“Yes, riding britches probably won’t do,” Portia agreed cheerfully. “Come, Olivia.”
Olivia followed them from the room. By mutual consent nothing was said until they’d reached Olivia’s bedchamber.
Portia closed the door quietly and came to the point. “What’s going on, duckie?”
Olivia looked between them. Blue eyes and green held only concern.
“You might as well know,” she said. “It can’t do any harm now. Edward Caxton is my pirate.”
“What?” They stared at her.
“I should have guessed,” Phoebe said after a minute. “That first night, when you were talking to him, I felt something was strange. But your pirate’s called Anthony… oh, of course. He’d hardly use his own name.” She pulled at a loose piece of skin around her thumb, cross with herself for such a stupid question.
“And your pirate is intending to rescue the king,” Portia stated, a deep frown drawing her sandy eyebrows together. “What a pretty pickle. No wonder you’ve been so glum.”
“And you want to warn him tonight, if he’s at the castle,” Phoebe said slowly.
“If he’s there,” Olivia stated. “But I needed you to come with me, otherwise it would look very strange.”
“But if you warn him, then you’ll foil Cato’s plan. By helping you to warn him, then I’m deceiving my husband,” Phoebe said in distress.
“But my father is only interested in preventing the king’s escape,” Olivia said swiftly. “If Anthony calls off the attempt, everyone will be happy. It’s not necessary to capture him and hang him, is it?”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Can you persuade him to call off his plan?”
“I’m going to try,” Olivia said. She looked at her friends. “I know you won’t betray me… him?” It was part statement, part question.
There was a short silence, then Portia answered the question in her own way. “Do you ever think about when we first met?”
“In the boathouse at Diana’s wedding.” Olivia shook her head. “It was only seven years ago and the world’s changed out of all recognition. Everything’s upside down. So many lives lost… so much blood. When will it be over?”
“Rufus thinks they will put the king on trial,” Portia said. “It all began with the execution of the earl of Strafford. It will end with the king’s.”
“They would kill the king?” Olivia stared at her.
“There are those who would,” Phoebe said gravely. “But not Cato.”
“Nor Rufus,” Portia said. They were all so used to a world at war, it was hard to imagine their lives in a land at peace. But the killing of a king would not bring peace. Only the deluded or the fanatical believed that.
“It’s hard to think of you as you were,” Olivia said. She knew this reminiscence was answer to her question. It was a reminder of the depths of their friendship. “Straight up and down like a ruler. Determined never to marry. And children… heaven forbid!”
“Well, I wanted to be a soldier and I am,” Portia said.
“And I wanted to be a poet and I am,” Phoebe said.
“And I wanted to be a scholar,” Olivia said.
“As you are.”
“Yes,” she said flatly.
“So we had better get changed and try to sort out this muddle,” Portia said briskly. She was a doer, a fixer, always ready to apply herself to solutions. She looked at Phoebe.
“Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “Of course.” But her eyes were troubled.
“Thank you,” Olivia said simply. “I won’t make it difficult for you again.”
Phoebe nodded.
They left Olivia to change her own gown. She knew that humanity and friendship had allowed Phoebe to make this one small gesture. But from there on, her loyalty to her husband and his cause was absolute. Portia, much less emotional, much more pragmatic, would spend little energy on debating competing loyalties.
For herself, nothing was clear. Nothing was simple. Except that she couldn’t bear Anthony’s death. She had chosen never to love him again, but she could not endure to think of the world without him.
Chapter Sixteen
“Prue, them soldiers is back.” Goodman Yarrow called to his wife as he entered the tiny cottage on Holyrood Street. “They was just passin‘ St. Thomas’s.”
“Well, what’s that to us?” Prue asked, taking another iron from the fire. She spat on it and nodded at the satisfactory sizzle before applying the flatiron to the shirt spread out on the table.
“They’re comin‘ ’ere next,” her husband said. “They be goin‘ ’ouse to ‘ouse from the church. Askin’ questions.”
“They can ask away,” Prue said, folding the shirt deftly. “We got nothin‘ to ’ide.”
“They’ll be askin‘ about the master.” The goodman sat heavily at the other end of the table that took up most of the square kitchen.
“An‘ we show ’em ‘is chamber jest like afore.” Prue picked up another shirt and exchanged the cold iron for the one heating on the range. “Don’t get all agitated, man. Jest stick to the story, that’s all we ’ave to do.”
“But ‘e ’asn’t been around ‘ere fer a month.” The goodman was clearly unable to take his wife’s advice.
“That’s none of our business,” she said placidly. “We jest rents ‘im the chamber. It’s nothin’ to us when ‘e comes or when ’e goes. That’s all we ‘ave to say. You jest leave the talkin’ to me.”
The goodman heaved himself to his feet and fetched down a jug of ale from a shelf above the range. He drank directly from the jug as tramping feet sounded from the narrow street beyond the open door.
Giles Crampton loomed in the doorway. “Good even, goodwife.”
Prue set down her iron. The man wore a sergeant’s insignia. Their previous visitor had been a mere private. “Come ye in, sir. Ye’ll take a drink of ale?”
“No, I thankee. Not today.” Giles entered the kitchen. Behind him in the street ranged a phalanx of soldiers, armed with pikes and muskets. Doors closed up and down the street, a series of hasty little bangs, and curious faces appeared at upper windows.
Prue’s hand trembled infinitesimally as she smoothed the garment she’d been ironing. “What can we do fer ye, Sergeant?”
“Well, it’s like this, see.” Giles came closer, his voice confidential, friendly. “We’ve ‘eard some things about this lodger of your’n. He still lodge ’ere?”
“No,” the goodman said. “He’s left ‘ere.”
Prue laughed. “That’s what my man likes t‘ think,” she said. “Doesn’t ’ave much time fer ‘im, but ’e pays well, I say. That’s all that matters. Us ‘asn’t seen him in a few days, but ’is things is still ‘ere.” She gestured with her head to the narrow staircase at the rear of the kitchen. “Go on up if ye like, Sergeant.”
Giles clumped up the stairs. The small chamber under the eaves was neat, the quilt and pillow on the cot smooth and clean. He poked around. There was an ironbound chest at the foot of the bed. It was unlocked and he raised the lid. It showed him nothing of interest. Just small clothes, neckerchiefs, a spare pair of boots, a handsome leather belt, a saddle, and spurs. All perfectly innocent. All perfectly appropriate for a country squire trying to make a place for himself at court.
But something was amiss. He stood and sniffed like a bloodhound. It was not that there was a smell in the chamber so much as the total absence of such. This place was not used by Edward Caxton or anyone else, Giles decided. He supposed he couldn’t blame the man he’d sent before for failing to notice this indefinable clue. He’d had no reason to suspect Caxton. It had been merely a routine check.
So why would a man pay rent, keep clothes and these few possessions, in a place where he didn’t live?
He went downstairs again. He caught the flicker of a glance between the goodman and his wife. An anxious glance. The goodman lifted the ale jug to his lips again and drank noisily. When he set it down again, there was a tremor to his fingers.
“Well, now,” said Giles comfortably. “Let’s talk about Mr. Caxton, shall we?”