Face Down Beneath The Eleanor Cross Part 8

"I go with you, madam," Jennet repeated. "Mark's sister will care for them, as she did during the time we were in London." Young Robert had still been in swaddling clothes back then, but Jennet had not hesitated to be parted from him and her daughters. She did not hesitate now. In truth, having thought about the matter while Lady Appleton was discussing her herbs, Jennet had realized that leaving Mark behind would serve to relieve her sole maternal concern. This way, when the time was right, he would already be in place to pack up the family and make a run for the border.

"This is a long journey, as Mark has said, and I have no way to know how it will end." For a moment, Lady Appleton sounded discouraged.

It would end close to Scotland, or so Jennet hoped. Aloud she repeated what she'd said before. "Where you go, madam, I go."

Lady Appleton turned aside, as if her emotions had of a sudden come too close to the surface, and she did not want anyone to know. She was quick to recover her composure, however, and to bestow upon Jennet a faint smile. "I know better than to order you to remain behind when you are this determined."

Had she heard about Dover? Guilt a.s.saulted Jennet, but she held her peace, unwilling to acknowledge her disobedience if that was not Lady Appleton's meaning.

"But consider one other matter, Jennet, before you commit yourself to going with me," Lady Appleton continued. "Can you bear to be parted from your little ones?"

"My place is with you." Jennet stifled a twinge of regret and told herself that the coming separation would not last long. One way or another, matters would be settled before the next quarter sessions met in London.

"Then I will be glad of your company," Lady Appleton said. Jennet thought the interview over, but at the last minute her mistress called her back. "One more thing, Jennet."

"Yes, madam?"

"You must promise me there will be no more of going off on your own to ask questions."

Jennet's hand clasped tight around her talisman. "How did you-"

"I overheard Lionel telling the head gardener how he'd gulled you."

"Gulled-?"

"Even if that old woman believes herself to be a witch, Jennet, her words cannot harm you."

"But, madam, she is a grocer's widow. She knows what herbs to use to cast her spells!"

"Superst.i.tious nonsense," Lady Appleton declared. "And Lionel has admitted to me that he made up the story about the man with the dead cow."

Jennet was not convinced, but she did not argue further. Instead she gave Lady Appleton an edited account of her conversation with Widow Sparcheforde. "There is an herb garden behind the Star with the Long Tail. Is that not suspicious?"

"Most goodwives grow herbs, Jennet. You know that."

"But Alys-"

"Sir Walter's intelligence gatherers will keep watch over Alys Putney and her husband. Do not trouble yourself about them. But if you wish to accompany me north, Jennet, you must promise that from now on you will tell me about any plans that have to do with my troubles before you implement them."

"Are you wroth with me?"

"No, Jennet. I know your intentions were good. But, please, from now on, share your plots and schemes beforehand."

Lady Appleton must have seen a flash of guilt in Jennet's eyes. Certes, Mark did, for he came to stand at her side, his posture defensive. "She's done nothing," he said.

"Yet." Lady Appleton knew her too well. "Tell me. Now."

"How far is Lancas.h.i.+re from the Scottish border?" Jennet asked instead.

"A few days journey. But you know what Sir Walter said. I am not permitted to leave England. I have written to Catherine, asking her to act on my behalf in Edinburgh."

"Lady Glenelg can question Sir Robert's Scottish mistress," Jennet agreed, "but why not confront the woman yourself? We could all of us go to Scotland. It cannot be too difficult to slip quietly across the border. There Lady Glenelg will keep us safe."

Astonished, Lady Appleton took a step away from Jennet. "Do you suggest I flee the country? Live in exile for the rest of my life? Never!"

"Is not living, anywhere, better than dying at Tyburn?" Tears filled Jennet's eyes. "I could not bear it if aught happened to you!"

To Jennet's astonishment, Lady Appleton hugged her. "Your love and loyalty humble me, Jennet, but you must not give up hope that we will find out the truth. I will be cleared of the charges against me."

"But-"

"We will not talk of failure unless we must. Certes, I do not want to be executed, but you must never put my welfare ahead of that of your family."

"Family first," Jennet promised.

But Lady Appleton was family, and Jennet silently vowed she would do whatever she had to in order to keep her mistress safe... even if it meant taking that stubbornly independent gentlewoman into Scotland by force.

Chapter 19.

Susanna brought Walter Pendennis a posset as he sat in the inner chamber beyond the dining parlor, a room with a view of the gardens and the fish ponds beyond. He was not displeased to have his brooding interrupted.

As he took the steaming cup from her hands, he marveled at her resilience. She'd been the one shunned at church that morning. She was the one facing a trail for murder. And yet she sought to bring him greater ease. He sipped the fragrant brew, savoring the combination of herbs she'd chosen. Calming ingredients. Something to settle the stomach and strengthen the heart and give them both the will to go on.

"Chamomile," he guessed, relying partly on his keen sense of smell, partly on his knowledge of Susanna's favorite nostrums. "What else?"

