There were rain drops on the end of Adrian’s feathers, his hat a little askew. “That message was for Sysabel, not for you, you fool,” Adrian objected. “I hardly expected it to reach you, nor for you to understand it if it did. Do you always intercept my sister’s messages?”
“Ah, sad inefficiency, cousin dear,” Nicholas sighed. “You sent some ancient buffoon who passed your name, ineptly disguised, to ‘his lordship’. Indeed, it should have been my father who received your fascinating news, but since it was my own man who spoke to your jester, it was I alone who was then told. If your message was meant for your sister only, then it was poorly phrased and poorly executed. Next time send a messenger young enough to remember your words and direction. A sad waste of a penny, I imagine.”
Adrian flushed deeper. “Does Sissy know of this?”
“She does not. And was not, in any manner, informed. She sits patiently in the house on the Strand, watched over by a parcel of female servants, hoping, I imagine, for you to climb through the window and rescue her. Your reputation for heroic rescues has, of course, improved over recent weeks.” Nicholas continued to smile. “Along with your reputation for treason, of course, which has rather spoiled the final affect.”
A young man had disembarked from the bobbing cog, and had climbed down into one of the small wherries. He was being brought to shore. Francis Prophet moved aside, ready for the passenger to disembark. Adrian said, “Well, Nicholas, since you’re here, wanted or otherwise, then it’s the ideal time for us to talk without anger or misunderstanding. I intend taking my sister back home, and no doubt you’ll be pleased to pass her back into my care.”
“Your attempts to distract me from the new arrival are a little too obvious, Adrian,” Nicholas smiled. “If you wish to escort Sissy back to Nottingham, then I suggest you come to the house to collect her, as would be both normal and proper. I’ve not abducted the girl and naturally she’s free to go. In the meantime, I’m perfectly well aware that you’re about to greet someone you clearly don’t want me to identify.” He shook his head. “And before even that, I wish to know exactly where my squire is. David Witton. You know him. Where is he?”
The clouds had darkened, squeezing out the last flickers of pallid sunshine, and the rain was beginning to strengthen again, a soft rippled patter across the river waters. The newcomer paid the wherryman, and climbed the steps to the docks, followed by Mister Prophet. The four men stood looking at each other as the rain cloaked them.
“David Witton,” Nicholas repeated. “Where exactly is he now?”
Adrian’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “You think I’ve trussed the young idiot and carried him off to some dungeon? Don’t be a fool, Nicholas.”
“I would not once have believed it,” Nicholas said, “but nor would I have believed you capable of treason. Now I tend to think you capable of anything, except, perhaps, intelligence. I’m guessing your brawler was sent to the Strand stables to inform Sissy of your imminent need to see her, and take her away. But your same brawler, one Francis Prophet I imagine, changed the message quite purposefully. He has no interest in your reunion with your sister. He was far more interested in getting me here to instigate some sort of quick annihilation. So before I throw your man bodily into the Thames, I suggest you find out what has happened to my squire. Otherwise, your new visitor may find he follows your henchman into the turgid waters, and enjoys a hearty mouthful of London’s excrement for his dinner.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
The newcomer bowed, smiled very faintly, and kept his mouth shut. Francis Prophet averted his eyes. Adrian appeared belligerent but genuinely confused.
Nicholas read the signs. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll find my squire myself.” He turned, but looked back. “As it happens, I’d guess your men don’t work directly for you at all, Adrian, and are loyal either to the French or their puppet Tudor. I advise you to watch your back, cousin. You may think yourself the leader but you are not in charge here.”
Strolling off across the cobbles, Nicholas waited neither for reply nor for questions. He knew exactly where to go, for Rob had already described the cheap rental where Adrian was boarding. Nicholas, seeing he had not been followed, quickly adjusted the hiding place of both knives within his belt and the sword strapped within the lining of his stiff waxed and weather proof cape. Then he pushed open the main door and ran up the short flight of narrow unlit stairs. The door to Adrian’s rooms was locked. Nicholas waited a moment, listening. He then inserted the point of his shorter knife into the keyhole, and twisted. A hovel, cheap wattle and daub and a door of thin planks; the lock was equally lightweight. It clicked open on the second attempt and Nicholas entered silently into the musty shadows within.
There was one room divided by a low screen and the tiny window was nailed shut with scratched parchment, barely passing light. But Nicholas’s eyes adjusted quickly. He stared back at the five men watching his appearance, four in surprise. David Witton himself did not seem surprised at all.
One man held David, still tying the ropes. The three others rushed Nicholas. Sword in one hand, the longer knife in his other, he retaliated before they reached him. David yelled, “My lord. Where’s Prophet? And Sir Adrian?”
Nicholas did not answer. He was busy.
Her ladyship Baroness Wrotham and her daughter Avice were walking a little faster as they approached the Tower. It was raining much harder than they had expected, and Avice was regretting having suggested walking so far. Dragging a little behind, Nurse Martha and the maid Petronella were clutching their cloaks around their shoulders, one hand clamped on their heads to keep their hoods from blowing off. A little ahead, though already at a weary slouch, old Bill tramped faithfully on towards the huge shadows of the stone walls, the distant despondent roar of some monstrous foreign creature known as a lion, and the busy march of the Tower guards. The baroness, though sidestepping the crowds, gazed up at the thickening clouds and sighed. “I should have guessed,” she said faintly, “that your idea this morning was on a level with most of your others, Avice.”
Avice glowered. “You said you thought it was a good idea at the time.”
“Maternal prejudice. I imagine. The blindness of fond hope.”
“Mother, really. You’ve no notion of what maternal prejudice means. As for fond hope – it’s just as unlikely. You simply wanted to see what the Tower looks like.”
Her ladyship straightened her back. “Don’t be petulant, Avice, or I shall leave you here to be thrown into the dungeons or eaten by lions. And I hear there’s an interesting contraption known as the Duke of Exeter’s daughter.”
“Then I hope the duke is nicer to his daughter than you are, Maman.” Avice stopped abruptly, looking across at the rising river waters to their right. “Well, I’ve seen the walls. Perhaps we could just go home now. I’m starving.”
Bill was leaning against the long side of the adjacent warehouse, sheltering from drips. Hopefully, “Reckon tis well past dinner time, m’lady.”
Martha caught them up. “The docks are just one minute’s walk away, my lady, and the eel boats sell cheap at this hour. Then I could buy us some for supper if you’d care to see the bustle. Far more interesting, I imagine, than those cold turrets.”
The baroness looked down her nose in affronted astonishment. “I can hardly imagine the sheer joy of being caught in the push and shove of a busy harbour, Martha, nor the even greater delights of carrying a basket of smelly fish all the way home across the city. But I fear I must decline.”