic to think that I was always so afraid Ned would be the one to end up on Tower Hill.”
“Where is your brother?” Martin asked.
“I don’t know. Happily he was not at home when the soldiers came to arrest me. I pray that he has gone into hiding and has the sense to stay there.” For the first time, a crack appeared in her composure. She clutched at Martin’s arm.
“I am terrified that Ned may do something foolish in an effort to rescue me. You must prevent him. Persuade him to escape to France until this matter is settled.”
Martin covered her hand with his. “I will do my best. But if you were my sister, I know full well I could never be persuaded to slink away and abandon you.”
“Your sister?” Jane regarded him with a quizzical lift of her brows. “There was a time when I believed you regarded me in a different light.”
“Jane, I—” he began regretfully, but she silenced him by pressing her fingers to his lips.
“It is all right. It has been a long time since I inspired anything but brotherly devotion in a man. Most courtships are based on matters of rank, property, and convenience. Unfortunately, I have turned out to be a most inconvenient woman.”
“Oh, Jane,” Martin groaned and carried her hand reverently to his lips. “Although I do hold you in the highest regard, I am ashamed to admit I wooed you because of your position, because I thought you would make an excellent mother for my daughter.”
“What a great compliment that is. I thank you for it.” Jane pressed his hand and drew away from him. “There is no need for you to be ashamed, Marcus. You have been a good friend to both Ned and me.”
“No, damn my eyes. I haven’t.”
When her eyes widened in surprise at his vehement words, Martin fortified himself with a deep breath and told her everything about all the months he had acted as Walsingham’s spy.
Jane received his confession quietly, her face more drawn with sorrow than anger. When he at last fell silent, she said, “If I had been fortunate enough to have a daughter like Meg, I should have done the same as you. Undertaken any employment, endured any risk to secure her future.”
Martin could only gape at her, both astounded and humbled by her understanding and forgiveness. “You truly are an angel.”
Jane gave a dry laugh. “If you believe that, you and I would have been indeed ill-suited for one another. I am far from angelic. I can pardon you so readily because there is nothing to forgive you for. You did your best to exonerate Ned. You had no notion I was the one who needed your protection.”
“It never even occurred to me you might have been meeting with Ballard. So where the devil did Walsingham gather his evidence against you?”
“From Master Timon.”
“Your brother’s valet?” Martin asked. “He was the one who betrayed you?”
“Both Ned and I mistook Timon for a devout Catholic, but it appears he has been studying the New Learning for some time. He was afraid to reveal his Protestant leanings for fear of losing his post. Trapped between his loyalty to my family and his new faith, poor Timon’s conscience was torn in half.”
“A fact that Walsingham was no doubt swift to exploit,” Martin said acidly.
Jane gave a sorrowful nod. “My poor Sarah felt her soul was in jeopardy for want of a Catholic priest. Master Timon feared for his because he tried to help me smuggle one into the house.”
“This religious conflict is damnable.”
“You are right and sometimes I fear we will all end up damned because of it. So much shedding of innocent blood on both sides,” Jane murmured.
“They shall not have a single drop of yours,” Martin insisted. “It is illegal to consult a Catholic priest, but I have heard that the queen can be tolerant and pardon such an offense. It is the assassination plot that puts you in such jeopardy. If we can convince the queen you had no part in that—”
“That may prove difficult,” Jane interrupted. “Treason is not the only charge against me. I am also accused of practicing witchcraft.”
“What!”
“Timon told Walsingham about Ned’s hidden room. The secretary believes I am the one who has been using it for some sinister purpose.”
“Bah! Sir Francis is a sensible man. Why the deuce would he believe that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t fully understand it myself.” Jane lifted her hand in a wearied gesture. “There was some reference made in a letter from France advising the conspirators to seek the aid of a sorceress. Since I was involved with Ballard and because of Ned’s secret room, Walsingham somehow leapt to the conclusion that I might be this—this Silver Rose.”
Martin’s breath caught in his throat. At the sound of that dread name, he felt as though his heart stopped.
“Who?” he rasped.
“The Silver Rose. Apparently some strange stories have circulated abroad about a legendary sorceress who once threatened the life of Queen Catherine. This witch is now believed to reside in England.”
Martin felt his face drain of blood. He had to turn away from Jane to avoid revealing how badly shaken he was. He knew that tales about Meg were rampant in France among the daughters of the earth. But the thought that the legend of the Silver Rose had spread far enough to gain Walsingham’s attention filled Martin with alarm. He could scarce concentrate on the rest of what Jane was saying.
“Of course, I have often traveled through France with my brother, but to suspect me of being this powerful French witch…It seems so ridiculous I could laugh.” Jane made a half-hearted attempt to do so. “I suppose now I must fear for my ear as well as my neck.”
Jane’s last remark started Martin into swiveling around to face her. “Your pardon?”
“My ear,” she repeated, her hand going up to tug at hers. “That is how the law often punishes those convicted of practicing necromancy. They lop off your ear.”
Martin frowned. “I thought that was the punishment for theft.”
“It can be. It can also be the sentence for spying.” Jane cast him a wry look. “But more often the taking of an ear is the punishment for those accused of sorcery, like young Master Naismith.”
“Naismith?” Martin echoed hoarsely.
Jane pursed her lips. “One would have thought losing his ear would have taught the wretched boy a lesson. But I have recently come to believe that it is Sander Naismith’s deplorable influence that has kept Ned so interested in the forbidden arts.”
Martin’s mind reeled. Sander had told Martin he lost his ear for stealing. Why would the boy lie about that? Martin could think of no good reason.
He was made more uneasy as he recollected he had not been the one who had sought Sander out to teach Meg to play the lute. It had been the other way around, Sander eagerly offering his services.
Too eager
ly perhaps? Was it a mere happenstance that a boy who had dabbled in the occult should have evinced such interest in tutoring Martin’s daughter? A further coincidence still that Sander had been the one to bring Martin the tidings about Jane and beg Martin to rush to her aid? Sander had never demonstrated any degree of regard for her ladyship’s welfare before.
Martin sought to quiet his fears, tell himself he was becoming alarmed over nothing. Meg was safe at home and she had Cat with her. But it chilled Martin to think that he had left that duplicitous Naismith roaming tamely about his house.
Assaulted by such thoughts, Martin scarce noted the warder’s return to inform him his time was up. Martin bid a swift farewell to Jane, urging her to keep her spirits up. He pledged to return soon, promising…He hardly knew what else he promised her.
Jane’s plight momentarily paled beside the urgent, instinctive need he felt to get home to his daughter.
MEG DANGLED HER LEGS OFF THE STONE BENCH IN THE GARDEN, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. She could still hear poor Jem’s pathetic cries carrying from the kitchen.
She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap instead, trying not to think about that spell she had conned from the Book of Shadows, the one that could so easily have rendered Jem unconscious. No doubt Cat had been wise, admonishing Meg to forget about it.
The trouble was that Meg could not seem to do so. Her memory was far too good. She had learned of that particular potion when Maman had ordered Meg to study the Book to find a cure for Maman’s blindness.
Although she had succeeded in doing so, Meg had lied to her mother. The cure had involved using the potion to render a person unconscious and then described a delicate magic for stealing their sight and gifting it to another. The donor would end up blind, perhaps even dead if given too much of the sleeping potion. But that would never have troubled Cassandra Lascelles.
Perhaps Meg was as evil as her mother to consider using that sleeping potion, even in an attempt to do good. She ought to find the courage to destroy the Book of Shadows, but Meg feared it was already too late.
The Huntress Page 33