"Some might hesitate to ask," she murmured, taking a swallow from her own portion. "For all you know, there might be henbane in the drink. Or deadly nightshade. Or-"

"Susanna!"

At her startled look, he realized he'd never spoken so sharply to her before. "I'll hear no more of such talk," he said. "You have dedicated your life to preventing people from being poisoned. You are not likely to change into a heartless killer overnight."

"I wish everyone had your confidence in me."

Her voice trembled slightly, alarming Walter. He'd rarely observed any sign of weakness in this woman. The lack of support from her neighbors had unsettled her more than he'd realized.

Even as that thought pa.s.sed through his mind, Susanna managed a smile and reached out to pat the back of his hand. "Drink it all down," she advised. "You look as if you had the troubles of the whole world on your shoulders. The posset contains blessed thistle and borage to purge melancholy, together with a bit of thyme and a dash of St. John's wort. 'Twill do you only good."

"My cares cannot so easily be lifted." But he obeyed her, draining the cup.

"Shall I give you jet to wear? 'Tis said to ward off phantasms due to melancholy."

"Jet I will wear but not for that purpose." Some folk criticized him for his love of lush fabrics, bright colors, and fine jewelry. Susanna never had.

"You did not need my troubles to add to your own burden." She wandered away, crossing the room to stand by a window.

When Walter came up beside her, he saw that she was staring at her pride and joy, the herb garden close to the house. Even at this time of year, there were a few medicinal and pot herbs growing there. Come spring, it would be alive with color and scent.

"My burden, as you call it, has become far weightier of late, but not because of your troubles. I grow weary of the work I do for the queen."

It was unlike Walter to confide in anyone, but this felt right. He trusted few people, yet from the moment he'd met Susanna Appleton, he'd sensed she was different. She was someone quite unique in his experience. Someone he could rely upon.

"I have begun to doubt the usefulness of sorting through and decoding every shred of gossip, every intercepted message, every movement of recusants and suspected traitors. Someone else could do the job as well, and with more enthusiasm. I am tired, Susanna. Tired of knowing other people's secrets. Tired of trying to decipher what poses a true threat to the queen and what is simply some pathetic soul's cry for attention. I have begun to see plots and treasons in every meeting of two men on a street corner. I have no judgment left."

She set aside her posset and turned away from the window. "You push yourself too hard, my dear. And you are right. The world will not stop spinning if you let go its reins. But I think you would soon miss the intrigue, the challenge."

"Just now, my work has but one value to me. It allows me to help you. I will utilize all my resources on your behalf and when they are no longer needed for that purpose, gladly abandon them." He took both her hands in his. "When you are free of these absurd charges against you, I mean to make some changes in my life. I've often thought of returning to my native Cornwall. I have land there, land I acquired years ago but have never had leisure to enjoy." He clasped her fingers more tightly and waited until she met his eyes. "Come with me, Susanna. Leave here. Leave these folk who do not believe in you as I do. You are free to remarry now. And you must know I lo-"

Her hand, jerked free from his, gently covered his mouth to cut off the word before he could complete it. "Oh, my dear," she said sadly. "Let us not spoil our friends.h.i.+p by making more of it than there is."

He wanted to object, to declare that he had long had powerful feelings for her, feelings that were much more than mere friends.h.i.+p. But she was already moving away from him, drawing into herself, gathering that inner strength he so admired.

She did not want a husband, did not need one. So she had always said. But until this moment, Walter had never entirely believed her.

A great sadness engulfed him. Without Susanna in it, his life in Cornwall would be as empty of meaning as his days in London seemed.

"I will understand," she said, "if you no longer wish to travel north with me." Her intent gaze was fixed on his expression, making him wonder how much of his inner torment she could guess.

"Have we not just agreed naught can spoil our friends.h.i.+p?"

She nodded but her expression was bleak as she contemplated their coming journey. "What if I cannot prove I am innocent, Walter? We could fail."

"I'll not permit such a miscarriage of justice." Disappointment in love did not alter his determination to save Susanna's life. Whether she shared her future with him or not, she deserved to have one.

"Can you stop it?"

"I have influence at court. The queen can pardon even a convicted murderess."

"But will she? And if you tell her the whole truth about Robert, she'll not be in charity with you. Indeed, she will be most put out with us both."

"If that is the only way-"

"No, Walter. We promised our silence on the matter to the Lady Mary."

"Would you rather burn? Provide a spectacle for members of the royal court? Tyburn is within easy walking distance of Westminster, convenient for any courtiers who wish to make their way across the fields northwest of Charing."

A vivid picture of the gallows came into his mind. Giant elms had at one time grown thick there, alongside Tyburn Stream. There was still a dense wood running north beyond the high road to Tottenham. But where once the dead cart would have been drawn up beneath a tree, the rope set, and the cart drawn away again to let the prisoner hang, these days Tyburn "tree" consisted of two stout oak uprights, a crossbeam, a platform, and a ladder. There was even talk of constructing a permanent gallows on the site.

But Susanna would not have the mercy of death by hanging.

