“Really Emeline, don’t be absurd.” The baroness waved away imaginary cobwebs. “You know how impossible it was to change your Papa’s mind about anything. But I assure you, I had my own plans and would have put matters right.”
“So why are you here, Maman?”
The baroness sank suddenly to the little chair beside the settle where Emeline and Martha sat. It held a pile of her own stockings ready for darning, but the baroness accommodated herself on top. She said, “The same, my dear, the same. Looking for common sense amongst the knots and muddles. Needing a little comfort, and a good deal of advice. Thinking of killings and widowhood, of unwanted marriage and the cruelty of man.”
“And of pain,” whispered Emeline, “and degradation. And pitying poor little Sissy even if I’m not sure I like her either.”
Martha’s voice faded to a little murmured tickle over the top of Emeline’s curls. “There’s few girls would choose such pain, but with a babe on the way and no husband to give it a name, pain is the only choice. An experienced woman will give herbs first, a mixture of acid and sweet, and all stirred in ale over the fire. But if that does not bring a result –” Emeline cringed, curling back again further into Martha’s embrace, “then there’s penny royal, hyssop and rue, and maybe, if she knows her business, there’ll be marigold, tansy and ivy, a pinch of mandrake root perhaps, and white poplar for the pain. If the girl has good money to pay, there may be a spoonful of treacle and even syrup of poppy. But whatever is paid, there’s no surety, and with enough poison in her belly to vomit the day through, the babe in her womb may still hang on to life, poor mite, and not knowing its mother wants it dead.”
“That’s – what happened – to Sissy?”
Martha frowned. “Now, what a question to ask me, my sweetling, knowing I wasn’t there and have never spoken to Mistress Sysabel on any subject, let alone that one. But we can be sure it was something of the same, and in the end it must have worked.”
“You are speaking only of herbs, Martha,” sighed the baroness. “But it can be far worse than that.”
“Truly, my lambkins, not just herbs. For if they work, then there’s the grinding and the pulling and the pain inside like to die or split apart. Then there’s the bleeding and the weeping, the dragging on the back as though breaking, and the punching within the belly as though all the innards are screaming. And still it may not work, and there’s the poor lass lying with her knees to her belly, and the inner fire burning her up, and the vile taste of what she has to drink, and all the effort not to spew it back. Then, if still nothing has washed the sin away and the poor unborn creature lives on, its tiny innocent fingers clutching onto hope, then there’s the knife. In the end, it’s the knife, like as not.”
The baroness looked down into her lap. “Poor young girls. Poor children.”
“Cutting up into her womb with her and the child screaming both. Then she has to crawl all the way home, poor lass, trying to hide the pain and the bleeding for she’ll be cast out if the secret leaks – with the priests watching and holding up their crosses all ready to call her a wicked whore, and her wretched mother and father with the whip ready – and her weeping for months afterwards for the loss of what she’s killed, and the dreams of how she might have loved her own tiny baby if it had lived, and, bitter in shame and regret, fearing what the Lord God will say to her when she dies herself.”
“Martha–?”
“And after the knife scrapes the womb empty, it stays empty forever. No babe can grow in a womb where the knife has gone before,” Martha said, sitting up with a deep breath. “But no more questions, my sweet lambkin. Your poor daft nurse has spoken enough of what she knows nothing about, and will say no more. Just to offer – a word perhaps – to give sympathy to those who have suffered these things, and not to condemn your poor little friend for what I doubt she could help and will never forget.”
“I’m glad someone murdered Peter.” Emeline looked across at her mother. “So who do we think killed him now? Adrian?”
The baroness was still staring into her lap, and spoke softly. “Yes, Adrian. Or this unknown Uncle Jerrid. It could even have been Sysabel herself.”
“To murder Peter, yes. But not Papa.”
“How many are there with a motive to rid the world of both?”
Martha sat quietly now, nodding as if she knew, but could not say. Emeline stood, staring back at both women. She felt suddenly quite cold. “So, tell me.”
The baroness looked up. “I have discounted young Edmund, and certainly the unknown boy cannot be considered any longer. I had a moment’s suspicion of his lordship, your father-in-law. Absurd, of course. But who else?”
“Just Adrian.”
The baroness stared at her daughter. “Or Nicholas.”
Emeline stared back. “Or you,” she said.
They left that night.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The tavern buzzed, boots slipping in spilled ale as the doors continually swung open, slammed shut, opened and shut again. The whistle of the coastal wind, wood against plaster, the sudden shiver, then shut in warmth again. Voices, laughter, the topple of a body and the quick fingers of a cut purse, the candlelight catching the polish of chipped earthenware, and the grasp of clammy hands, torn fingernails and palms grimed with the day’s toil. The fallen tallow and the stale crumbs from two days’ suppers, the jangle of coins, each penny cut into its farthings, a man’s wage buying a pot of beer and a smile from a friend before he staggered home for his supper, or simply a hungry belly and a lonely bed.
Nicholas looked into the shadows and said, “So you know this?”
“Not for sure,” said the other man. “But he never made it to the boarder. When he didn’t come, I crossed through into France myself, but never rode as far as Paris. When I doubled back from Flanders, I thought I’d find him already heading to Brittany. But when there was still no sign, I caught the next boat.”
Jerrid nodded. “So Dorset failed again.”
“Poor bugger. Desperate to defect from Tudor’s little group of traitors, yet cannot make his escape.”
The small man lowered his voice. “But Spudge confirms his lordship got the message. Not regarding his brother and half his family were caught in conspiracy and executed, now he’s taken his mother’s word and wants back home. Took his mother’s letter – confirmed he’d be making a second attempt – asked to be met and wanted an armed escort. But he’s well watched, he says, has been warned, and feels the danger of it. Knows Tudor doesn’t trust him anymore. Nor does France.”
“France doesn’t trust anyone. It’s French policy.”
“Nor can anyone trust France,” David muttered. “That’s policy too.”
“When he failed to get away last November, the bloody French laughed as they took him hostage. It’ll be worse for him this time.”
Jerrid nodded. “That French boy king’s too ambitious for his years, and his sister regent is too damned clever, too damned sour, and has wed a wolf.”
“Bugger France,” objected Nicholas, “I’m only interested in England’s monarchy, and keeping it safe. Will Dorset keep trying? Or does he now admit defeat?”
“He’ll try again,” said the small man. “Given a year or so, perhaps he’ll manage eventually. Spudge tells me his lordship’s miserable, squashed between the elbows of Tudor and French ambition. And he wants his Maman.”
Jerrid groaned. “All right. We’ll give him another week.”