Amazed faces greeted this revelation, for they had all liked Lenore and loath to believe evil of her.
“ ’Tis true!” cried Gilbert, rising up in a passion at sight of those unbelieving faces. “When I remonstrated with her and tried to stop her—as indeed I should have done, being Geoffrey’s cousin and Michael’s friend—she flew into a rage and burned me with a hot poker and took off on the run with poor Michael!” He sank back upon his pillow and laid a listless hand upon his forehead. “When Geoffrey came back, he would not listen—he was sure I must have done her some injury that she had burned me! He threw me out the window and near killed me!”
His friends eyed each other thoughtfully. Gilbert did indeed seem to have reason for complaint—and the burn and cuts and bruises were there as vivid proof of his story. Though doubts lingered, young Oxford subsided before Gilbert’s accusations. Geoffrey would turn up, some muttered, and they’d hear his version.
Sulking—and furious that both cheeks were wounded, for the pitchfork point had been dirty and the gouge festered—Gilbert convalesced with the aid of wine and Dorothy the tavern maid, who tended him faithfully. But when Dorothy brought word excitedly that Geoffrey had returned to Oxford, she had seen him riding toward Michael’s old lodgings, Gilbert leaped out of bed, flung on his clothes in haste, and rushed past her. “I’ll be back,” he cried. “Wait for me!”
Gilbert raced for the authorities. His eyes took on a wicked gleam as he ran—and a scared gleam, too, for he feared Geoffrey might hear that he had survived the fall and come back to finish him off! He composed his features as he explained to the authorities that he had recently learned, through family letters, that Geoffrey Wyndham, who in Oxford went by the name of Daunt, had fought for the king at Worcester. He sank down as if overcome as he said that, muttering that he had thought Geoffrey merely a rogue, but now it seemed he was also a traitor—and he had leaped up from his bed of pain to apprise them that Geoffrey was back and heading for Michael’s old lodgings.
So it was that Geoffrey, when he clattered down the stairs after an unsatisfactory interview with Barney, found himself surrounded by a ring of steel.
Backed into the house by weight of their numbers, he fought them—up and down the wooden stairs he fought them, his sword blade flashing through the air to parry several blades that snaked at him. Wild-eyed, Barney watched the battle from above (“I've never seen a man fight like that!” he swore later in admiration) until a bullet fired at close range creased Geoffrey’s forehead and he went down like a felled ox and woke up lying on a filthy pallet in the jail.
Lying in jail, slapping at spiders and fleas, kicking at rats, he had time to consider. For time was nothing here, as men waited in stinking cells to die or be transported.
But to the lean prisoner with the haggard face and the dirty rag bound about his wounded head, who lay in a room high up in the jail where desperate prisoners were kept, the days were haunted with memories of a winsome smile, the nights made restless as he tossed on his pallet longing to hold a certain fair body in his arms again.
Reluctantly now in the prison dimness, which cast a clear, hard light on his musings, he accepted what he had refused to believe before: Michael and Lenore had not headed up the Banbury road for Coventry, Lenore’s story about provisioning for the fair was but a screen to hide the truth. Lenore had believed him gone to France and had eloped with Michael. She was lost to him!
Bitterly he speculated on where they might have gone. Most likely they had traded their horses for passage downriver to London and Michael had indentured himself to pay for ship’s passage—as indeed Geoffrey had planned to do. For since Michael’s disappearance had showed unexpected initiative, Michael might have other unsuspected resources—he and Lenore might even now be embarking on some tall white ship bound for the American Colonies, where his irate family would never find him.
He imagined her there, standing at the rail beside Michael, beneath billowing sails, while the wind rippled her hair, bravely embarking on a new life.
And the truth, he told himself painfully, though he had flinched to face it, was that Lenore was better off with Michael. He could offer his name—a good name and an old one—and blind devotion. Eventually, since Michael was an only son, he would inherit decaying Maltby Manor. The sale of it should ensure him a good position in the Colonies, and the bright-haired girl from Twainmere would be at last what she had longed to be—a respected wife.
If only he could have given her that...
He stood at the small barred window—so high that only a tall man might see out—and gazed out at Oxford’s ancient spires, softened to tan by the haze. Somewhere in that jumble of buildings was Magpie Lane, and off of it an alley and a tumbledown Tudor building where he had passed some of the happiest days of his life. His hard gaze softened and grew wistful as he tried to locate the house where he had dwelt with Lenore.
