by Karen Brooks
“Don’t tell me there’s another fight.”
Juliana, who’d taken to sleeping in the nursery, joined me on the landing, shaking her head, her hair tousled and eyes heavy.
“Don’t these gents have anything better to do?”
“Have the children woken?” I asked.
“Nay, mistress.” She grimaced as another blow landed. “Only me. They’d sleep through the king’s coronation, your lot.”
By this time, quite an audience had gathered, pulling on shirts and surcoats, tugging on breeches—and on the two floors below as well. Craning their necks, men tried to see, while others dared the stairs, some with swords and daggers drawn. Others took the opportunity to leave, scarpering down the stairs and out of sight. There were more shouts and cries as Alyson appeared. Charging up the stairs, a cresset lamp held aloft, her tunic askew, its laces all untied, a young man in tow, she began barking orders, shoving women and men aside with her shoulders and hand. Master atte Place pushed past his mistress, ignoring the half-naked women clutching remnants of clothing and trying to melt into the walls as he barged along. On seeing the tumult was between two of their fellow carousers, men who’d come expecting a fight sheathed their weapons and exchanged them for shouts of encouragement and groans of disbelief as the older man lost his balance and was pushed through a wall. Alyson bellowed, but they ignored her.
Dazed for a moment, the man took the proffered hand of a stranger who pulled him free. With a roar, he threw himself at his adversary, earning cries of approval.
“This happens often?” I asked Juliana.
“Always on May Day and especially throughout summer.”
The women certainly didn’t look shocked, more amused. Beside me, Juliana tut-tutted but was clearly enjoying the spectacle. Alyson stood at the top of the first flight of stairs, arms folded, a mixture of impatience and fury on her face. Harry appeared and I saw her whisper something to him before, with obvious reluctance, he raced down the stairs, ducking around those who refused to get out of his way.
Just as the brawl looked to cease, the man who’d made the huge hole in the wall used his considerable weight to swing his fist into the side of his rival’s head. The slighter man, more a boy really, staggered with the blow and lost his footing. Toppling heavily against the railing, there was a sickening crunch before the banisters gave way and the young man fell.
Juliana and I gasped and followed his descent. It was all over in an instant. The man, arms circling, legs wheeling, dropped two stories onto the rushes below. Mayhap it was God’s grace that he struck another gentleman on the way down. Even so, as he landed on his back, limbs akimbo, there was a sickening, dull thud.
All was silent. Only the hiss of Alyson’s cresset lamp going out and a small sob could be heard.
The man didn’t move. One leg was bent at a peculiar angle, and one arm was twisted behind his back. Gorge rose in my throat.
Juliana crossed herself. I did too and sent a swift prayer to my Lord.
Then, with a clap of her hands, Alyson took control.
“Back to your rooms, girls. Gentlemen, the doctor and the watch are on their way, the sheriff too, no doubt. I suggest you make yourselves scarce.” She stared at the culprit, who, pale-faced, with a swollen lip and half-closed eye, scratches and blood upon his frame, stared in disbelief at the body below. From my vantage point, I could see his straw-colored hair, the look of fear that crossed his face. He might have been older than his victim, but he was still young.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
Juliana sucked in her breath.
All eyes turned to Alyson.
Alyson, who’d disappeared into one of the rooms, reappeared and flung a shirt, coat, and boots at him. “Not yet. I suggest you start praying he doesn’t die, your lordship. For not even your family’ll be able to avoid royal justice.”
Scrambling into his clothes, the man made a sound that was part whimper, part agreement.
“Master atte Place,” said Alyson. “See his lordship to a wherry, would you?” Returning to her previous position, she pointed toward the way out. Loitering in the corridor, the women whispered as the men left with as much dignity as they could muster. Among them, I recognized a few lords, Master Rodesmith the goldsmith, and from the accents, a number of Lowlanders. Father Kenton and a couple of the acolytes from the abbey scurried down the stairs, pulling up their hoods. Waiting till they’d passed, Master atte Place gestured for the battered nobleman to follow him.
