Lovestorm (25 page)

Once those words might have meant something to me, she thought ironically. Now they mean less than nothing. There was no room in her life for Edward or his false promises. All that mattered was Cain and the child she carried beneath her heart.
I'm leaving you, Edward. I'm going home with the man I love.
She turned away from him without speaking and made her way wearily toward her apartments.

Elizabeth was halfway down the second-floor gallery when she heard hurried footsteps on the servants' staircase, and a man came around the corner.

“M'lady, I must speak with you.”

“Robert? Is something wrong with Cain—I mean Savage? Has his bleeding—”

The tall footman shook his head. “No, m'lady. He sleeps soundly. There is something wrong, but it's not with the Indian. It's Bridget.”

“Yes . . . Bridget.” Elizabeth looked up and down the gallery and stepped close to Robert. “M'lord says she stole from me and fled, but I don't believe it.”

“ ‘Tis a foul lie,” he protested hotly. “She's no thief. Lord Dunmore accused her and threw her off Sotterley without recommendation. She'll never be able to find another place as lady's maid, or even as house servant.”

“Who told you what happened?”

“A friend in the stables.” Robert's jaw tightened. “I'm leaving, m'lady. I'll not stay here without her. I'll not serve a lord who treats his people so unfairly. Bridget and I had plans to marry. I have to find her, but I don't know where she's gone. Would you have any idea at all?”

“Her sister Maureen's gone to Bristol with her new husband. I hear the plague is not so bad in Bristol. Mayhap Bridget went to Maureen.”

“Aye, it makes sense. She was close to her sister. But Bristol is a big place, m'lady. I know not where to search them out.”

“Sean's cousin works at a tavern called the Sea Cook's Locker. Bridget said Sean was hoping to find work as an ostler there.”

“Thank you, m'lady. I'll not forget you.”

“If you find her . . . when you find her, tell her . . .” Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from weeping. “Tell her that I know that Dunmore lies. I'll help her if I can.”

“ ‘Tis goodbye then, m'lady. I'll leave at first light. I've a bit of wages saved, and I'd not see his lordship again.”

“God go with you, Robert.” She watched as his broad shoulders disappeared around the corner. Father, Betty, and now Bridget. One by one, I'm losing everyone that means anything to me. Everyone but Cain. “And I won't lose you,” she whispered into the still room. “I won't.”

 

“Come in and close the door, idiot,” Dunmore said. “Is there naught but straw beneath that pate?” Thunder rattled the windows of his bedchamber, and driving rain beat against the thick glass panes. Dunmore lay propped up with piles of pillows in his poster bed; the only light in the room came from the fireplace and a single candle.

Tom wrung his hat between his callused hands and shuffled his feet. “M'lord,” he mumbled.

“Closer, damn you. I can't hear a word you're saying above this abominable storm.” Edward licked a bit of jam from his fingers and wiped them on the bedspread. Crumbs littered the front of his gown.

Head down, Tom approached the bed with slow, hesitant steps.

“You failed me, Tom,” Dunmore said. “You were the first to reach the lady. The sheriff told me. You found her, and you let her live.”

The groom shook his head. “Weren't no chance t' do fer 'er. The savage were there. ‘E'd a' kilt me, did I try and 'arm 'er ladyship.”

The earl frowned. “Where's the pistol I gave you?”

“Stable.”

“I want it back. Bring it here at once.”

Tom turned to go.

“Not yet! I haven't dismissed you, lack-wit. There's something else for you to do first.”

“Aye, m'lord.” Tom's eyes were dumb as a beast's in the flickering candlelight.

“You will go to Lady Dunmore's chambers in the tower. She is greatly distraught, due to her . . . ravishment by the outlaws. They did unspeakable things to her, you know—vile things.”

“She didn't say nothin' 'bout—”

“Would she, Tom? Would a lady speak to a groom about her defilement? Her loss of honor?” Edward's hands tightened on the silk bedcovering. “A tragedy for Sotterley, Tom, but not the first. A grandmother of mine threw herself from a window in the tower when her only daughter died in childbirth. She was mad, you see. As mad as m'lady.”