They told him charges were being readied against him. Not only of being a Royalist and therefore a traitor to the Commonwealth, but they were also investigating a rumor that he’d prowled the roads as a highwayman these past months. Geoffrey gave them a ribald look when they told him that. On either count, his life was forfeit; this multiplicity of charges only amused him.
He gave little thought to the way he would die. All men died sometime, and it might be he’d escape the gallows yet. Instead his mind dwelt lingeringly on Lenore, and at night he dreamed that they were on the run again, camped beneath the high tors, and in the dying glow of their campfire he looked deep into her violet eyes and she moved silently into his arms—a lustrous woman, his alone. By day there was a whole treasure chest of memories to illumine his drab cell: the fire, the passion, the oneness that had consumed them both. Ruefully his waking mind traced every little inch of her sweet body. In the silence of his cell he could almost hear her sigh, and the little breeze that reached him through the bars reminded him of her gentle, delighted quiver as he entered her. His hard body ached with longing for the tremulous response he had always felt in her, and he groaned as he recalled too vividly an incurving waist, an outcurving hip, the maddening pressure of her firm young breasts against his hard chest.
How gallantly she had ridden beside him when they were hunted! How valiantly she had thundered to the finish on the makeshift race course at Wells—and returned flushed and triumphant that she had bested big Hobbs. He was proud of her, he loved her, and—a dry sob formed in his throat—though he deserved to lose her, dear God, he missed her so.
Now he would dance out his life on a gibbet and she would never know he had not meant the ugly words he’d hurled at her in pain and disappointment. That was what hurt most—she would never know.
Gilbert, resplendent in fawn satins, came to crow over him in the jail. Gilbert’s bruises had turned from purple to yellow, his cuts—save for the festered one from the pitch-fork—were healing fast, but the burn Lenore had given him with the hot poker was livid even in the little light afforded by the cell’s small window on a cloudy day. Geoffrey took some satisfaction in the sight of that weal.
Though the jailer would have obligingly locked Gilbert in the cell with Geoffrey for a private interview, Gilbert hastily declined that and chose instead to speak to Geoffrey through the small grating of the iron door that held the prisoner secure inside.
“Ye made a mistake, Geoffrey,” he taunted through the grating.
“Aye,” Geoffrey agreed with a sigh. “I should have pitched ye through the front window onto the cobbles instead of through the side window into the muddy alley!”
Gilbert paled, and his teeth clenched. “Ye are about to die!” he stormed. “For no court will clear ye of both charges! Either ye’ll hang as a Royalist or ye’ll hang as a highwayman!”
“How can ye be so sure?” mocked Geoffrey. “Neither charge is yet proved.”
Gilbert took a ragged breath and fought to compose his features. “I did not come here to quarrel with ye, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey lau
ghed. “No? Then why did you come?”
“Because we are cousins and—”
“Faith, ye should have thought of it sooner!”
Gilbert edged nearer the grating. Seen through that square in the iron door, his face was crafty. “I am willing to forget that ye tried to kill me, Geoffrey, and do ye a last good turn.”
Geoffrey eyed his cousin. “A draught of poison to speed me, perhaps?”
“Nay, do not jest.” Gilbert lowered his voice confidentially. “I do not believe that ye know not where Lenore is. If ye will tell me her whereabouts, Geoffrey, I promise ye faithfully that I will go to her and tell her of your trouble so that she may slip into the jail and see you before the end.”
Geoffrey gave a short laugh. “So that she may die with me? Is that what ye offer? Or perchance save her life by becoming your doxie?”
Gilbert empurpled. He smote the iron door with the hilt of his sword until it rang. “Guard! Guard!” he cried in fury. “I am finished with my interview with this prisoner! Sirrah!”
Lounging against the wall, Geoffrey favored that square of grating that showed his cousin’s baleful face with a genial smile. “I am sorry, Gil,” he began softly, and Gilbert turned an interested look toward him, hoping his cause was not lost, after all. “Sorry that I did not mark ye so well as Lenore,” Geoffrey fetched a deep sigh. “ ’Tis an error I’ll correct one day—if I live.”