Alyson raised her brow, looking around. “Didn’t you hear me, girls? I said, back to your rooms!”
This time, she was obeyed.
I was about to suggest Juliana return to bed, when there was another uproar on the stairs. Ascending against the tide of escapees was Adam. Behind him was another gentleman in a long dark cape. They temporarily barred the way, making it impossible for Master atte Place to fulfill his duty. There was a standoff as no one moved.
The man in the cape gripped the railing and stood on his toes.
“Goodwife Alyson,” he cried in a deep, melodic voice. “I must speak with you immediately.”
The landing spun and it was only my hold on the banister that prevented my legs buckling. This could not be happening.
“Mistress?” asked Juliana. “Are you all right?” I stared at her, but her features were dusky, blurred. “You’re shaking.” She touched me gently on the arm.
Catching my breath, I moved out of the dim light and back into the comfort of the shadows. “Juliana, I’m fine. Look to the twins and Betje, please. Keep them safe.” I urged her back to the room.
Waiting until the nursery door was shut again, I closed my eyes.
My chest felt as if it was nothing but a vast chamber in which butterflies cavorted and knives were flung. I reeled from exquisite pleasure to extraordinary pain.
God, Mother Mary, please, let me be wrong.
Let me be right.
The courage it took for me to peer over the railing again could not be measured. I could no longer hear Alyson’s words. I was unaware of the women returning to their rooms, of the still-departing men making their way down two flights of stairs, shrugging on surcoats, tying capes and hoods, or of Master atte Place and the injured lord descending. All my focus was on Alyson, Adam, and the man who earnestly spoke to her. I could see the muscle in Adam’s jaw ticcing, Alyson’s wide eyes as she regarded the gentleman addressing her, then the sly half-smile that twisted her mouth as she listened to him.
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the tall, broad-shouldered figure in a woolen cape standing one step below her with his back to me. Willing him to turn around, to confirm or deny my fears, my hopes, I waited. I didn’t breathe. I felt sure my heart had seized.
Then, spinning slowly, as if aware of my unrelenting gaze, he turned and raised his face.
The man on the stairs was none other than Leander Rainford.
With a cry, I ran back into my room and slammed the door.
Forty-Three
The Swanne
After May Day
The year of Our Lord 1407 in the eighth year of the reign of Henry IV
When the door opened, there he was—my imagination made suddenly manifest. Beyond it, all was cat-quiet, as if the world had fallen into an enchanted slumber. Only we two were awake, aware. The soft light from the landing framed him, a darker version of the man who, ever since he first entered my life, had transformed my dreams, my desires . . .
God help me.
Remaining in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other holding his cane, his eyes covered the distance. I stood, unashamed of my state of undress, of my linen kirtle and shawl, my hair unraveling from its loose plait and spilling over my shoulders. After all, he always undid my best of intentions.
I’d rehearsed this moment so many times over the months and yet it was nothing like I’d imagined—not the place, nor the time, nor anything else. I had longed for this man. But that was before the fire destroyed everyt
hing, before Westel Calkin, the twins . . .
Before his wife . . .
A voice in my head was insisting I order him away, protect my modesty, my reputation. I said not a word. I simply drank in the vision of him, the waking dream to which the noise of his boots and cane against the rushes gave lie. His approach released the sweet scent of lavender, pine, and other wild fragrances. Inhaling, my breath escaped atremble, my fingers sought the solidness of the bedpost. Could he sense the effect he had on me?
He paused little more than an arm’s length away. My throat grew dry, words fled. Damn him. In the silvery light, his face was a mixture of dark angles and gray planes, his eyes pools that shone with secret depths. There was a splash outside followed by the caterwaul of a night creature. Dogs began to bark. I twisted toward the sounds, the moonlight capturing me.
