Geoffrey Condit (21 page)

    “The food maybe tainted, poisoned, Sir James,”  Peter explained.

    “Poisoned?”  Caxton pushed himself back from his desk.

    Peter related the duke’s threat on the cathedral steps.  “We believe he meant to kill you.  We couldn’t think of anyone else who fit his description.”

    Caxton wiped his finger on a napkin.  “Bring in the new cook, Miles,” he said, face grim.  “Peter, you and Lady Catharine stand in the shadows of the antechamber.”

    Two armed retainers hustled the angry cook into the room.  The man ran thick pudgy fingers over two days growth of beard.  “What be the trouble, yer worship?”

    “We need you to taste this food,”  Caxton said, face impassive.

    “Me Lord, I made this dish especially fer ye.  It be too good fer the likes of me.”  The man’s cocky smile, and nervous hands contradicted each other.  He searched Caxton’s face.

    Catharine stepped out of the shadows.  “He’s the cook from the
Sow’s Ear,
my lord.”

    “Well, of course I be.  I be well known fer me fine foods.”  He wiped his nose on his sleeve, defiant.  “My lady is correct.  I was lured over here with the promise of great reward.”

    “Perhaps for the death of Sir James Caxton, Master Cook?”   Catharine stepped up to the sweating man.  “So you remember me?”

    “I had no idea who you were.  Even now.  Since when does a noble lady dress up like a commoner and abuse the people?”  His voice indignant, rose.  He jerked his head to the window, then darted for the unguarded door.

    In two quick strides Peter collared the squirming man, and slammed him against a wood pillar.  “You are the second unpleasant creature the duke has aimed at us.  Why did he send you?”

    “The thoughts of great lords are not shared with me,”   the cook said. “I was paid well.”  Hate burned in the man’s eyes.  Then he smiled, terrible and aware. “I almost did it.”  He turned his greasy unshaven face to Caxton.  “So when do you hang me?  Let’s have it done and over.”  He spat in the floor rushes.

    Caxton’s diamond hard eyes bore into the man.  “Make no mistake, you will hang, but there is no hurry.  You can tell us a great deal.”  There was no doubt in Peter’s mind the man would tell everything he knew before he died.  An armed retainer lashed the man’s hands behind his back, and hobbled his legs, and led him away.

    Catharine moved to Peter’s side.  He smiled relieved.  “I’m glad we got here before he was successful.”  Catharine shivered.

    Caxton waved at the food.  “Bury this mess.”  A servant removed the plate and wine.  Caxton turned to Peter and Catharine.  “Thank you for the message last night regarding Buckingham raising a rebellion.  Agents are infiltrating  his estates searching for evidence.”  A servant appeared with goblets of light ale.

    Caxton hoisted his goblet in salute.  “Everything you have given me has proven true.  The King has been alerted.  He is mustering troops discreetly, and contacting  key trusted lords.  Jack Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, is moving into Kent even now.  Sir Ralph Assheton has been named Vice Constable to be in place if needed.”

    Peter sipped the ale, feeling grim.  More dynastic wars. “At least we don’t have a child for a King, with squabbling and competing nobles on the Regency Council.  One way or another we need a strong King.  And we have one.  I have a hundred men-at-arms I can take where the King commands.”  He felt Catharine’s body stiffen at his side.

    “At the appropriate time, my friend,”  Caxton said.  “Have your master-at-arms begin gathering your men at Trevor’s Mist.  Let’s pray this is a fool’s errand His Grace of Buckingham is embarking on.”

    “Don’t look so gloomy,” Peter said to Catharine as they lay on the high bed in their sleeping chamber that evening.  A fire crackled in the hearth.  Catharine twirled her wedding ring on her finger.

    “We almost lost to Buckingham today.  In a few more moments Caxton would have been dead.  It was so close.”

    “Is that what’s bothering you?” Peter asked.  He covered her hand with his.

    She rolled onto her back.  “I mean, here we have finally made a real beginning, and it may be taken from us.”

    “Like your family, and the war?” he said.  She trembled, the unshed tears building in her eyes,  He wanted to hold her, to comfort her, to shut the world and all its hurt away, but he knew he could not.

    “Yes.  I don’t know if I could bear that again.  I have already lost one family.  I can’t let it happen again.”

    “We have Bess,” he said, feeling her anger.  “I know you’ve grown close.”

    “No. You don’t understand.”  She put his hand on her stomach.  “Peter, I am with child.”

