“Shh,” she said, placing fingers over his mouth. “I’m thinking.”
He pulled her fingers away. “While you’re thinking, they may already be searching for Philomena.”
“What?” She glanced up at him, frowning. “What did you say?”
“They’re likely wondering what’s become of her.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What did you do with the body?”
He closed his lips into a thin line, reluctant to answer.
“Nicholas, where’s the body?”
He winced in distaste, and his gaze fell to his satchel.
Desirée gasped. “In there? She’s... You... But why would you...”
He scowled. “I didn’t have time to bury her, and I couldn’t just leave her there.” He ran a guilty hand across the back of his neck. “After you’re gone, I’ll take her body to the crossroads and—“
“Wait.”
This changed everything. Desirée chewed at her thumbnail as her mind suddenly lit up with possibilities.
“Desirée!” he said, to capture her attention.
She held up a hand. Before long, a devious idea began to wind its way through her brain. She glanced at the satchel. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced it could work. If it did, it would be the most magnificent piece of deception she’d ever perpetrated.
“Shells and peas,” she murmured.
“What?”
Desirée bit her lip. Hubert had taught her well. It would take serious distraction and expert sleight of hand, but together they could do it.
Desirée would escape the gallows.
Nicholas would wash the blood from his hands.
And Philomena herself would see that justice was served.
“Nicholas, my love,” she said with a hopeful glint in her eyes, “how would you like to learn the secret of Three Shells and a Pea?”
Desirée swallowed hard as the first gray light of dawn seeped in through the slit at the top of the cell. It was one thing to come up with a brilliant plan, another to carry it out. Sitting here now, in the naked reality of day, she wondered if she’d made the right decision.
She glanced at Nicholas, sitting beside her, his face shadowed as he stared at the floor, lost in thought. Neither of them had slept a wink.
She had to be brave, for his sake. She was the one who’d talked Nicholas into this, after all, convincing him it would work. She couldn’t let him down.
But in the distance, when the bells began to ring, she flinched at the sound, knowing they were tolling not for Mass, but for her execution.
Nicholas reached his hand over and gave hers a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed back, and for a long while they stayed like that, lending each other strength by that mere touch.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he murmured.
“Aye.”
“There’s still time for you to run.”
She shook her head and gave him a shaky smile. “You won’t get rid of me that easily. Besides, where will you find another maid to burn your supper and beat you at draughts and...” She broke off as her throat closed unexpectedly.
“Listen to me.” He clasped her hand against his heart and spoke fiercely. “I’ll make this work. I promise.”
She bit her lip to still its trembling. Curse her wayward tears. She meant to be strong for him.
God, she hoped he was right. They must have gone over the plan a hundred times. In the same way she’d learned Three Shells and a Pea, Desirée had stressed to Nicholas the importance of timing and distraction. They’d practiced over and over until it became like a dance.
But there was always the possibility of failure. One overly shrewd observer, one slip of the tongue or hand, and the entire piece of trickery could be exposed.
And this time, unlike her ventures with Hubert, there would be no easy escape, no fleeing to the next town. If they couldn’t pull this off...
Sensing her lingering doubt, Nicholas reached out and turned her head toward him, gripping her jaw and piercing her with his determined gaze. “I won’t let you down. And I won’t let you die.”
She nodded.
He gave her a kiss to seal his promise, then murmured, “Are you ready?”
She blew out a steadying breath. She had to focus now. “Aye,” she said, letting him help her to her feet. “I’m ready.”
She took off her boots and stockings and swirled his massive cloak over her surcoat, covering herself completely from head to toe. They’d already removed Philomena’s bloody clothing and slippers, dressed the corpse in Desirée’s clean linen shift, and tucked the body back into the empty satchel.
Nicholas donned his cloak and gloves. Then he carefully shouldered the heavy sack. She nodded, confirming it didn’t look suspicious.
He raised his fist and banged on the door, calling for the gaoler to let them out.
The instant they stepped outside and he wrapped his black-gloved fist around her upper arm, she sensed the change in him. She suddenly felt as if she walked beside a stranger. Her tender lover was gone. In his place was Nicholas Grimshaw, shire-reeve of Kent. And in a curious way, that restored her confidence. This was going to work.
He was magnificent and menacing and larger than life. Indeed, if Desirée hadn’t known it was but a role he played, she would have been quailing in her tracks.
The moment they exited the gaol, a wave of jeering onlookers surged toward her, but he handled them expertly.
“Make way!” he bellowed. “Make way for Nicholas Grimshaw, shire-reeve of Kent!”
Her elbow firmly in his grasp, Nicholas strode with confidence along the road to the town square, and the crowd scattered before him like chickens before a cart.
“Make way!”
As he swaggered past, singling out members of the gathering townsfolk with a steely glare, women cringed in fright and young lads shouted insults and challenges.
Soon a chant of “Grimshaw! Grimshaw! Grimshaw!” arose, and peering from the shadows of her hooded cloak, Desirée saw Nicholas raise his hand high, as if to quell their worshipful cries.
She’d never seen so many gathered for an execution. But then she supposed it wasn’t every day a woman was hanged from the gallows.
