For one very short and chilly breath, Emeline realised she could not do anything so ridiculously absurd, dangerous, uncomfortable and positively shocking. Then she straightened her shoulders, shook her head, hiccupped again and said, “I’m coming.”
“Well, you’re a brave little thing,” Nicholas smiled at her. “And I admire you for it, even though you’re probably quite mad. Which means you’ll fit nicely into my family. Now quick, quick – and remember, not a word to a soul. But for pity’s sake get rid of those hiccups.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was a huge and saffron moon behind the trees. Branches were black lace silhouettes, stark against the gold.
Nicholas rode a little ahead, speaking quietly with David Witton who kept close to his side. Emeline, tired now, trailed behind. The soft fur lining of her cape, hood up, tickled her ears. She breathed in the chill sting of night breezes, gazing forwards at her husband’s back through the tiny mist of her own breath. The easy swing of his shoulders was rhythmic, dark in mahogany and beaver, his horse’s tail twitching. The moon followed, always there, always watching, a fat sated Scorpio moon, pure gold, promising adventure.
Behind her rode the man Emeline did not know, a burly and quiet stranger, but who she had overheard talking to her husband an hour back when discussing his planned escape. The man led the baggage horse and was, she presumed, a servant, even though Nicholas had ordered her to bring none. He had also, she presumed, been told to ride behind her and protect her back.
Emeline had left the home of her childhood without interruption, and had tiptoed downstairs and out to the stables to find Nicholas waiting for her, her palfrey’s reins in his hand. Down the old pathways and through the sleeping village, the horses kept to a brisk walk until they were past the shadow of the church steeple striped across their path. Then their pace had quickened and the moon had burst out from behind the clouds, shining like a burning torch. And so, taking the high road to Gloucester, they slipped away from the mundane safety of friends and family, and entered the world of possibility and doubt, risk and insecurity.
It was nearing dawn when Nicholas rode into the courtyard of the White Boar, and jangled the bell to wake the landlord. Beneath the indignant rustle of the little russet squirrels in the trees, a sleepy eyed ostler was bribed to unbridle and water the horses. Then finally Emeline clambered into a bed slightly musky and even more lumpy than the mattress she had only just become used to at home. At first she slept alone. Nicholas was downstairs talking quietly to his companions as the tavern keeper swept up last night’s spilled ale as his wife piled yesterday’s remaining cheat rolls into the oven for the unexpected gentleman’s early breakfast. It was some hours later when the Chatwyn heir crept quietly into bed beside his wife, gazed at her crumpled bump under the covers, shook his head with tired amusement, and closed his own eyes. Outside the sun was now growing bright yet the wayside inn’s early business did not disturb its sleeping customers.
Emeline woke and found she was being watched. Nicholas was sitting on the end of the bed, fully dressed, and regarding her with patient sympathy. She had barely opened her eyes when he said, “I have to go somewhere. This time I can’t take you with me.”
Having gloomily concluded it was unlikely her husband would be joining her in bed anytime soon, she had not removed her shift the night before. Now she was able to struggle up with impunity – staring into the day’s pallid light. She glowered, mumbling, “So even though you brought me here, you don’t really want me. Did you even bother coming to bed last night? And how long will you be gone this time? An hour? A day? A week?”
Nicholas grinned. “I don’t do things I don’t want. If you’re here, and you certainly are, then it must be because I want you. And I spent several very comfortable hours wrapped around you this night – though it was past dawn when I came upstairs. You slept through all my caresses, presumably enjoying sweet dreams. I’ve no intention whatsoever of abandoning you in this dreary tavern for too long, but the person I need to see now is not anyone I could conceivably introduce to you. I shall be back before evening. Does that suffice?”
“Who?” she demanded. “Who is this creature who cannot even be permitted to set eyes on me? Who is it, and why is he so important that we’ve come all this way instead of going straight to London? Or is it a she? Do all the men of my family have mistresses in Gloucester?”
“If I had a mistress in Gloucester, I think I’d introduce you to her and then sit back and watch the entertainment.” Nicholas was still grinning. “No, my dear. I’m going to see a boy, little more than a child. But you are staying here. If you try to follow me, I shall take you back home.”
The small boy stood straight, shoulders back, hiding his fear as best he could as he faced his accusers. His hair, matted and pale, was in his eyes. He held his hands very still, fisted by his side. “Nort, m’lor, I swear it. Me Ma, I misses her terrible hard, m’lor. And him, well, I seen him little enough. Meant nort to me, ’cept more bread and beans on the platter. Weren’t allowed to talk with the gent. Weren’t allowed in that big house neither, ’cept after it were empty, and I were sent to clean up.”
Nicholas frowned. “The big house? I know of none. Was there another? The house where your mother died was just two rooms and a shed.”
“T’were big to me, m’lor. I ain’t never lived nowhere ’cept here, and this be one room, no more and I shares it wiv the hens.”
Nicholas nodded through the shadows. The single chamber was cramped although it held little more than a hearth with hanging cauldron, two stools and a straw palette in the corner. The floor was beaten earth and a wiry threshing of rushes held out the draught from beneath the only door. A tiny window was closed by oiled parchment, and the now blazing sunshine outside did not enter beyond a faint and gloomy glow. Nicholas said, “So you claim to know nothing of your mother’s protector, nor anything of her killer? Her lover bought her the big house you speak of. Surely that interested you? You knew him to be wealthy? And are there enemies you know of? Family, perhaps, who criticised your mother’s behaviour, and resented her good luck? Do you have a father, angry over his wife’s adultery? And the baron? What of him? Was he ever followed here by those asking questions – or by someone wanting to know his direction?”
Throughout, the boy slumped wearily, barely comprehending. Eventually, since Nicholas had stopped speaking some moments ago, the boy mumbled, “I don’t rightly understand, m’lor. T’were me Ma as brought me food every day and that were all I asked. Her days was her own to pass as she wished. And I ain’t got no Pa. Never did.”
Eyes narrowed in faint suspicion, Nicholas asked, “But you knew the whereabouts of the other house. So you went there. And you saw the baron?”
“I went there to clean and scrub, m’lor,” the child answered. “When me Ma told me, but only after the grand gent were gone.”
Nicholas sighed, resigned. “And when did you last eat?”
The child hunched his shoulders, unclenched his fists and looked down at his bare toes. “Don’t rightly remember, m’lor. Three days, I reckon. I knows the baker’s wife and she give me the stale bread when she has it left over.”
“Giving you coin will hardly help,” Nicholas said, untying his purse and taking out three silver pennies. “If I give you little, it won’t last long and then you will starve again. Yet if I give you much, the locals will be suspicious and either steal it, or beat you for presumed stealing.” He sighed, looking back over his shoulder at his forlorn companion. “You might join my company, and look after the horses perhaps. Do you know anything of horses?”