    Peter sucked in his breath.  He could hear his heart beating.  “A child?  God!”  he said, exultant.  And gently lay his ear to her stomach.

    “Silly.”  She giggled. “I’ve missed  my months flux by two weeks.  You won’t be able to hear the baby for several months yet.”

    He raised his head, pleased beyond measure.   “That’s why you’ve been sick this week in the morning.”

    She turned bright red.  “True.”   She captured his hands and he felt the hard wedding band.

    “When did you suspect?”  he asked.  She blushed.

    “I mean,” he went on, “my mother said she dreamed of me before her body knew.”  He felt awkward and impossibly happy at the same time.  A child!  Their child!

    “Now do you understand my anger?”  She ran her fingers through his thick wavy hair.

    “You saw how frantic I was when Bess was kidnapped,”  Peter said.  “Since accepting the mischievous creature as my daughter,  I’ve known a silent terror of maybe losing her.  And now you.  But we can’t live like that.  It’s the joy and the caring we need to celebrate.”

    “And if there are evil men besetting us?”

    “We do as we have.  Deal with them one day at a time.”  He stilled her lips with his own.

13

The mid morning sun arched higher in the clear blue sky.  Catharine pulled the green wool cape close about her shoulders, and snuggled closer to Peter, who raised his eye-brows, and whispered, “Really?”

   She slapped the blue silk hose on his thigh, and received a low laugh of pleasure for her half-hearted efforts.  They sat on a marble bench in the enclosed garden at Trevor House watching breezes chase autumn leaves across the pool.  A marble relief of two fawns by Luca Della Robbia stood by Catharine.  She touched the frieze marveling at their life like quality.

    She turned her wedding ring on her finger, and knew a fierce protectiveness toward Peter and wonder at this unknown child growing in her womb.  The blossoming joy of their new relationship was tempered by her anger that one person could threaten their future in such a final manner.

    “What is in the sealed letter in your hand?”  she asked, curious.

    He’d been pleased, and humming quietly since he’d come out fo his study to join her in the garden. 

    “A letter of title giving a third manor to Sir Anthony Will.”

    “Sir Anthony?”  Catharine looked up into Peter’s face, realizing that she didn’t see the scar anymore.  It wasn’t important.

    “I’m sorry.  I thought you knew.  Anthony is one of my household knights.  The men in his family, back to his great grandfather, have served the House of Trevor as household knights.  He fought with me at Tewkesbury.  At my side.  We have a long history together.”

    “But three manors?”  Catharine tossed a pebble into the pool.  “My father only had three. You’re so open handed.  My father’s family was tightfisted.  I don’t understand.”  Catharine knitted her eye brows together.

    “A lesson we learned generations ago,”  Peter said, tapping the sealed letter on his knee.  “The flow of largess, money and goods, comes when it isn’t restricted.   You let it flow out in a generous and practical manner, and it will flow back in.  Rather like the tides in the sea, my father said.”  He stretched his legs and took a deep breath.

    Anthony appeared in the door to the garden. “My lord,  My lady.  A gentleman requests an audience.  He is incognito.”  He cleared his throat, eyes lighting.  “He say he had the honor of almost being run over by a farm horse.  He said you’d understand.”

    Peter chuckled.  His wide face crinkled into a grin.  “Harry Barristar.  Show him in.  But first, I have the deed to your third manor.”  He handed the letter to Anthony.  “It joins the other two, and has been recorded.  Your service to our house would be hard to measure.  I am most grateful.”

    Anthony broke the seal, and stared at the paper, face delighted.  “Thank you, Peter.  You are generous.  I will show the gentleman in.”  He bowed and left.

    Peter turned to Catharine.  “As my chief steward and closest friend, his advice and help cannot be measured financially.  But his reward is for his loyalty and commonsense.”

    “Harry Barristar,”  Catharine said.  “I wonder what he wants?”

    “The lawyer working for Buckingham.” Peter rolled his shoulder.

    “Does it still hurt?” she asked, thinking about the days of care and healing after the accident with the runaway horse.

    “It’s still does sometimes, but the range of motion is normal.”  He grimaced.  “But it’s my sword arm.  That’s not good.”  He shook his head.  “I have no idea what he wants.  I’m just glad when I was taken to the Tower on that false charge, Barristar advised the duke against confiscating our property.  That’s worth something.”

    When Harry Barristar came through the garden door, Peter was standing next to the low bench where Catharine sat.  She felt Peter’s heavy ankle length robe brush against her arm, and touched the fur edging.  A brief breeze flipped the bottom of the robe, revealing the white spotted ermine lining.

