Rattling and thumping, panting, gates flung shut, muttered complaints and the irritability of the disturbed horses echoed, only slightly muffled, through the stables. But it was not until the whole party left that anyone was alerted. The page, who had been obediently quiet while ordered to help with packing, now ran back inside the house to spread alarm in case he was later blamed for having helped the thoroughly improper behaviour of five women and one old man setting off for places unknown in the middle of the night.
The moon was now past its zenith, but it still squatted huge and golden above the tree tops. Having discovered that her elder sister had left behind some of her bright new belongings, Avice had taken advantage and was now wearing her sister’s dark blue velvet cape with a fluff of white rabbit fur within the hood. Sysabel, dressed according to her brother’s standards, wore a heavy worsted cloak in sturdy green and eyed her new friend with faint envy. The moon lit the girls’ eyes with avid brilliance, Sysabel’s light sky blue, and Avice brown as beef gravy, while the less enthusiastic servants followed in a small clump, eyes to their gloved fingers gripping tired to the reins. The armed guard rode a little ahead, looking occasionally over his shoulder with complacent contempt at his feminine following. But it was a quiet night, no thieves or marauders crossed their path, and only the pale passing of an owl shadowed the moonlight.
They slept in a tiny inn where they would not be known, and with the energy of anticipation, they both woke early and immediately rode into Gloucester. Avice stopped for some time at a double fronted shop in the main street where bundles of sumptuous materials were on show, and the tailor and seamstress ready at hand to help argue a fair bargain. But eventually, convinced by Sysabel that her funds were only sufficient for their needs on the journey, she reluctantly refused the offer of a lemon silk gown with heavy crimson velvet sleeves which had been recently been made for but rejected by another customer. Instead Avice agreed to ride on until supper time.
It was that following night when, discovering her maid in tears, Avice said crossly, “Oh very well, then. Sissy and I can share a maid. You and Petronella can ride back to Wrotham House in the morning and tell my mother I’m safe and on my way to London. But no one must come after us, and we’ll be taking secret back roads and sleeping under the trees.” Sysabel raised her eyebrows at this, but Avice hurried on, “Just tell Maman I’m happy and safe and I’m going after Nicholas. He’ll look after me so she needn’t worry. In fact, you’d better tell her we’ve caught up with Emma already, and then she’ll be quite content.”
“But mistress,” quavered the maid, “that would be a lie.”
“Oh, pooh,” exclaimed Avice. “It won’t be a lie tomorrow because by then we will have. So by the time you get back and talk to Maman, it’ll be the truth.”
The Gloucestershire lanes were puddled in sunshine and the leafy hedgerows they passed were sprinkled with blossom and the first flutter of butterflies. The little party ambled, old Bill in front, eyes half shut against the day’s glitter, and the remaining maid dutifully at the rear. Sheep grazed the rolling foothills and breezes shuddered the valley grasses. With a buzzing of bees in the hedgerows, they breathed in the soft nodding smells of wild flowers, dusty lanes and new growth in the underfoot leaf litter.
But their pace, at first amiable, soon became interminable. Avice, Sysabel and Hilda began to hate their horses. They ached and their backs throbbed. They feared sun blemished noses and fingers crinkled from too long in riding gloves. They yearned for baths, for afternoon naps with the shutters closed, for hot dinners and cool wine, and the soothing comfort of their families. Avice missed her mother but sniffed into her kerchief and would not admit to it. Sysabel was equally as miserable, but at least had no mother to miss. Hilda the maid decided her life was over. Avice began to feel like the murderer she was hoping to uncover.
With a lack of funds, they stayed in the smaller hostelries and many times shared a bed with other wives and daughters travelling the same roads. They avoided river crossings because Avice did not want to get her hems wet, so they headed south east by the rising sun, with the general hope of one day hitting Oxford.
Folk said, “’Tis a terrible long way, Mistress.” Or, “Make for the Little Mill, then the Big Mill on the stream, and then best ask for Witney, be it market day. If’n market day has bin and gone, then Witney ain’t worth the visit. Best keep straight on.” Finally, “’Tis Ossford Town has them big univestersy houses, where the clever folk go. You finds one o’ them clever folk and ast him – for I’ve not left my village past the bakers’ in the past forty year.”
It rained and everything turned to swamp.
They did not catch up with Nicholas.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nicholas stood at the wharf and watched the great sails dip and shudder, falling to the decks as they shed their streams of briny water. The sailors were bare foot, better for climbing ropes and not slipping on wet and salty planks, and their hands were practical and horned with calloused ridges, hardened against blisters and welts. But what they were bringing up from the hold was a different danger altogether.
The wind battered cob thudded against the old pier as the prow and stern were hard roped to the quay. The gangplank’s end slid to shore, gradually the boards ceased to groan though the gale still whined through the loose rigging, and finally the men began to heave their captive towards his wretched destiny.
The bear whimpered, confused and unbalanced by the roll of the waves, little food and the smell of men. Heavily chained, it clanked from boat to land, shuffled to the wharf and stopped there, bloodshot eyes to the sun tipped clouds, thankful to recognise the surety of earth beneath its paws.
Those sailors hauling neither beast nor bundles were racing to the nearest tavern. Nicholas was distracted then, his eyes to the bear’s lolling shamble and its huge brown furred bulk, thick with dirt and the sticky residue of old wounds. When he felt a very human hand creep to his belt from behind. Nicholas swung immediately, his own fingers steel gripped to the errant wrist. There was a sharp gulp from behind and the stranger’s fingers went limp.
Harry Bambrigg lurched back, gulped again and mumbled, “’Tis you me lor, may the Lord God in His nice clean heaven forgive me. How were I to know it were you? Expectin’ Rob, I were, but he ain’t here.”
“So you thought you’d make sure the walk down to the docks wasn’t entirely wasted?”
“It’s a fat purse you’ve got there, m’lor. You didn’t ought to carry so much tempting coin around to lead poor honest folk into crime.” Harry rubbed his wrist. “And you’ve a nasty grip on you, considering last time I saw you, you was sick fit to die.”
Nicholas smiled. “Yes, I’ve a strong arm and you should remember it. I had a fair aim with the Welsh bow once, and no doubt a life of climbing out of windows also helps. So I’m quite prepared to protect my purse when needed.” His smile turned to a grin. “But I didn’t expect to have to protect it from my friends.”