She shivered. The road was cold on her bare feet. Thick fog rolled along the lane like dragon’s breath, lending a dreamlike quality to the day. But the mist would be their ally, she knew, obscuring perception, blurring reality.
Suddenly something streaked across the path before her like a small white wraith, then disappeared, and Desirée realized it was Snowflake.
Before she could wonder what Nicholas’s intrepid cat was doing here, the vicious threats began.
“Hang the witch high!” someone yelled.
“Stretch ‘er neck!”
“Break her like a twig!”
Desirée’s step faltered, but Nicholas never let her stumble, shouting to the crowd, “Patience, buzzards!”
Desirée lowered her head as they drew closer to the center of town, so she wouldn’t have to look at the stark black skeleton of the gallows and the ominous hooded executioner waiting for her. But the journey seemed endless, and she found the whispers far worse than the shouts.
“She’s a wee thing. She’ll strangle for an hour.”
“Nay. Grimshaw’ll crack her neck. Probably take her head clean off.”
At long last, Nicholas brought her to a halt, and Desirée lifted her gaze from beneath the hood just enough to glimpse the bottom rungs of the ladder leaning against the gallows post. As they’d planned, Nicholas dropped the satchel at the foot of the ladder, near the base of the gallows. He gave her elbow one subtle reassuring squeeze and released her. Now they were on their own.
Desirée let out a bracing breath. With a silent prayer to Hubert for a bit of his good luck, she prepared to pull off the most complex deception she’d ever attempted.
CHAPTER 30
Nicholas knew he had to do the performanc
e of his life. Everything depended upon it. Spurred to courage by the haunting vision of his beloved Desirée hanging lifeless from the gallows, he squared his shoulders and began the spectacle, circling her with slow menace.
“Good people of Canterbury!” he called out, his voice ringing as he addressed the crowd. “You see before you a rare sight—a murderess in our fair town!”
The onlookers hissed and growled.
“’Tis the second murder in a fortnight!” he said, punctuating his words with an upraised fist.
The crowd booed.
He shook his head. “Canterbury seems to have become overrun with outlaws!”
Several men shouted in agreement.
“So many, in fact,” he snarled, “that I’m dragged from my bed on a Sabbath morn just to keep up!”
The villagers joined in, creating a dull thunder of wrath.
He crossed his arms, pacing before them until they quieted again, then shrugged. “Normally, ‘tis little matter to me who dangles at the end of the rope, as long as justice is served.” He turned to Desirée and placed a hand atop her hooded head. “But this time, I’ve found an outlaw under my very own roof!”
With a dramatic flourish, he whipped the hood back, exposing Desirée’s ghostly pale face to the gasps of the crowd.
For an instant, his heart went out to her, and he had to fight the urge to cover her again, to take her in his arms and give her comfort.
But that wouldn’t serve their purposes. So when the villagers drew in their collective breath, he turned on them with even more venom.
“But justice is blind, and no one escapes the justice of Nicholas Grimshaw. No one!” He singled out several individuals in the crowd with an accusing finger. “Not you. Nor you.” He swung around to cup Desirée’s chin with his gloved hand. “Nor you.” Then he uttered the most difficult words he’d ever spoken. “Desirée Kabayn, you are charged with the crime of murder.”
The blood drained from her face, and for an instant he wondered if she was indeed only feigning her shock. She swayed on her feet, then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a faint, twisting to fall strategically facedown atop his satchel.
The townsfolk gasped, and Nicholas snorted, turning away from her, preparing to distract the crowd with a lengthy lecture on the evils of disobeying the law.
But in the silent moment, a quailing monk spoke to those around him. “God will surely frown upon a hanging on the Sabbath.”
“Aye,” someone added, “is it not a sin?”
“’Tis bad luck, at the least.”
“All of Canterbury will be cursed.”
“The devil will come to live in our town!”
Bloody hell! This was not part of the plan. The hanging had to take place today. It couldn’t be delayed. He had to do something, quickly, before the crowd turned on him.
“Is that what you think?” he demanded, forcing a harsh laugh. “That Lucifer will take up residence here? Be assured, good folk, if ever the devil comes to Canterbury, I’ll snatch him quick and string him up by his ballocks!”
A few lads cheered raucously, but at the lack of unanimous response, Nicholas knew he had to raise the stakes. He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head, issuing a sardonic challenge. “If you doubt me, if you doubt the word of Nicholas Grimshaw, if you truly believe I am not God’s avenging angel, but the right hand of Satan...” He let out a heavy sigh. “Let me put your fears to rest.”
With great spectacle, Nicholas strode through the crowd, which parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses, making his way to the monk who’d spoken earlier. The onlookers backed away, making a wide circle around him as he dramatically knelt before the man of God and crossed himself.
While the monk stood in baffled amazement, Nicholas began to pray, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Heavenly Father,” he cried, “I pray for your divine guidance. Make me, Nicholas Grimshaw, your humble servant, the instrument of your will.”
The air was so still, one could have heard the twitching of a mouse’s whiskers. But Nicholas trusted all eyes were upon him now.