Gilbert almost ran over the turnkey in his blind wrath as he charged out of the jail.
Geoffrey heard his departure and gave thanks for one thing—at least Lenore was clear of Gilbert’s wrath. That Michael had taken her beyond Gil’s reach was the one ray of sunshine in the eternal night that would soon descend on him.
His next visitor was more welcome.
Geoffrey had been resting in a corner of his cell, leaning against the stone wall and contemplating the spiderwebs that hung down from the ceiling. He looked up as a key turned in the lock and Ned’s familiar form— plumper than he remembered—hurried through. In a bound he was on his feet and met Ned in the center of the room, clapping him on the shoulder in delight. Behind Ned the iron door clanged shut, and the turnkey’s voice reached them. “I’ll be within call—let me know when ye’ve done.”
“Ned, I thought ye were in Somerset! Faith, ye’ve a paunch these days! I hope your lady’s well.”
Ned wrung his hand. “She’s very well. I came when I heard ye’d been taken, Geoffrey. And as to the paunch— marriage is good to me; I’m well fed.” He grinned at Geoffrey.
“I’ll not ask ye to sit down, Ned—’twould ruin your clothes. But the air is better by the window. Ye’ll have heard Lenore has left me.”
“Aye.”
“Is there any news of her?” Geoffrey eyed him anxiously.
“Nay, I’ve had none. She seems to have vanished—as Lally has.” Ned’s voice was melancholy.
Geoffrey was startled. “Lally? I did not know.”
“Aye. I’m told she left Gilbert and none know where she has gone.”
A tiny hope sprang up in Geoffrey—that Lenore might have sought out Lally, they might be hiding somewhere together—and was immediately quenched. Lenore had left with Michael, and he had not turned up, either.
“I think you must face it, Geoffrey,” Ned said soberly. “Lenore has left you. Ye must look to yourself.”
“That would be easier were I not in jail,” said Geoffrey wryly.
Ned lowered his voice. “That can be remedied. I’ve a plan.” Even as he spoke, he was disrobing. “Keep a sharp eye out for the jailer, Geoffrey. I’ve so much rope tied around me I can hardly move!”
“Faith, ye’re a practical man, Ned!” Geoffrey’s eyes lit up as Ned handed him a file and a short dagger. He kept his eyes pressed to the grating as Ned, panting, unburdened himself of a great length of rope. “I’ve yet another file in my other boot,” he muttered, and Geoffrey chuckled.
“Ye’re a walking arsenal, Ned! I’m surprised ye did not bring black powder to blow up the jail!”
“I’ve a better plan,” Ned told him grimly, getting back into his clothes while Geoffrey stowed the rope and files and dagger beneath his pallet. “’Tis dangerous, but—it should work.”
He outlined his plan, and Geoffrey nodded. Then he frowned. “Gilbert was here to plague me, Ned. He’ll try to stop us if he hears.”
“Aye—I’ve heard the stories he spreads about Lenore.” Geoffrey said sharply, “What stories?”
Ned told him, and Geoffrey smote his palm with a hard fist and cursed softly. “I should have broken Gil’s neck before I tossed him through the window!”
“I heard about that.” Ned was amused. He began to pack some of the straw bedding into his clothes so that he would again have a paunch.
“Ye’ll get fleas, Ned.”
Ned shrugged. “Be easy about Gilbert, Geoffrey. He’s had a falling out with Dorothy—you remember that tavern maid who used to be his doxie? He beat her black and blue, and she’s swearing vengeance to all who will listen. For a few coins she’ll manage to get him drunk for us.”
Geoffrey nodded alertly. Except in matters of the heart, Ned always managed well.
“Ye’re a good friend, Ned.” Geoffrey's voice was deep. “I’ll not forget this.”
“I’ve not forgotten how you climbed a rotting tower to get me out of Wilby Hall that night when the place caught fire and I was trapped inside with a great cupboard toppled on top of me that I could not budge. All were against your climb, which they said was impossible —including the long leap you made from the tower to my window.”
It was Geoffrey’s turn to shrug. “ ’Twas not so big a thing, Ned.”
“No? Well, I thought it was. I was lying there half crushed with clouds of black smoke billowing around me —and you came through it with your eyes bloodshot and dragged me out and let me down the building with a rope. I had already consigned myself to the devil, and when I saw your face—”
“You thought ’twas he come to collect you,” chuckled Geoffrey.