Sir Leander hadn’t moved, yet his cape was still restless against his boots. Tendrils of black hair brushed against his face in ways I envied. Still I could not read his eyes, his face, while my own, bathed in silver, turned back to him. He had the advantage. How he must feel that after all this time. That he should find me here, in a bathhouse, wearing only a thin shift that did nothing to conceal either my doubts or desire. Was he here to punish? To accuse? God knew, I deserved both.
And yet . . . this was not what I sensed, not what his body, in its unerring stillness, confided to me.
There was so much I wanted to say, to feel, to do. Everything I’d kept buried inside me was poised to escape, buttressed against my lips, hands, and thighs.
Finally, he spoke.
“You look terrible.”
I blinked. Mortification heated my face. My hand flew to my cheek, hair, and chest, returning to my hair again. He was right. I was disheveled, unruly; more than that, I was wrong. Sweet Mother Mary, I was in a bathhouse, living in the notorious Stews. I didn’t only appear terrible, I was.
The absurdity of my situation, the fires of anticipation being doused so thoroughly and unexpectedly, seemed suddenly comical.
My lips quivered. Clutching the bedpost harder, I threw back my head and laughed. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I raised my eyes and shook my head. How long this went on, I’m not certain.
“Anneke?”
The power of my name upon his lips quieted me. My mirth quickly died and I dashed the tears from my eyes.
“Forgive me, my lord. I’d forgotten the gift you have with words.”
A low chuckle issued, turning into a chortle. “I do, don’t I. And only you would remind me of my talent.” With a smile that caused my heart to flip, he propped his cane against the bed and opened his arms. I hesitated. There would be no going back if I entered them and what was being offered by such an improper embrace, in my bedroom, no less—no standing on virtue or respectability. I would tumble down the social scale even further and become a fallen woman in every respect.
Before I could act, there was the ragged sound of a throat being cleared.
“Mistress?”
Sir Leander’s arms dropped.
Loitering in the doorway like a chaperone was Adam. Protective, uncertain, with that one word he told me what was at stake.
With my eyes still fixed upon Sir Leander lest he disappear, I answered, “It’s all right, Adam. You may leave us.”
“But, mistress—” he began, before a hand gripped his shoulder.
It was Alyson.
“I need you to help me with the lad downstairs, Master Adam.”
Good God. Sir Leander’s presence made everything else flee my mind. The young man. “Is he . . . is he dead?” I asked.
“Dead drunk,” said Alyson. “He’s twisted his ankle and hurt his arm along with his pride—nothing that can’t be fixed. Master Vetazes, Mistress Vetazes’s husband, is with him now, and the sheriff will want a word too, no doubt. The Honorable John Tiptoft doesn’t want to make a fuss; he certainly doesn’t want his father alerted, so I fancy the sheriff may have to find other things to occupy his time.” She shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she regarded Sir Leander, who hadn’t moved. “Listen to your mistress. You’re not needed here, Master Adam, so how about you come with me.”
Alyson led Adam away, casting one last, lingering look at me as she closed the door.
Their footsteps faded. We listened to the house settling, the distant sounds of female voices, the river lapping its banks.
If I lifted my hand, I could have touched his face. Instead, I brushed a stray hair from my cheek. His eyes, which gleamed in the half-light, followed my hand before, stepping closer, his fingers took over from mine, and he cupped my face.
He bent slightly so his eyes met mine. We didn’t speak, but drank each other in. Our breath mingled and a soft light twinkled in those midnight eyes. My hand closed over his.
“I’ve traveled the length and breadth of this country searching for you.”
“I know,” I whispered.
“I would have searched the world.”
“You’ve found me.”
“I have.”
He drew me closer.
As his lips met mine, everything that had happened between us, and all that had not, melted into this moment. All the months of grief, anxiety, hardship, and fear slipped away. My shawl slid down my back to curl in a shimmering bundle at my feet.
