Swept into a private parlour by the obsequious landlord, Nicholas sank down onto the cushioned settle and regarded his uncle. He had retrieved his sword and other belongings from his saddle bag, and now slung them to the table. He was far better dressed than had lately been his habit, having now decided his mission was virtually complete, and it was again possible to lodge at the best inn in the area. “David, book us a late supper as well as a bedchamber, and make sure it’s the best bed they have. I’ve a backache worse than any wretch spending the day in the stocks, and a hunger fair wicked to swing on the gallows.”
“You may smell like a felon, m’boy, but I see no reason for you to think like one,” Jerrid said. “We’ve spent enough time on the road to break a man’s back, but you’re young. It’s me should be complaining.”
“You do,” Nicholas said. “I simply need a wide bed, an aired mattress, and a very hot bath without sprigs of stinking dried lavender.”
“My lord,” the landlord bowed, “The bath is at present set up in another chamber, but as soon as it is free I will arrange for it to be emptied and set up in your lordship’s chamber.”
“The best chamber you have, and the softest beds.”
“Alas, my lord,” the landlord backed apologetically, “the best bedchamber has already been taken. But there is another of excellent quality, and I shall have the finest linen laid, and warm the mattress.”
“Then three of us will share the room,” Jerrid nodded, “and we’ve two out at the stables can sleep in the straw.”
“And supper will be served here shortly, my lords.”
Nicholas smiled with surprise at the apple codlings in warm honey, finished his tripe and roast pork, drained his cup, and followed the landlord upstairs to the chamber prepared on the second floor. It was a warm evening after a wet morning and outside a plover was calling before sundown, a shrill clarion disappearing into echoes as a hazy twilight shimmered across the fields beyond. One great oak just outside the hostelry’s courtyard spread it shadow across the cobbles, slowly turning to silhouette as the shadows faded into the gloom. Within the chamber, Jerrid threw himself full length on the bed without removing his boots, and David tested the truckle bed, announcing it softer than most.
Nicholas looked across at his uncle. “Get your boots off, you’ll have mud on the blankets.”
Jerrid stretched, two hands to his back. “I doubt I could bend sufficiently to reach my feet. You’ll have to put up with a little more mud, boy.”
Steam spiralled in a thick mist up to the beams as Nicholas quickly undressed, waving away David’s willing attention. The heat from the tub spun webs of dewy droplets vaporising against the window shutters. Nicholas tossed his well scuffed boots to the warmth beside the hearth, unlaced his doublet and pulled it off, hauled his sweat stained shirt off over his head, loosened codpiece, braies and hose, rolled them all off, throwing them atop the increasing heap, and climbed immediately into the bath tub. The half barrel stood tall enough for a good immersion but was unlined and Nicholas sat carefully, cautious of splinters. As the scalding water enveloped him, he sighed deeply, rested his head back against the brim, and closed his eyes. “The Fox and Pheasant, is it? Well it has my blessing.”
“My lord,” David’s voice, “shall I take the clothes for brushing down? Or shall I stay and help wash your back?”
“The clothes probably need delousing.” Nicholas shook his head but did not open his eyes. “Everything from my groin to my toes scratches or itches – and from my neck to my groin I’m encased in flea bites from every slum tavern we’ve stayed in. At least I’m dressing in my own comfortable clothes from now. But much as I’m eager for home, I’ll not desert the last chance for Dorset to make the crossing.”
Jerrid voice, muffled by pillows, sounded half asleep. “Dorset’s not coming, I’m convinced of it. The good marquess was never the brightest of the Woodville brood, and no doubt the French king and his wretched sister have Dorset wrapped safe like a moth in a cocoon, and I swear he’ll not be opening his wings again for a long, long time. Now I’m for home.”
“We saw a small ship far out through the rain this morning.”
David nodded as he scooped up his master’s discarded clothes. “But it was out of sight once we climbed down the cliffs, and his lordship never turned up at the arranged point. Unless perhaps he was cutting across country. He’ll be a frightened man.”
“If we desert him, he’ll be a dead one.” Nicholas sighed and sat up, emerging again from the water and steam. He was, strangely enough, suddenly thinking of apple codlings. “So I’ll stay here one more day, since the hostelry is comfortable enough, but only one. Tomorrow I’ll start one last search from here to coast, and dig around the local area to make damned sure we’ve not missed the poor bugger.”
Jerrid yawned. “You want yet another day here? You admire their bathtubs so deeply?”
Nicholas stretched an arm, pouring soap on the sponge. “It was something else came to mind.” His feet sprang suddenly visible above the water’s murky surface, to be washed one by one. “That sad little child’s death. It still makes no sense. Why knife the boy and leave the men alive?”
“But since then it’s been quiet as the grave.”
“It was the grave I was thinking of,” Nicholas stared back at his uncle. “There’s something going on along this coast, and it’s French inspired for it’s French they speak. The groom said Wolt’s killers spoke a foreign language. Amongst the rigmarole he couldn’t understand, he twice heard them speak of murder.”
“So not foreign – but English.”
Nicholas shook his head. “Merde. It’s French for shit. These were French assassins – but were they sent for us? Or for someone a deal more important?”
“Dorset?”
“Maybe just French pirates. They raid this damned coast at will.”
“I have no idea. But I’d like to find out. I owe it to the king. And I owe it to the dead child.”
“Then enjoy your bath, m’boy, and prepare for tomorrow,” his uncle said. “But I don’t see how you’ll discover much in one more day. I’m as tired as hunted hare, and I’ve a suspicion one more day will turn into another, and then four or five.”
“If my bathwater doesn’t disgust you uncle, you’d best make use of it. I’m finished.” Nicholas stood, climbing naked from the steam. He left wet footprints across the floorboards, retrieved the thin linen towel from the stool, and proceeded to dry himself. “But I promise not to delay past common sense. Just time enough to satisfy my sense of justice.”
“You’ll catch cold, not justice, boy,” Jerrid said. “Get into bed. Is the water still hot? Then I’ll certainly make use of it, and will leave it warm enough for David if he wants.”
Nicholas grinned at David. “He smells of wet leather and horse sweat. So the bath’s obligatory, even if it’s near cold by then.”
“I’m more than willing, my lord, especially in preparation for a ride back to the Strand.” David looked up, clasping the clothes Nicholas had thrown in a heap. “And to face his lordship the earl.”
“My father?” Nicholas pulled on a clean shirt from his pack. “Hopefully he’s back at court. I certainly wish it, for my wife’s sake as well as my own.”
“I look forward to being back at court myself,” Jerrid said, quickly undressing and leaving his clothes neatly folded on the stool. “Come on, boy. You think too much. Get yourself into bed.”
“Should I think less? It’s like a continuous mutter I can’t be free of. I want home – sweet Jesus, I want home – but I don’t like mysteries I can’t solve.” Nicholas had walked across to the window, but now turned, wandering instead to the bed. “But you’re right, uncle,” he said. “And you’re right about something else. I’ll not delay past tomorrow, Dorset, French assassins and storms in the night be damned. And that’s also for my wife’s sake as well as my own.”