“Dear God.”
“You really didn’t know?”
“I’d have killed him. Adrian would have killed him.”
“Perhaps Adrian did.” She sat up a little more, twisting to face him.
“Adrian was my principal suspect, even before this.”, Nicholas nodded, and reached out again, searching for the wine cups. The room lay shadowed and warm with its billowing bed and the tiny window, the polished horn rattling in the wind behind its wooden shutters. Through the shadows, Nicholas found the cups and the jug, and poured the last of the wine. “Here, my sweet. It seems we’ve more to talk about than I realised.”
She took the cup. “You’ve stopped being angry?”
“Curiosity kills anger. And this is important. Tell me about Sissy. Tell me about Adrian.” He smiled as she drained her cup, then drained his own. “Now we’re out of wine, my love, and must talk a little sober sense. You’ve proved surprisingly informative this evening; which I admit I’d not expected. I’ve been working for the king for three years of more – certainly since before he was king – and thought myself well aware of the subtle changes, the political necessities, the need for security after the ’83 turmoil. And yet I’ve been blind to both my cousins, and even partially to my own brother.”
The shadows receded as their eyes accustomed. “You think Adrian’s a traitor? And a killer too?”
“You know I’d taken on the boy Wolt, the child left motherless after your father’s murder. The boy was killed while under my protection, and I’ve not forgiven myself for that. The killers were looking, I believe, to take back the letter Urswick had brought. But why kill a grubby boy working in the stables?”
“Gracious, my love, what has that to do with Adrian?”
“Because it finally makes sense. Because if the men worked for Adrian, then Wolt would have recognised one or more of them from the Strand stables, and so had to be killed before he could carry tales and stand witness. But I was told the men were French. That distracted me. Merde, a French word. I was wrong. Murder is an English word true enough, and with Nottingham accents which would have sounded foreign to those from the far south.”
“If Adrian killed Peter, could he have killed my father?” The blankets lay around their waists but she was no longer cold. “You said it was the same man. But Adrian had no reason to murder my father. And fire, always fire. Why is there always fire, Nicholas?”
“It’s the English plague, with every house a tumbled pile of rotting beams, insects rummaging in thatch, logs burning on unattended hearths and barely a decent kitchen beyond the palaces and castles.”
Emeline shook her head. “It was the castle that burned on our wedding night.”
“My father’s fault, drunk at the table and the candles falling, no doubt. But it’s usually the little places, and the folk with nowhere to run to that burn. Half of London is haunted by fire. A law was brought in, banning thatch and ordering new roofs on old buildings, but it’s rarely been enforced. David’s father was killed by fire. His mother was never sane after that, and neglected the boy. He still fears the flames.”
“Oh, too many nightmares, too much misery. Is there nothing to cherish anymore?” She shuddered, sliding her arm around her husband’s waist beneath the blankets. “And what if I’m the next nightmare, and you wake up to find me sick and bleeding? And I’ll know I have just three days to live before I die in agony.”
Nicholas leaned over her at once, his thumb wiping away her sudden tears. He caressed her cheeks and kissed her as he pulled the blankets gently back around her body. “That won’t happen,” he whispered. “None of that – not the pestilence nor any other sickness. Not now that I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Chapter Forty-Four
They woke hungry, with morning seeping beneath the door. Nicholas yawned, stood, shook the sleep from his shoulders, stretched, then strode across and lifted down the window shutters, welcoming the fresh new sunshine. A diffused but blinking daylight already sat well above the horizon.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, and regarded his wife. “You look sparkling, my love. No pains? No fears?”
Her voice was muffled by pillows. “Only about murder and murderers, and if we already live with someone who wants to kill us.”
He tugged on his shirt and hunted under the settle for his hose. “I’m going down to get us something for breakfast. I can take yesterday’s supper dishes down with me, you can’t leave the room. But I can.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Cheese, manchet, bacon? Ale or wine?” He was pulling on his hose and retying the codpiece as he shoved his feet into his riding boots. “Damnable inconvenience, with half my clothes downstairs in the other chamber. I’ll get David to sort the rest of them for me.”
“If everyone knew it was the pestilence, and not just a chill, they wouldn’t let you out of the room either.”
“They would indeed.” He grinned. “They’d be throwing the whole lot of us out on the cobbles. Now – cheese or bacon?”
“Both.”
It was some time before he returned. He did not immediately explain the delay. Finally, she said, “So who was questioning you? Your father or my mother? Or were you questioning Sissy?”
“I’m hardly likely to accuse my baby cousin of flagrant immorality in the middle of a crowded hostelry while I’m more concerned with looking after my wife.” Nicholas cut a slice of cold bacon and handed it to Emeline, then returned to the beer jug. “Besides, I simply feel sorry for the poor child. But she’ll never talk to me about it, nor thank you for spreading the news. No, it was my father. He’s in the way as usual.” He looked up suddenly, frowning. “I wonder if I should one day ruin his complacence and tell him the truth about Peter.” He shook his head, returning to the platter of cold food. “But he’d not believe me. And I’d gain nothing except his spite.”
“So what,” she swallowed and took another wedge of cheese, “are they all doing downstairs?”
“Haven’t killed each other yet. Close, perhaps.”
Emeline swung her legs from the bed and walked to the window, gazing out on the world she could not yet join. “So perhaps it’s just as well I’m stuck in here.” She smiled suddenly. “We’re safe from our families, and the gossip, and the arguments. And even the fear and meeting Ralph taught me so much about what you went through and what you suffered.” Then she sat down again, picking scraps of food from the eiderdown and hiding her face. “So I know you much better now. And I understand so much more.”
He waved an accusatory arm. “Using the bed as a table as usual, crumbs between the sheets, and everything needing to be carried up four flights of stairs. But I see the advantages too, my love, having you to myself. And as you learn about me, so I learn about you. From now on I’ll only go back downstairs when I’ve a purpose.”
She sat, looking intently at him. “You said something last night. I wasn’t sure what you meant.”
He came beside her, winding his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair. “I said a lot of things last night. And I treated you badly. Satisfied myself, probably at your expense. But I was angry about Adrian. Then I was tired, and had Peter muttering in my head. Angry about Sissy. And thinking of how I face Adrian once he reappears.”
“What did your father want this morning?”
“Recriminations. The usual.” Nicholas was laughing. “Me to shoulder my responsibilities and stop hiding in the attic. Bring my wife back to Westminster, and behave like a mature Chatwyn.”