As I pressed myself to him, wanting to merge with his strength and warmth, something deep inside me unfastened, like a key turned in a lock. Feelings I’d denied flooded my body, expanding me in directions I’d not imagined. I sailed on an ocean of sensation. Waves of longing washed over me, making my fingers tingle and the hot center of my loins ache. The time for pretense was over. Leander was here, holding me and, as his lips left mine to capture my chin, eyelids, temples, and neck, loving me as well.
His hand caressed a trail through my hair, releasing it from its messy confines, before finding my shoulder and tracing the curve of my back with firm but gentle fingers. Pulling me against him, his mouth returned to mine, and his kiss deepened.
My hands did their own exploring. I was bold, eager; a conqueror claiming my territory, staking my claim. I curled the fingers of one hand around the hair at the base of his neck while my other teased the laces at his throat, pulled them apart then found the solidity of his chest. I replaced my fingers with my lips and tongue.
Groaning, he lifted me off my feet, his mouth wild, his fingers touching, probing, caressing. I gasped, threw back my head and arched my back.
As if I were made of gold leaf and might fall apart, he placed me on the bed. I held out my arms to beckon him back. Aware my shift had slipped off one shoulder, the fabric resting precariously on the crest of my bosom, I did nothing to alter my state of déshabillé. Sir Leander’s eyes widened, lingering upon my flesh, caressing me with his hot gaze, and I reveled in the ardor my body aroused in him and which matched my own.
“Good God, Anneke,” he said, staring. “Don’t tempt me.” With one knee upon the mattress, he lowered my arms to my sides. With a sigh, he lifted my shift into a more decorous position. His touch left a burning trail that only ceased when he released the fabric.
Moving away to a safe distance, he studied me, and his face softened. “I thought—” he began. “I thought all I wanted, all I needed, was to see you, to reassure myself that you’d survived. That you were unharmed. That what happened at Holcroft House, at Elmham Lenn, hadn’t marked you.”
He searched my face. I lowered my gaze. I was marked, surely he could see that; marked by the losses I’d suffered and by those who would brand me slattern and murderer. My marks may not be visible but they were no less indelible. I was a changed woman. I would not be here, in Southwark, in The Swanne, welcoming him the way a harlot does her gentleman, except for what happened all those months ago.
The scars I bore were nothing to those Betje carried. I wondered how he’d react when he set eyes upon her.
“You can see for yourself,” I said, sitting up, ensuring my shift stayed in place thi
s time. “I am well.”
“Are you?” He waited. “Anneke . . . God. I don’t know what to say. Sometimes, the only means we have to express how we feel are so inadequate.” He took my hand back in his, his thumb stroking my palm. I shivered. “What I’m trying to say, very badly, is now that I’ve seen you, I can no longer pretend. I want, no, dear God, I need more. I was a fool to think seeing you alone would be enough.”
Only in my most private and wicked of longings, did Sir Leander admit to such things. Yet here he was, saying them and so much more. I didn’t dare speak.
“My greatest regret is that I wasn’t there to protect you, to defend you, Karel, Saskia, and the others. Jesù”—he struck his forehead—“I was not even there to comfort you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Nay, you were busy exchanging vows, feasting, celebrating your wife. The wife you chose not to tell me about, passing that task to my brother.”
“Anneke, it wasn’t—”
I didn’t let him finish. “You need no forgiveness, my lord. It was not your duty to do any of those things.” I winced at how prim I sounded.
So did Sir Leander. “I’m not talking about duty,” he snapped. “God, Anneke. I’m talking about what’s right.” His hand resided briefly over his heart.
I thought about that. What was right. Nothing about what had happened was right—not Will’s death, Saskia’s, Louisa’s, and certainly not Karel’s. It wasn’t right that Betje was burned or that Westel Calkin unleashed his brutality upon me. It wasn’t right that out of such a violent union, two such gentle souls had been produced. It wasn’t right that I, Anneke Sheldrake, daughter of a merchant, was reduced to living in a bathhouse in Southwark and forced to make a living from brewing. It wasn’t right that the man I wanted and needed was married to another and beyond my reach. Yet all these things had happened.
