Emeline said, carefully avoiding all eyes and staring down at the remains of an apple codling on her platter, “Is it – true then, my lord? That people at Westminster truly believe Nicholas guilty? Even of – his own brother’s death?”
“Ah,” said the earl, nose in his wine cup, “not a discussion for the moment, young lady.” He drank deeply and looked up again, absorbing the variety of expressions fixed upon him. “Doubt my son will thank me for prolonging – as it were – that particular subject.” He drank again, immediately looking around for the nearest flagon. Thankful to find one within reach, he appeared to relax. “Besides,” he said as he refilled his cup, “No doubt the boy didn’t do it after all. Says he didn’t. We’ve talked – upstairs, as you know. Well, seeing as I can’t vouch for one nor the other, I’ll take his word for it.”
“Generous of you,” murmured Nicholas.
“Besides,” the earl said, a little gruff, “’Tis true enough. The boy’s not the sort to do such a thing.” He looked up, his glare now fixed firmly on his son. “My boy Peter, he led our own troops up to Carlisle back in ’81. Joined the skirmishes, and was commended for his leadership.” The earl put down his knife with a snap. “Adrian, stuffy little cock a’ poop that he is, did the same in ’82. Saved some other fellow’s life and killed a couple of reivers or something of the sort. Was knighted afterwards on the field by the duke himself.” The earl still stared pointedly at his son. “Nicholas, now,” he continued, “did nothing of the sort. Didn’t volunteer. Didn’t join his brother’s muster. Didn’t care to risk his precious life in the wilds of heathen Scotland.”
Nicholas appeared remarkably unconcerned by these revelations. “So I’m clearly a coward who dislikes bloodshed,” he smiled faintly. “And am therefore an unlikely murderer.”
He excused himself immediately after the meal was finished and after a final thanksgiving had been led by the priest over the final course of wafers and hippocras, a family habit the baroness had not yet broken. As the table was cleared, the priest shuffled off, and the ladies joined the earl by the empty hearth in the hall, Nicholas bowed briefly and explained he needed to speak to someone outside. Emeline opened her mouth to ask who and why, but Nicholas left abruptly, marching outside into the deepening night.
Since manners and propriety precluded her from bouncing up and following him as she would have liked, she turned instead to her father-in-law. “My lord,” she said, avoiding her mother’s baleful stare, “I can offer my own assurances that my husband could not, did not, attack my father. Nicholas was ill, he was away, and then he came back to me. And how would he have known where my father went, when none of us had any idea at all?” She took a breath, smiled carefully and clasped her hands meekly in her lap. She then said, “But there are other matters I know nothing of. I should be most – grateful – if you would tell me, my lord.”
“Humph,” said the earl.
“There are things I want to know too,” said Avice in a hurry.
“Avice, it is past your bedtime,” said her mother. “Your new tutor is due tomorrow morning. You will have a great deal to do.”
“I don’t need a tutor,” objected Avice, “I can read and write and I know everything already, even though Papa said I’d never learn to count past three. But he was wrong. About everything.”
“Avice,” threatened her mother, “Bed.”
“Please, just one question,” Avice pleaded, half rising from her chair. “I mean, he’s family now, isn’t he? So,” she stood, peeping up with a small simpering smile, “I have always wondered how Nicholas got that – scar. If it wasn’t in battle?”
The earl tapped his fingertips across his stomach. He was not accustomed to being surrounded by females, and it was many years since a pretty girl had simpered at him. “Well now,” he said with magnanimous patience, “Not battle, no, not young Nickolas. He was twelve, you know. Most unfortunate.”
“An accident?” Emeline leaned forward slightly.
“Accident? Well, yes. That’s what it was.” The earl seemed unwilling to continue.
“Oh do go on,” insisted Sissy from beside him. “There’s no secret after all. We have forgiven Nicholas long ago, surely?”
The earl humphed again, further confused. “Forgiven him? Didn’t do anything to forgive, you know, not that time anyway. Not his fault. Must be fair. Just an accident, you know. Boys playing. Archery practise. Peter never meant it of course, but have to admit, it was Peter’s fault.”
Sissy gulped and shook her head. “Oh uncle, that’s just not true,” she said. “Of course I wasn’t there, but Peter told me all about it later. They were out practising at the butts, early one morning. Peter said Nick pushed him, trying to make him fight. Naturally Peter refused. He was two years older after all, and knew he’d win. He just didn’t want to hurt Nicholas, so he went back to shooting at the target. Nick ran right in front, goading Peter into fighting. Peter’s arrow was aimed at the butts, but it hit Nicholas square in the face. Peter was so upset.”
“I imagine,” said Avice, wincing, “Nicholas was rather upset too.”
Emeline shivered, staring at her husband’s cousin. The earl sighed. “A nasty business,” he said. “I heard the screams from the hall and ordered a couple of pages to investigate. Blood everywhere. I called my surgeon – fellow called Mannbury in those days – an excellent barber. He got the arrow out eventually. Nick was in bad shape for some time.” He looked sharply over at Emeline. “Peter’s story – well, he told it one way. But other witnesses told it a little differently. Nick was pretty sour about it of course. Pain – disfigurement – just a boy – I understood. But then, when Peter was killed, well it was years later of course, but I wondered. Revenge. Stands to reason. So proof or no proof, I had my doubts.”
There was a small silence as the shadows lengthened. Avice grabbed back her abandoned wine cup and reached for the jug. Pewter clinked on pewter. “I think,” said the baroness with a deep sigh, “it has been a long day. I believe I shall retire, my lord. Sherman will show you to your chamber, sir, and Martha will show you to yours, Sysabel, my dear. I wish you all a very good night.”
Emeline escaped outside.
The stars were a cold shimmer in the darkness, and a glimmer of moonshine from behind the clouds spun pearl drops across the cobbles. She could not see Nicholas. Turning to go back into the warmth and her own bed, she suddenly changed her mind and headed instead in the opposite direction, wandering out across the courtyard to the stables. The familiar smell of horses, dry hay, snuggled sweat and fresh manure was strong in the sharp little breeze. One horse was awake, snittering and snorting, objecting to the disturbance. A medley of grooms boys snored, content in the warm straw. Then Emeline heard the voices.
Her husband’s voice said, “I’ve talked to the boy already. He’s half-starved and terrified.”
“All the easier to shake the truth outta the brat, then,” said the other voice.
“Which is true,” Nicholas conceded. “But the way it was done, I can’t see it being him. Just a few questions should suffice. You’ll soon discover whether he knows anything.”
“You’re too kind hearted, m’lor,” muttered the other man. “No doubt the brat were after claiming the house and the coin he thought were in it.”
“Then a little unwise to set fire to the place, and so destroy whatever he hoped to inherit, don’t you think? No,” decided Nicholas. “You’d do better to approach the child with food and a few pence for his next meal – encourage him to talk with kindness. He needs a friend. Threaten the boy, and he’ll no doubt be scared into silence, guilty or innocent.”