It was through the rain that Jerrid stared at the long misted coastline and the disappearing streak of horizon beyond, and said, “It’s time we were leaving.”
“Two more days.”
“He’s not coming,” Jerrid said. “The poor bastard is hostage to the French again in Paris, and they’ll not let him out of their sight, not even to piss. We have the letter to Northumberland, and we know Urswick is beyond reach. Why delay?”
“Because I gave the king my word.”
“Nicholas, his highness has more sense than most. He’d be the first to tell you to leave.” Jerrid sighed, turning back and taking up the reins again. “There’s Tyrell heading off for Burgundy any day, and his highness will be organising that, not bothering about Dorset.”
“Burgundy again? Yes, of course, I’d forgotten.” Nicholas grinned at his uncle. “Richard originally intended sending me, but decided to be kind and permit my new bride sufficient time to get to know her husband before he was whisked away again.”
“So forget the whisking, my boy. We’ve wasted enough time here. It’s time we headed back to Westminster.”
“I’m tempted. Indeed, more than tempted.”
“The new bride again?”
“That’s the temptation.”
“Then we head north tomorrow at dawn. At least as far as Southampton and the Fox and Pheasant, decent ale and the best inn for miles around. I’ll inform the others.”
Nicholas paused. Finally he said, “But I’m missing something, uncle.” Remounting, he turning his horse back towards the road. “Something obvious to do with the boy Wolt’s murder, and I’ll kick myself afterwards for having missed it. I simply hope we won’t all suffer for the mistake.”
The small hostelry just two miles north of Southampton had proved more than usually comfortable. Emeline’s store of coins was running out, but now being so close to Weymouth, she had ordered apple codlings for supper and had gone to bed more cheerfully than usual. But through the night the wind took force, whipping through the treetops, turning rain to squall and squall to storm. Branches smashed against the bedchamber windows and the shutters shook and rattled. The moon blinked out behind the rush of tumbling clouds, and the world turned black. Then light returned in one vivid slash of white. The skies exploded, then closed tight again with rolling thunderous vibration.
The five occupants of the hostelry’s large attic bedchamber awoke startled. Petronella whispered, “My lady, water’s pouring in through the window. We’ll be drowned in our beds.”
Avice sat up and poked her sister. “You can’t sleep through something like this, Emma. Try and stop the shutters leaking. Can we stuff the gaps with blankets?”
Emeline yawned and rolled over. “It’s just a storm. I can’t stop the rain raining and we need the blanket ourselves. Leave me alone, I ache all over and I never want to see another inn, and especially never another horse.”
“It must be nearly dawn anyway,” Avice declared, hopping out of bed and running over bare foot to bang on the rattling shutters. Puddled had formed beneath, trickling across the floor. “I’m hungry. Let’s get some bread and cheese and start the day.”
“We can’t ride out in this weather,” Sysabel objected. “Where are we anyway?”
“Nearly Southampton.”
Emeline frowned. “Wasn’t that yesterday? But we can’t just stay here. I’m nearly out of money. How about you two?”
Sysabel sniffed and shook her head. “I have a shilling tucked in my garter. But I was saving that in case I have to go off alone to find Adrian.”
“Don’t bother looking at me,” sighed Avice. “Where has the money gone?”
“Down your throat. Ale and food. And even hovels cost something. So we need to keep moving on. Once I find Nicholas, everything will be alright.”
“Ride through this storm?”
“We’ll have to leave as soon as it passes. I can’t afford another night here, in case we have to wait days in Weymouth.”
“I have a tiny gold cross I can sell,” Avice said with a small hiccup of reluctance. “Though it was a gift from Papa, and now he’s gone – even if I’m glad he’s gone –”
“You won’t have to sell anything,” said Emeline firmly. “And nor will I. But we do have to face a very muddy ride later this morning. Our guides won’t complain, at least Alan won’t. He’s always in such a hurry. He’d ride through the apocalypse.”
Once the rain had stopped, although a mist of sporadic showers drifted, spangling the air while the new risen sun sparkled like candlelit crystals along the hedgerows, the party left and headed south once again. But the roads were awash and in places were flooded. Roads of beaten earth had churned into ruts and ridges between dank boggy pools and great slides of slime heaved down the little slopes and hillsides. The ravens were cawing from the treetops, with a great flap of wet wings spread wide to dry, and a straggly black strut as they challenged each other for the best dripping perch.
The five women and their two guides left the tiny hostelry shortly after midday and a light dinner. The horses were fractious, frightened by the storm and a night of panic. Alan Venter was tired. He had been up with the horses. Bill was sullen.
“The land will be boggy after last night,” Alan had warned, “Then we’ve the Wey to cross and the ford could be underwater. I may have to find another path.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” called Sysabel, stretching her aching back and sighing. “Hurry then. And promise me this is the last day I’ll be stuck to saddle and stirrups. I shall smell like a horse myself by the time I see my brother.”
“I shall look like one,” sniffed Avice.
“Ladies, we’ve just one day left, but the horses are ill rested, so I beg you, keep close and don’t trail off behind.”
“A real bath tonight,” Emeline called to the others. “I promise, a hot bath for everyone, even if I have to sell my boots.”
“I’ll sell this horrid horse.”
The storm’s dreary echo of misty drizzle damped shoulders and coated the horses, soaking their manes. Then a pallid peeping sunshine turned every sparkle golden and a great sweeping rainbow blinked, reformed, took courage and claimed the open path within its arch. The light turned turquoise and lemon. The lanes were bordered by fields, neat ploughed after spring sowing, and ditches filled with the night’s water and the little swimming beetles, crickets and long legged spiders which had escaped the storm but not the marshy drains. Puddles the size of monastery ponds kept the horses wading up to their fetlocks, snorting, or stooping to drink. The sun was high when Avice called, “Mister Venter, it must be time for dinner, and not an inn in sight. Will there be one do you think?”
Alan turned, saying, “I’ve been told of the Fox and Pheasant not far from here, mistress. Though it’s likely to be expensive.”
But Alan Venter stopped abruptly. Before them the lane opened into a crossroads, and onwards from their own roadway, three more choices of path led off from a tall post topped with a wooden cross and a thin rope noose dangling in the swirl of mist. At ground level the open square was trampled mud, purpled and thick with a reflected sheen under the strengthening sunshine. The cross flung its shadow, and the shadow of the knotted noose encircled a smear of ripples, as of warning and of threat.
And on the other side, crouched on his haunches, a thick built man stared, his eyes hidden beneath the sweep of his hat. He was armed, and his sword lay unsheathed across his knees. One hand held to the reins of his horse, a bandy legged and mottled grey, an old sumpter past its prime which chewed, bent, and chewed again with a gummy drip of saliva. To his other side stood a dog, an Alaunt mastiff, yellow and ridge backed, wide muzzle and tired eyes, its lower lids hanging red. It shook its head, slime flying. But the man barely moved.