Ned slapped him on the back. “Take care, Geoffrey. We’ll have but the one chance.”
“Aye,” Geoffrey wrung his hand. “We’ll make it a good one.”
“Let’s hope no one bumps into me,” muttered Ned, already scratching as fleas bit into him. “For my paunch will have an interesting crunch! I’ll leave you now, Geoffrey. Jailer! Jailer! I’m ready to take my leave of the prisoner!”
When the iron door was unlocked, Geoffrey was seen to be reclining upon his pallet, looking melancholy. The iron door clanged shut.
Ned rounded up those Oxford students whose Royalist leanings he could count on, and they assaulted the jail— not with weapons but with music and song. The town-folk muttered about their unruliness—but then they were often unruly. They made enough noise that the rasp and occasional shriek of Geoffrey’s file, sawing at the iron bars, went unnoticed.
When at last enough of the tough bars were sawed partway through—so that a good kick would finish them off—Geoffrey tied his scarf to the window of his cell and it floated out bravely on the afternoon breeze.
It was the signal. That evening a raucous crowd of students, inspired by Ned, appeared in the street at the other side of the jail. They seemed very drunk and carried with them a kettledrum and an assortment of iron pots on which they dinned and thumped with iron spoons and pokers. The attention of jailers and guards was thus attracted to that side of the jail. By five minutes past nine o’clock when the Great Tom bell began its hundred and one peals that announced curfew, the din was so great that Geoffrey was able to kick out the bars—they rattled down to the cobbles completely unnoticed—affix his rope, and start his dangerous climb down the stone side of the building.
In the dim alley below, a horseman had appeared with another horse on a lead. He jogged along slowly, as if on his way home at the sound of curfew. It was Ned—painfully conscious of Geoffrey’s necessarily slow descent. He watched anxiously as Geoffrey came dow
n the rope —and winced as fifteen feet from the ground the rope broke and Geoffrey fell rolling to the alley below, to end up almost under the hooves of Ned’s horse.
The horse shied nervously, and Ned leaned forward tensely. “Are ye hurt?” he whispered, alarmed.
Geoffrey was already up and seizing the bridle Ned handed him. “Naught but a bruise or two,” he said grimly. “I thank ye, Ned, for all ye’ve done. Now get ye gone so that ye are not caught in the net if I be taken!” He took the pistol Ned gave him, stuck it in his belt, and buckled on the baldric and sword.
“Wait, ye’ll need this.” Ned tossed him a purse, which Geoffrey caught. “There’s gold in it.” He gave his friend a troubled look in the dimness. “Where do ye go, Geoffrey?”
“God knows,” Geoffrey flung back over his shoulder and galloped away. Ned had done enough for him, he thought—aye, more than enough; he would not endanger Ned further with involvement in his plans. With luck he’d get out of Oxford and head southeast. It might be safer for him in the West Country, in Somerset or Cornwall or Devon. But—he wanted no reminders of Lenore. She was better without him, of that he was convinced— aye, being with him had held her back from the life she might have had: good wife to a good man. Not the life of a fugitive, which was all, God knows, he had to give her.
There’d been a thin chance for them there for a while; he’d hurried to Oxford over mired roads to tell Lenore he’d made the arrangements for them to go to America —but he had never told her, he’d seen the child and flung out... he deserved what had befallen him. And by now the ship that was to have carried them across the waters would have sailed without him—which mattered not, he’d no heart now to emigrate and work long, hard years of indenture overseeing the work on another man’s plantation. For Lenore he’d have done it, and gladly, but for himself—he shrugged, he’d see what a man could do on the highroads.
Ned went back to Somerset, and though he was suspected of aiding in Geoffrey’s escape—especially by Gilbert, who was loud in denouncing him—nobody was ever able to prove anything against him. Ned might indeed have been the source of the rumor that circulated around the taverns of Oxford: that the Angel of Worcester had flown to the windowsill of Geoffrey’s cell and left him a rope and a file. It was just one of the many miraculous things now attributed to the woman who had “ridden in like Godiva to save the King at Worcester, and finding him fled had taken a dead man from the battlefield instead, breathed life into him, and vanished!”
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