“ ‘Er ladyship din't seem mad t' me. Tough she were, not crazy.”

“You're wrong, Tom. Very wrong. That's why I am lord here, and you are fit only to shovel out horse dung. You will go to m'lady's chambers and throw her from the window. With the storm, no one will hear her cries. No one will know she's dead until morning.”

The groom's eyes took on a flicker of cunning. “Ye wants me t' murder 'er. I'm t' throw 'er from the tower window.”

“Excellent. You comprehend a simple command in your native tongue.” Dunmore smiled. “Keep working at it, and you may yet achieve the intelligence of one of my hounds.”

“I'm t' murder the lady, and then t' fetch ye the pistol.”

“Exactly.”

“Nobody will know I did it.”

“How could they?”

“Ladies got maids and such.”

“Not tonight, Tom. Once she was put to bed, I gave orders that she was to be alone in her chambers. Do it now, before the storm abates. When it's done, you'll be paid in silver.”

Tom exhaled sharply and nodded. “Aye, m'lord.” He left the earl's quarters and hurried down the dark corridors to the far end of the house. He met no one. He heard nothing but the wind, and the rain, and the crash of rolling thunder.

 

Elizabeth groaned and buried her head deeper in the pillows. The knock at her door came again, incessantly. “Who's there?” she asked sleepily. It was still dark, and the fire on her hearth had burned to orange coals. “Who is it?” Then she thought of Cain and rose from her bed.

She flung open the door. “What's amiss?”

The man had no candle.

“You're not . . .”

“ 'Tis Tom, m'lady. Tom the groom.”

“Tom? What are you doing here? Is the Indian-”

He pushed past her into the room and closed the door behind him. “Don't be afeared o' me,” he said gently. “I'd not 'arm ye, lady. But Lord Dunmore, 'e wants ye dead.”

“What?”

“Nay. Listen, quick. There's no time.” Tom gripped his cap in desperation. “Ye mun flee, lady. Flee fer yer life.”

Elizabeth began to shiver uncontrollably. “How do you know?” she begged him.

“He bid me come and throw ye t' yer death in the stones below. From that window, the lord said, like 'is grandmum afore. Say yer mad, 'e would. Say ye took yer own life.”

“But why do you tell me?”

“I'm a ‘ard man, m'lady. Born in a ditch, wi' no sire and little brain. But I can't murder no woman.” He cleared his throat. “I'll saddle ye the fastest 'orse in ‘is lordship's stable, that much I kin do. But ye mun save yer own skin, lady. Fer when one as powerful as 'im sets ‘is mind t' a thing, ‘e'll find a way. If not me, another, fer 'e's set a price o' siller on yer 'ead.”

Elizabeth's senses reeled as beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead. “Edward sent you to murder me?” she said in disbelief.

“Aye.”

“He offered you silver to throw me from my window?”

“Aye. Ye mun flee,” he repeated. “Whist the storm lasts ye may get away.” Tom shook his head. “After that . . . Ye've nay time fer women's weakness, do ye wish t' live.”

She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Yes,” she replied, “I must get away.” Not only me, she thought. I must save Cain as well. “I'll not bide here to be slaughtered like a spring lamb.” She took another breath, and the acrid taste of fear in her mouth began to recede. “Edward will not get the best of me,” she murmured, more for her own sake than for the groom's.

In the recesses of her mind, she heard her father's words.
Never forget, Elizabeth—you were born a Sommersett.

“Nay,” Elizabeth said, “I'd not have Dunmore think he'd won out over a Sommersett.”

“Y
ou must saddle three horses to ride,”

Elizabeth said softly, “and fetch three more to lead behind us. Summon Robert from his bed and tell him to make Savage ready to travel as best he can. They must both dress in plain groom's clothing—not Lord Dunmore's livery.”

“Aye,” Tom agreed. “ ‘Tis canny t' take extra mounts. ‘Is lordship could do no more t' ye, did ye empty ‘is stables of fine 'orseflesh. Robert is steady, ‘e'll guard ye well. But why do ye risk the wild man? Ye may as well carry Lord Dunmore's banner as ride wi' ‘is redskin. Be noticed, 'e will, wherever ye go.”