He continued to pray, loud and long. He prayed for clear eyes that would not be deceived, no matter how pleasing a shape the devil assumed. He prayed for a strong hand to administer what judgment God demanded. He prayed for a true heart to follow the dictates of the Lord, however challenging they might be. And he prayed for the soul of the condemned murderer, that she might find mercy in heaven, if not on earth.
Finally, adding a silent prayer that he’d prayed long enough, he genuflected, and the awestruck villagers around him echoed his Amen.
Then he rose. “Satisfied?”
The crowd cheered wildly in response. He had them in the palm of his hand again.
Cracking his neck and flexing his shoulders, he made his way slowly back to the gallows, where, God willing, everything had progressed as planned.
Desirée hadn’t anticipated how much her hands would be shaking when it came to opening the satchel. Sweet saints, she was quaking like a winter leaf.
Nicholas had been convincing, almost too convincing. When he’d whirled toward her like some all-powerful mercenary of the Grim Reaper himself, his shoulders broad and menacing, his eyes glowing like dark green coals, his voice booming like thunder, she’d felt the blood leave her face. If she hadn’t hung on to the sliver of faith that his threats were empty, his brutality only a performance, that faint would have been genuine.
She forced her nerves to calm. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now. This was the most difficult part of the deception, the point where she slipped the pea under the shell.
For a moment, when the monk protested the hanging on the Sabbath, she’d thought they were doomed. But Nicholas knew his audience, knew how to restore their trust in him. When she heard him move into the crowd and begin to pray, there was no doubt in her mind that all gazes were drawn to him.
Using Nicholas’s great cloak as a screen, she parted the top of the satchel beneath her, repressing a shudder as she came in close contact with Philomena’s cold body. With painstaking patience, she gradually maneuvered out from under the cloak, inch by inch, squeezing into the space beside Philomena. Making as little motion as possible, she then carefully draped the cloak over Philomena instead. Bit by bit, she pulled the edges of the cloth around the woman, eventually enwrapping her completely and concealing her face within the hood.
Now, to any but the most observant eye, it would appear Philomena was the maid who had just fainted.
The trouble was, Desirée discovered, there was an observant eye.
As she lay in quiet concealment in the folds of the satchel, she felt a curious tickling atop her head. Her first horrid thought was that Philomena wasn’t quite dead, after all, that her cold, bony fingers were scrabbling at Desirée’s scalp. A panicked squeal stuck in her throat.
But she’d learned to remain calm in the face of fear. So she drew two steadying breaths and lifted one eyelid just enough to see what plagued her.
Snowflake suddenly mewed in her face.
Desirée suppressed a gasp.
Shite!
This was just the sort of unforeseen loose thread that could unravel everything.
“Shoo!” she hissed as loudly as she dared.
The cat only purred.
“Shoo!”
But Snowflake stuck his nose closer.
Then, as if it weren’t bad enough to have a cat sniffing at her, giving away her location, when she let her focus drift past Snowflake, she clearly saw the constable, staring directly at her with his blackened eye, his brow furrowed.
She snapped her eyes shut again, held her breath, and prayed for a true miracle. But whatever was going to happen would occur in the next moment, for Nicholas was already returning to the gallows.
Nicholas strode purposefully toward his satchel, but he almost missed a step when he saw Azrael. What the devil was his cat doing here?
Hell!
Azrael seldom left the cottage. Why had he chosen today to come to town? Did the meddling beast mean to betray the very wench who slipped him scraps at the table? Nicholas had to do something.
He would’ve liked to give the miserable cat a boot. But Desirée would never forgive him. Besides, the stubborn feline would only come sneaking back. Azrael seemed determined to keep his mistress company.
Nicholas frowned at the cat, whose snow white exterior belied the devilish creature beneath. Then inspiration struck him. He reached down and scooped up the animal, holding him high for all to see.
“’Tis a sign!” he cried. “An angel in the guise of a white cat comes to bless this holy vengeance.”
The onlookers gasped and began murmuring in wonder among themselves—all but the constable, who stood a short distance away, regarding him with an unnerving scowl.
Nicholas swallowed down the metallic taste of doubt. He couldn’t dwell on what might go wrong. He’d told himself at the start, if the very worst happened, he’d snatch up Desirée, throw her over his shoulder, and flee Canterbury on foot.
He lowered Azrael to the ground, giving him a light swat to send him away. Then he hunkered down beside the satchel, where his cloak was draped over what he prayed was Philomena’s corpse. A film of sweat formed above his lip. He had to be extremely cautious now.
Blocking the crowd’s view with his back, he made certain the cloak was safely tucked around Philomena’s body so she was completely covered. Then he lifted her slowly and carefully out of the satchel and into his arms, making certain the hood concealed her face.
“She’s asleep!” cried a young lass at the front of the crowd.
A few people booed in disappointment, but before the mob could join in, Nicholas made an announcement. “’Twould seem the Lord has taken mercy upon her soul, after all. She’ll meet her Maker ere she wakes.”
He nodded to the chaplain, who began reciting the sacrament. While the executioner readied the noose, Nicholas climbed up the ladder with his burden, and the two of them secured the rope about Philomena’s neck.
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