In the fury and the scuffle, with the earl now openly sobbing and Adrian throwing back his stool and marching once again to the door, Nicholas sat quiet, and smiled. He looked only at his father. And he spoke very softly. “I answer to no one else, but I will explain myself to you, Father,” he said, little more than a murmur. “I knew Peter had seduced Sysabel, and I argued with him, asking him to leave her in innocence. He didn’t care what I said of course, which I already expected. I did not denounce him for I’d no idea she carried his child. I saw too little of her. And I did not kill Peter. To slaughter my own brother? Not something I could ever contemplate – never considered – whatever his crimes, however much he threatened, humiliated and hurt me. I grieved when he died. Not as much, perhaps, as you, Papa. But enough from one brother for another. His killer is someone else. There are several possibilities. It could have been the father of the girl he was with at that time, a Leicester magistrate, a wealthy man angry that his daughter had been ruined by the local lord.”
“Nicholas, forgive me. I always thought it was you.” The earl stared at his son through his tears. “I refused to accuse you – with sympathy, a little – I knew, you see, that Peter shot the arrow purposefully. But I always thought –”
“I accept that.” Nicholas still spoke only to his father. “I was the obvious suspect. But knowing myself innocent, my principal suspect was Adrian. At first, I thought the father of the girl – but he could hardly have murdered Baron Wrotham. Yet it was clearly the same killer. There could be no doubt of that. And so I thought of Adrian. Yet Adrian’s friendship with Urswick and subsequent treason was something I did not suspect.”
Adrian jumped up, shouting. “Neither killer nor traitor. Is it treachery simply to deliver a letter? The letter speaks of marriage, and says nothing against the king. Urswick is a man of God. Henry Tudor wrote the letter, but he’s simply an exile – no murderous traitor. And Northumberland is loyal to King Richard.” The earl stumbled up, reaching for his nephew, but Adrian backed and Jerrid came between.
“My lords.” Lady Wrotham waved a cautious hand. “Quietly, please. The hostelry sleeps. It would be wise to let them sleep on. We want no interruptions.”
“Perhaps,” Jerrid nodded, “we also need to sleep on this whole affair. Decisions are always best left till morning.”
“If Adrian decides to run –”
Nicholas shook his head. “He can’t. He must speak to his sister in the morning. He knows the substance of her written confession, and can hardly choose to ignore it.” Nicholas smiled suddenly. “Besides, my men will now have his men under guard. Adrian can go nowhere unless he goes on foot.”
“Running barefoot from retribution?” Jerrid fingered his thin leather belt and the hilt of his knife wedged there. “I believe I can run as fast.”
“I’m an innocent man, and will stay to face my sister in the morning,” Adrian announced with furious deliberation, glaring at his uncle.
“And I will make one last visit to the stables,” Nicholas said softly, “and ensure my orders have been carried out. And then,” he smiled a little, “I shall find my own bed, and sleep deep with an untroubled conscience.”
“Are you suggesting–?”
“A little more than simple suggestion, cousin.”
“If your conscience is genuinely untroubled, Adrian my boy,” declared the earl, eyes still moist, “then you’ve a conscience needs reeducating.” He pushed at Adrian from behind. “Indeed, it’s a conscience needs a good thrashing. And you’ll get up those stairs with me hard at your back, and sleep with me one side and your Uncle Jerrid tight to the other.”
Emeline was asleep when Nicholas returned to the little attic bedchamber.
He stood a moment in the dark, watching the small blanketed body in the bed, and smiled. As usual she was muttering in her dreams, small murmurs impossible to decipher, a gentle mumble of unintelligible words. Then quite suddenly she called his name. Nicholas crossed quickly to the bed and sat beside her.
“What is it, little one? Bad dreams?” He stroked the side of her face, and realised she had been crying. “So many tears.”
Emeline blinked and opened her eyes. “It’s really you?”
“Who else? From now on, it will always be me.”
“Oh, Nicholas.” She struggled up from the bed’s swathing warmth, breathing deep. “You were away so long and I was worried. I would have come down to see, but I thought everyone might scream ‘Pestilence – be gone,’ and run screaming from me. It’s all so horrible, Nicholas, and I feel so – dirty. But I’m not sick, not even a little bit unwell, really I’m not.” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and cuddled up tight to the warmth of his outstretched arms. “Was it – terrible – with Adrian?”
“Unpleasant.” He smoothed the hair tangles back from her face, and the wet streaks from her cheeks. “Crying? For Adrian? For me? For yourself?”
“Oh yes, for everyone. Especially Sissy.” She gazed up at him. “Don’t you ever cry, my love?”
He shook his head. “I cried so much when my mother and little sister and the baby all died, I doubt I had any tears left.” He thought a moment. “Though perhaps I cried when the surgeon ripped my face apart to pull Peter’s arrow out of my head.” He smiled suddenly. “Cried – or screamed.”
She whispered, “Did you cry when Peter was killed?”
“No.” Nicholas pulled her tighter into his embrace. “Lord forgive me, but I knew life would be a damn sight easier without him. Better for Sissy, and probably for a few other besotted females around the countryside. It certainly improved every day and every night for me. Peter was not an easy companion.”
“And did you,” she murmured, “think dying like that would serve him right for being so vile? And serve your father right for all his prejudice?”
Nicholas grinned widely. “Yes, I thought exactly that.” He kissed the tip of his wife’s cold damp nose. “But I grieved too, even missing him at times. We’d had pleasant moments together over the years.” He frowned momentarily, the grin subsiding. “My father took no wards, so for much of my life Peter was my principal or only companion. We were close – once – as children.” Nicholas paused again, then sighed. “I knew exactly where he was that day, where his latest mistress lived, and that he’d planned to be there overnight. So when news came of his death, I also knew I’d be the first suspect. But killing Peter was never an option, bastard that he was. So I went south, or north, anywhere to be away from him. Perhaps my work for the king was partly due to that. First escaping Peter. Then escaping the loss of him.”
“Escaping? Or looking for adventure?”
“It was the same thing.” The grin had reappeared. “Climbing out of windows. Dressing in disguise. Looking the part. Playing the game. The irresponsible younger son, with no prospects except those he forges for himself.”
She sighed. “I won’t ever stand in your way, my love, though I hope you’ll never want to escape from me. But adventure – working for the king – and if you find it sadly dull at home just sitting with me by the fire –”
“You are my adventure, little one.”
“So sometimes you’ll take me with you?”
“That’s something we can discuss over that domestic fireside of yours.” He swung his legs up onto the wide mattress, half across her snuggled billows. “Tomorrow will still be busy. Adrian has admitted dealings with Urswick. How deep he is with the exiles themselves I’ve no idea, but something must be done. Oh – not arrest I hope, nor official accusations, but he must be warned off, or made to face the king and ask for pardon. As for accusations of murder – that’s another matter and he denies it. He would of course, whether innocent or guilty, but we’ve neither proof nor evidence. Sissy – well, that’s something he must deal with himself.”