“It was stupid,” he said. “But it’s not the first time I’ve done something I’ve regretted later. This time I had reasons – stupid reasons – memories I should have ignored. Saving my father’s miserable hide from the fire came close to killing me instead of him. And I’ve come closer other times too. Indeed, I’ve led a charmed life of close escapes. Perhaps it’s time to pay the price.”
Emeline shivered. “I pray there’s no such charge.” She looked up at him suddenly. “But how do you know so much about this vile illness? You told me you visited some village after the pestilence had passed. But you stayed? And saw what had happened when there might still have been risk? And now – to do exactly the same again?”
“I lied.” Nicholas slumped down onto the window seat, abruptly turning his face to stare through the old polished horn and out to the new day. He scratched absently at his wrist, as if he had been bitten, but barely heeded it. “There was no village,” he said. “I have a clearer memory than that of the pestilence and how it kills. I was a child, but I’m unlikely to forget. It was how my mother died, and my little sister, and my baby brother with them.”
“Dear God.”
“God is not always so dear.” Nicholas turned back to her. “Now, no more talking. I’ll send Martha in to get you to bed while I go downstairs for a jug or two of wine. Once I’m a good deal less sober than I am now, I’ll come back and sleep on the pallet by the hearth. Meanwhile you should sleep until dinner time. Maybe I’ll join you for that, though I’ll not be sitting beside you.”
“I can’t sleep. And I won’t be able to eat.”
“I don’t believe it.” He stood and stared across at his wife hunched small on the edge of the bed. The curtained shadows half enclosed her. “I’ve watched you eat a good few times,” he said, “and your appetite never wavers. And you sleep sound too, while you mutter through your dreams. So climb into bed, my love, and dream of salmon poached in ewe’s milk. Apple codlings in syrup. Roast capon stuffed with raisins and spices. Onions broiled in honeyed mead. And jellies of course, with custards and stewed rhubarb. I’ll order a late dinner served after midday.”
She paused a moment, feeling suddenly cold. “Get tipsy if you want, Nicholas,” she whispered. “And then come back up to me. But if you slip off alone and leave your wretched squire with orders to get me back to Gloucestershire, I swear I’ll not go. I’ll scream the tavern down and search every hedgerow on my knees until I find you.”
He stopped at the doorway, staring back at her. “And this from a reluctant bride who hated her husband?” But then his voice shrank, until she could barely hear him. He murmured, “I must do what I think best, and always will, my dear.”
She stood in a flurry and took a step towards him but he held out his hand, stopping her. She demanded, “Promise me, Nicholas. I won’t sleep until you promise. Tell me you won’t leave, and promise I’ll see you at dinner.”
“I’ll promise anything you like.” Nicholas sighed, leaning back exhausted against the doorframe. “Now go to sleep, Emma.” He watched her a moment, opened the door and slipped immediately out into the passage shadows.
He took the stairs quickly and strode into the small back tap chamber where he ordered not a jug or two of wine, but a single cup, which he drank at once. He then ordered quill, ink and paper, wrote carefully, covering both sides of the paper and afterwards covering one side again, crossing the lines. Then he spoke at some length with his body squire, passing him the folded paper he had written, before sending David back up to bed. Finally he took his hat, cote, and cape, and strode out to the stables. His earlier orders had already been obeyed and a fresh horse was waiting for him ready saddled, its panniers laden full. Nicholas mounted, gazed back once to the first floor windows of the inn, then rode across the cobbles and back onto the road, heading south. It was still raining.
Emeline awoke late. She knew she had been crying in her dreams, for her eyelashes were stuck together and her head ached. She was shivering, although the bed had been well aired before she climbed into it. Now she sat up, looking around. She did not know what time it was but a steady trickle of sallow light leaked through the splintered boards of the window shutters. The chill was persistent. The small fire had gone out and the narrow pallet bed, set beside the hearth for a servant or companion, was empty. The blankets had not been disturbed and no one had slept there since it had been prepared.
At the small dining table set in the private chamber below, a cloth, spoons and napkins had been laid. No one sat at the table and no one waited for her there. The innkeeper poked his head around the door, bowed, and said he would serve dinner immediately as instructed. “As instructed?” demanded Emeline. “By whom? And where is he? Has he eaten already?” But the innkeeper was gone and she sat, knotting her fingers and twisting around at each twitch of noise.
Finally serving boys brought in five wooden dishes holding salmon poached in ewe’s milk, honeyed codlings, roast capon stuffed with raisins and spices, broiled onions, jellies, custards, and stewed rhubarb. Emeline burst into tears and pushed her platter away.
His lordship’s squire knocked quietly and entered, bowing to the young woman sobbing into her napkin. Carefully keeping his distance, he cleared his throat. Emeline looked up and stared at him. “Your master is a liar and a cheat,” she declared through gulps. “He promised. He lied, didn’t he? He’s gone away.”
David Witton bowed once more and still keeping his distance, handed her the folded and unsealed paper which Nicholas had given him. As she read, he replied, “My lady, his lordship was most apologetic and has ordered me to beg for your forgiveness on his behalf. I have known him many years, my lady, and if you will pardon me for speaking without permission, I know his lordship as a man of exceptional honour, great courage and undoubted kindness. I would give my life for his. Most willingly. He has experienced at close quarters the pain and misery the Great Mortality brings. He was adamant not to bring any risk of infection, not to you nor to those others of our people, even to the visitors at this inn and to any who may pass. He would not have – given false assurances – without good reason, my lady. And the fault is mine, not his. Two dying children were brought to where I was and I could not resist – could not deny them help. His lordship found me there, and – but you know the rest, my lady. The good Lord grant his lordship has taken no contamination and will be restored to us without delay.”
“Here he writes of London.” Emeline looked up at the squire. “How long ago did he leave? Well, we’ll follow him there. Get everyone ready, Mister Witton, we depart in an hour.”
Witton shook his head and bowed once more. “Forgive me, my lady, his lordship guessed you would say as much. I am forbidden to permit it and I have never disobeyed his lordship, nor mean to. He asks for a dignified privacy in which to consider and make his own decisions. If he had stayed, the risk would not only be to yourself, but to a hundred others. I am therefore instructed to lead our remaining party west to Gloucestershire.”
“I also intend making my own decisions,” Emeline said, biting her lip. “So, if not to London, we go back to Nottingham, to the Cock Robin, and Adrian and Sysabel. At least with them I can hear as soon as – and have company who understands – and be my own mistress.”
The squire sighed. “His lordship also forbade such a move,” he explained apologetically. “My master has informed me that no single building ever absorbs the pestilence alone. Death spreads, my lady, and will be raging throughout Nottingham in a day or less. They will either bar the gates to us, or welcome us in to share their burden and their graves. His lordship’s cousins, having been previously in close contact with the miasma of the disease, may already be sickening. If not, they will understand what is happening around them, and will leave. Forgive me, my lady but I will carry out his lordship’s orders. We depart for Gloucestershire at first light tomorrow.”