Walter's stomach lurched in spite of the soothing posset he'd just imbibed. After she had been brought to the gallows, she'd have a rope put round her neck, but that was mere symbolism. For the crime of killing her husband, her lord and master, she'd be burnt alive, not hanged.

If it came to that, Walter vowed, he would bribe the hangman to strangle her. Anything to spare her the flames. He'd provide the customary alms given by a condemned prisoner for swift and painless dispatch and a handsome bonus besides.

Then he realized that he would not.

If the law demanded Susanna's death, he would instead find some way to spirit her out of England. "I will bribe Bates if I must," he vowed, "and obtain false pa.s.sports. We can escape to the Continent." They could spend their lives together, even if she would not marry him. "I traveled much in Italy in my younger days," he added. "I would enjoy showing you the sights of that ancient land."

Though she smiled, Susanna shook her head. "Does everyone want me to run away? Have you no faith in my ability to find the real murderer?"

"Certes, you are clever and resourceful, but-"

"And I have sworn to present myself at the Sessions House in Old Bailey Street on the ninth day of May," Susanna reminded him. "No matter what happens between now and then, I mean to honor my word."

Chapter 20.

Edinburgh Castle January 17, 1565 Solemnly treading couples, the gentlemen in hats, cloaks, and gloves, followed the notes of sackb.u.t.t, shawm, and pommer to perform the steps of a courtly pavane. Formal, processional, and dignified, it required gliding steps that kept the feet on the ground.

Catherine, Lady Glenelg was grateful for small favors. She was still a novice when it came to dancing and self-conscious about her ability. This particular skill had not been considered important enough to study in Susanna Appleton's household, where Catherine had lived before her marriage. She'd have made a fool of herself and disgraced her husband here at the Scots court had she not been blessed with a new friend patient enough to teach a beginner.

Catherine forced a smile for Gilbert as her husband bowed to her, his weight on his right foot while he pointed the left. Her reverence was a curtsey in which she bent both knees.

Those knees ached. So did her head. Her feet hurt, too. Much as she loved him, at this moment Catherine wished she'd never agreed to accompany Gilbert to Scotland. For hours, she had been obliged to partic.i.p.ate in energetic dancing accompanied by over-loud music: galliards, where men laid aside their cloaks and danced in doublet and hose; the coranto, which used the same steps as the pavane but subst.i.tuted running and jumping for walking; the cinquepace, a still livelier form of the galliard.

These were all well and good in moderation, but Queen Mary of Scotland did not comprehend that concept. A frantic quality laced her endless celebrations. Worse, she seemed oblivious to the grumblings of the strait-laced Reformers who watched her every move. A clash seemed inevitable. When it came, England would be involved. The Glenelgs would be forced to face up to their divided loyalties.

Heels together, Catherine turned her body gently to the left, then to the right, a movement called "the branle." Although it was winter, her court dress felt too warm. The fitted bodice and tight sleeves constricted her movement.

Next she was required to execute a simple. Take one step forward with the left foot on the first beat, she reminded herself, then bring the right foot up beside the left on the second.

Tired as she was, Catherine had to force herself to concentrate, to count the steps and think ahead. She repeated the simple and followed it with the required double-three steps forward, then the right foot up to join the left on the fourth beat. After two more simples came a reprise, which consisted of standing still and moving her knees from side to side.

During the dance, the partic.i.p.ants toured the entire hall, past elegant tapestries of gilded leather and brocaded green velvet and cloth of gold. As they repeated the steps in varying combinations, backward and sideways, endlessly, Catherine stumbled only once. Gilbert was there to catch her.

"We have stayed long enough," he declared when the tune finally faded into silence.

She protested, but not with any enthusiasm. She had no wish to weaken Gilbert's position at court, but she suspected that no matter how many activities they joined in, the two of them would never be more than tolerated.

Catherine was English through and through. Her husband had been born and bred in England, the only child of an English father and a Scots mother. He'd pledged reluctant allegiance to Scotland only when he'd inherited his maternal uncle's lands and t.i.tle.

An hour after leaving the castle, the Glenelgs were back in the privacy and blessed quiet of their own bedchamber in their own house in Canongate, an area just outside the city walls of Edinburgh. Gilbert looked tired, Catherine thought, watching him pour them each a cup of wine. He worried too much. And he worked too hard. Even this late, one of the servants had been waiting up with dispatches for him to read.

"Leave those until you've rested, caro sposo." Catherine glided toward him to place one hand on his arm. With the other she removed her small velvet cap and shook her hair free of net and pins. If all else failed, she could always distract him by discarding bits of clothing until she wore nothing but her long white s.h.i.+rt with its smart white collar.

"One of these letters is for you, sweeting."

At the sight of a familiar seal, an apple pierced by an arrow, Catherine forgot her objections to reading the post. "Why has a letter from Susanna come by packet?" she demanded as she grabbed it. "Something must be wrong. Why else would a private message be sent through official channels?" Her first sharp, skittering sense of panic increased tenfold when she skimmed the letter. "Susanna says Robert is dead. Murdered. And that she stands accused of the crime!"