    Covered in a monk’s robe, Barristar bowed and threw back the hood, exposing his fine blond hair and beard shot through with grey.  His hawkish nose and twinkling blue eyes lent a pleasing cast to his lean face.  “Lord Trobridge and Baroness, it is good of you to receive me.  Forgive my attire please. I couldn’t allow anyone to know of my coming.  My health might suffer ...  if you understand.”  

     “Of course, Mister Barristar.  Your health is quite safe with us,”  Peter said, smiling. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”  He gestured to a servant for refreshments.

    Barristar’s face closed, becoming grim.  “I could not stomach it anymore, my lord.  His Grace’s disgusting fixation with your wealth.  I have learned that there’s a man planted to poison Sir James Caxton.  The duke thinks if Caxton is removed, there is nothing to stand between you and his will.”  He stopped, in much distress.

    “Did you hear this from the duke’s own mouth?”  Catharine’s heart leaped in her chest.  She sat straighter.

    “No.  But his chief steward, Adam Owensby, made no secret of the duke’s purpose,”  Barristar said, twisting the rope belt at his waist.  “His Grace censured him for a loose tongue yesterday evening,”  Barristar said.

    “You’ll be happy to know we foiled the poisoner yesterday,  Mister Barristar,”  Catharine said, relieved.

    “Thank God,”  Barristar said, letting out a deep breath.  “I was worried I’d be too late.  The duke is getting impatient.”

    A servant appeared, passing out goblets with watered wine and small cakes with almonds and sugar.

    “May I be candid, Lord Trobridge?  The duke does not have the capacity to invent this continuing conduct.”  Barristar hesitated.  “The man has plenty of anger, spite, vindictiveness, but an inventive mind he has not.”

    “Who would be this inventive?”  Peter mused. “It has to be someone who would seem important enough for the duke to want to listen to him.”

    “Why not a woman?”  Catharine said.  “Lady Stanley?”

    Barristar shook his head.  “No, my lady.  Lady Stanley only interest is seeing her son on the throne.  She works in fits and starts without laying plans beyond the moment. And her steward is Reginald Bray, a scheming self-important idiot.”  He sipped his wine thoughtfully.

    “Remember,”  Peter said, brow knotted, “when Lancaster was beaten at Towton in ’61?  No one thought York could possibly be dethroned after that.  But in ’70 a coalition sprang up forcing Edward to flee to the Low Countries.  The man reputed behind this was a priest called John Morton.  A man of guile and unholy luck.  He even sat on the York Privy Council.“  Peter eyed Barristar.  ”What do you think?“

    “Morton at it again?  Could be.  He’s cut from the mold.”  Barristar hunched his shoulders in a shiver.  “The man’s in Buckingham’s custody since the conspiracy revealed in the Council Chamber.   A judas priest to be sure.  That would account for the couriers,”  Barristar said, “coming and going at all hours.”

    “A plotting churchman who should’ve been executed as soon as his treachery was discovered,”  Peter said, voice bitter.  “York’s greatest mistake.  You can destroy a blood witted baron, but a silver tongued like Morton can inspire a gale force rebellion, killing thousands and tens of thousands.  Does His Grace want to raise a rebellion?  He has enough royal blood to take the throne.”

    Barristar sat in silence, preoccupied with the idea.  “I have heard nothing of it.  But I am kept at arm’s length.   It is possible.  He is Lucifer proud of his  royal lineage, and lets no man forget it.”  Then his face lit with a sickening dread.  “Jesus wept, it is possible.”

    “I saw you with Carnahan at Lady Stanley’s,”  Catharine said.  She tipped her goblet accidentally, and a splash of red stained the flagstone at her feet, touching her velvet slipper.

    “I remember,”  Barristar said.  “I was used as a courier.  The duke had run out of men at the moment, and didn’t trust Carnahan.  The man is too given to his passion with pain and hurt.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “It was a letter he wanted delivered to Lady Stanley.”

    “Bishop Morton was there at the time.  So was his nephew, Robin Nesbit,”  Catharine said.  Barristar snorted.  “You know the man?” she said.

    Barristar grinned.  “He’s known as Morton’s nephew, but the man’s really his by-blow.  He’s a priest given to all earthly pleasures.  A scribe on the side.  Earns enough money to support his physical appetites.  Believe it or not, Nesbit is Morton’s private chaplain.  But there’s nothing godly about either of them.”

