She ran, gulping the air in great drafts, enjoying the icy scalding as it pierced her lungs. Susan, who as usual had been watching for her from the parlor window, had the door open before she could knock. Polly thanked her and leaned gasping against the newel post until she could get her breath.
"Bath's all ready," Sue said. "My Lord De Winter's abovestairs, waitin' on ye."
Still somewhat breathless, Polly went upstairs. Richard was standing beside the fire, waiting for her return as he had done for the last five mornings, ever since she had told him
of Buckingham's bargain. He looked at her searchingly. " 'Tis done?"
"Aye." She nodded and came to the fire, stretching her hands to its warmth. " 'Tis done, Richard. He'll not renege?"
"God's grace, no!" Richard caught her chin, tipping it up. "And you, child?"
"Am no child," she said with a tiny smile. "But I am whole. The scars will not run deep."
His frowning examination continued. She returned the look with candor. After a while he nodded slowly. "It's well. But I could wish you had stayed for advice before taking the bit between your teeth. Mayhap I could have spared you these last nights."
Polly shrugged. "Even had you been able to, Richard, 'twould have taken a tedious long time. This way was speedier, and Nick will be free within the day. Indeed-" An exciting, yet somehow terrifying, thought struck her "-maybe within the hour, and I must bathe. I cannot greet him with… with…" Her hands passed down her body in a gesture expressive of disgust. "And he must not find you here, Richard, at this hour. It will puzzle him mightily." She began to push him toward the door. "Nothing must arouse his suspicions."
Richard resisted the inhospitable pressure of the small hands in his back. "You have Buckingham's pledge of secrecy?"
All the light died from the hazel eyes. She shook her head in sudden defeated weariness. "I thought not to ask for it."
"Then, if you will heed the advice of a friend who knows Nick of old, you will lay the whole before him without delay," Richard said briskly. "It is no great tragedy. He is a man of the world, Polly."
"I do not wish him to know," she said fiercely. "I would not have him share my own hells with the feeling that he was responsible for them. Can you not understand that?"
Richard sighed. "And suppose he should hear it from Buckingham, or from court whispers? Why do you imagine
Buckingham will keep it a close secret? He can have no reasons for doing so."
"But by the same token, he can have no reason for not doing so," Polly pointed out. "I cannot bring myself to tell him, Richard." She shuddered slightly. "Mayhap when it has faded a little, but not now."
She looked wan, fragile, seven sleepless nights etched upon her face, giving that usually vibrant beauty an ethereal appearance. Three afternoons, during this dreadful week, she had performed at the Theatre Royal, and only three members of the audience knew what superhuman effort it had cost her: Thomas Killigrew knew because he alone could read the professional actor; Buckingham and Richard knew. She had come close to breaking, and was still perilously close to the edge.
Richard decided that he would be unwise to push the issue at present. Her exhaustion, Nick would put down to worry, and maybe, for a few days, they would keep close to this house. Nick would not feel inclined to venture into society immediately, and when he was ready, Polly would perhaps be strong enough to tell him the truth of her ordeal.
"I will leave you to your bath, then," he said, picking up his cloak. "An hour or two of sleep would not come amiss, either."
Polly helped him with his cloak. "I could not have managed without your strength, Richard," she said softly.
He smiled. "You underestimate yourself, my dear. You would have done what you felt you had to, with or without my support." He bent to kiss her cheek. "Nicholas is a most fortunate man."
Nicholas, at that moment, was standing on the parapeted walk outside his prison. He drew his cloak tight against the wind gusting from the Thames. The river ran, gray-brown, below the parapet, a major highway on which the townsfolk went about their business, sparing little attention as they passed beneath Tower bridge for those within the massive
gray walls of the Tower itself. Perhaps they looked at Traitor's Gate, where the green river slime clung to the step, and the water slopped against the portcullis. And if they did so, perhaps they spared a thought for all those who had made the melancholy river journey, to enter this great and gloomy prison through that gate, to leave it only for the scaffold on Tower Hill.
It was a gloomy thought, but Nick could see little reason for cheer. True, he had not entered the Tower through Traitor's Gate, but he was as securely held as any, and he still had no concrete charges to defend.
He turned to look over the other side of the parapet, down into the great court of the Tower, where the distinctive black ravens squabbled amongst themselves, circling and strutting with the self-importance of those who had inhabited this place for longer than any human soul. Even at this early hour, the scene was lively, guards and servants hastening about their business, troops of soldiers responding with well-trained obedience to bellowed orders, heralds and liveried messengers on horseback passing back and forth through the gates. The governor appeared, striding briskly across the quadrangle. He looked up to see his prisoner, and raised a hand in salute.
Nicholas returned the salute. The governor was a civilized man, one who enjoyed civilized and intelligent company over a fine port, and Kincaid had rarely spent a lonely evening during this sojourn in the Tower.
"Breakfast's 'ere, m'lord." A guard appeared in the narrow entrance to the tower where Nick was housed.
"I'd have more stomach for it with a deal more exercise," Nicholas said, but he turned within. A fire burned in the round stone chamber of his jail, a thick quilt and feather mattress furnished the narrow bed, a pile of books stood upon the plank table beneath the small, barred window. There was little discomfort in his conditions, if one did not count the loss of freedom. He met no insult, not even a hint of discourtesy, from his jailers, but they were still his jailers.
He turned desultory attention to ale and sirloin. Was Polly
still abed? It was past seven, but if she had not sought her bed before midnight, then she could well be asleep, preparing herself for the morning's work with Killigrew, and the afternoon performance. But what could she have been doing in his absence that would have kept her out of her bed into the small hours? Mayhap Richard was squiring her to court, encouraging her to maintain the casual, mercenary front that they had perfected over the months. Whatever happened, she must not be tarred with this unknown brush that painted her protector. Richard would understand that, and act accordingly.
Nick had received no communication from the outside world, the governor apologizing for orders that prevented this. Neither had he been permitted to send any-even instructions to Margaret as to domestic financial arrangements. De Winter would see that Polly lacked for nothing, of that he was certain, but nothing could assuage the aching fear for her, the desolation of his utter helplessness. He could feel her, smell her, see her, hear her. He could remember, as if he were still living them, the times when she had angered him, exasperated him, then disarmed him; the times when she had entranced him, had transported him to the outermost limits of joy, had brought him laughter and delight such as he had never known. And he wanted to weep with a loss that his prison walls seemed to insist was final.