    Catharine and Peter exchanged glances.  Peter said,  “ Nesbit is dead.  He was killed in the ambush aimed at Sir James Caxton.” 

    Barristar nodded.  “I heard  of the ambush.  But not about Nesbit.  All London is agog.  That someone would attack members of the King’s personal household in broad daylight.  If the target was Nesbit, he would have known a great secret, and someone feared what he would say.”  He stood.   “Thank you for receiving me.”

    The chiseled beauty of blond grey hair  and hawk nose disappeared under the monk’s cowl. “I’m sorry my information didn’t help, but pleased the culprit was caught without damage to Sir James.”  He bowed, and handed  the servant  his silver goblet.

    “Thank you for coming, Mr. Barristar,”  Peter said,  “If you decide to leave the duke’s employment, come to me.  How are your injuries from the experience with the horses?”

    “Well, thank you.  I fared much better than you, my lord.  Your kindness is not forgotten.  If I maybe of further service, you have only to ask.” He bowed. “My lady.” And was gone.

    “I can see why you liked him when you lived in Buckingham’s household,”  Peter said.  “A straight forward fellow with an appetite for justice.  Just what a lawyer should be.”

    “He was much liked when I was there,”  Catharine said, taking another almond cake.  “I spent many of my days with the Duchess Katharine.  His Grace was rarely around.”

    “At least we have the poisoner out of the way.  They are the most insidious of people, I think,” he said.  “They work with the instruments of secrecy and treachery, without moral bond or conscience.  I can’t think of anything worse than that.”  He shuddered involuntarily. “God spare us such creatures.”

    “I can’t help but feel this dinner is premature,”  Catharine said, five days later, as they advanced into Sir James Caxton’s large manor house near Newgate.  Fear and uncertainty had oppressed her since saving Caxton’s life.  “Everything is too,” she struggled for a word, “convenient.  Easy.  It doesn’t set right.”

    Peter reached over and pressed her left hand resting on his right.  “I know the feeling.  I’d like to banish them, but they’ve usurped their way into my mind also.  The question is, what is our wily duke up to now?“

    Catharine inhaled the fresh rain-scented air, but rejoiced in the sunshine which burned away the clouds of early morning.   The late afternoon banquet promised to be a delicious affair.  Peter had loaned their staff of cooks to Caxton for the meal.  Already the tempting aromas of roast venison with honey, baked sturgeon with ginger and cinnamon, succulent goose stuffed with chestnuts and bread with herbs and butter emanated across the manor.

    They entered the manor house door, and Catharine caught her breath.  Caxton met them looking grey and worn.  He saluted her cheek, and shook hands with Peter.  “I’m sorry.  A minor argument with my stomach,  I’m sure.  It struck me two days ago, and has left me no rest.”  He gestured .  “Come into the solar while supper is being prepared.  At least we don’t have to worry about the food being poisoned.”  He lead the way into the sun filled wainscoted room.

    Tall windows opened on a small splendid garden, now lying tidy but colorless except for the green grass and ground cover.  A door to the side of the solar lead to the buttery, where the ale was made and wine stored.  Miles Northrop entered, and bowed. “Everything is in order, my lord.  Greetings Lord Peter and Lady Catharine.”   He looked to Caxton.  “We’ve been trying to wrest the discomfort from Sir James, but without success.”  The meticulous man looked genuinely distressed.

    “I’m sure it will pass,”  Caxton said, gesturing them to the settle to sit.  “My agents tell me His Grace of Buckingham is planning to ride north to see the King, then go west to visit his estates.”

    Peter said,  “The duke will probably raise his banner soon, after he reaches his estates in Wales.  The King would do well to arrest the man during the visit.”  He stepped to the window to stare out at the garden.

    Catharine too remained standing, and moved to a tapestry hanging next to the entrance to the buttery.  The scene was that of a fleeing stage escaping huntsman.  A spear had embedded itself in a tree next to the shoulder of the deer. She ran her fingers over the close stitching.

    “The evidence is of strong suspicion.  The King will not act unless more is forthcoming,”  Caxton said, placing a hand on his stomach and grimacing.

    “More is the pity.  Bloodshed could be prevented if the King acts,”  Peter said.  “I’ve half a mind to go north myself to plead the case.”

    “Not a good move, Peter,”  Caxton said, rubbing his stomach. “Evidence is still being gathered.  To tip Buckingham’s hand this early wouldn’t expose those who support him and his treachery.  The King needs the names of the southern lords who would rise against him.”