“We must chance it, Tom, for I cannot go without him.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “You've been a friend to me, but I've naught to reward you with. My jewel box is gone, and I've not a single coin to offer you.”

The groom shook his shaggy head. “Din't want no silver, lady. Wants ye safe away from the earl. A bad one, is ‘e, not like 'is father, the old lord.”

“Go now, and do as I bid you.” She squeezed his arm. “I'll not forget your help.”

When he was gone, Elizabeth lit a candle and hurriedly dressed in sturdy, sensible clothing. She pulled on her riding boots and rolled a few other items of clothing into a bundle and tucked them into a basket, along with the remains of her supper and a bottle of wine. Removing her second-best cloak from the chest, she started for the door, then hesitated when she spied Bridget's scissors lying on a table.

I'll cut his hair, she thought. Cain would probably object, but it would be easier to pass him off as an Englishman without his long hair. Pray God, he would be strong enough to ride so soon after his injury. But there's no choice, is there? For better or worse, the decision had been made for her. If there was any hope for Cain and their child, they had to make an escape now.

When she reached the stable, Robert and Cain were waiting for her. Tom was just saddling the last of the three animals. Cain was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His head was bandaged, and he wore a pair of plain baggy breeches and a dark homespun shirt.

Elizabeth knelt beside him and took his hand in hers. “Are you all right?” He nodded. “Fetch him a hat,” she said to Robert. I'll cut his hair.”

Cain grimaced as she removed the scissors from her basket and set about trimming his flowing locks in a servingman's style. “Iroquois,” he accused.

“I'd shave you bald if it would help us get away,” she said, covering the discarded hair with loose hay.

“I chose dark ‘orses, lady,” Tom said. “Grays show up too good agin' the forest.”

Robert's face was strained. “Do you know what you do, lady?” the footman asked.

“The lord seeks 'er life,” Tom said.

“Then I'm your man,” Robert pledged.

“Can you ride?” Elizabeth asked Cain. His chiseled features were washed free of blood, but nothing could hide the dark circles beneath his eyes or his raspy breathing.

“I ride,” he answered harshly.

Tom assisted Elizabeth into the man's saddle. “‘Tis best fer a long 'ard ride, lady,” he apologized. “A sidesaddle—”

“I can ride astride,” she assured him. “My brothers taught me when I was a child.” She motioned to Robert. “Put him up behind me.”

“He may not be able to hold on,” the footman cautioned. “He's too heavy for you to—”

“He rides with me,” Elizabeth said firmly. “Take a length of rope and tie us together.”

“Put me on my own horse,” Cain said, steadying himself against the animal's side. “I can ride.”

“I've seen you ride when you had a
whole
head,” Elizabeth said. “Put him on my horse.” Swiftly, Robert obeyed, securing Cain with a rope.

“ ‘Ave ye a safe place t' go t', lady?” Tom asked.

“We'll go to Longview, to my family's country house,” she said. “My brother's retainers will give us shelter.”

Minutes later, the three rode out into the pouring rain and turned their horses toward the London highway. The storm showed no signs of abating, and the rain soaked their garments and beat at their faces.

“Do you really mean to go to your family's country house?” Robert leaned toward Elizabeth and shouted above the rain. “This is not the—”

“We're going to Bristol!” she cried. “Bristol is on the sea.”

“Then why did you—”

“Dunmore will send men after us. If Tom relents and tells him where we rode, let them seek us anywhere but where we really are.”

Lightning struck on the far side of the meadow, and Elizabeth shut her eyes against the sudden flash of light. Her horse shied and broke into a gallop, despite the burden of two riders on its back. “Hold tight,” she warned Cain. “We ride fast and hard this night and into tomorrow.”

He laid his head against her back and tightened his hold around her waist. “Take me where you will,” he said, “so long as our trail leads home.”

 

The kitchen boys had just crawled from their pallets and started to build the charcoal fires in the great hearth when Tom returned to the master's chamber. No trace of light showed in the east, and rain still pounded against the glass windows. The tall marquetry clock on the hall landing had just struck five-thirty.

Lord Dunmore lay awake. His head had pained him through the early hours of the morning, and twice he'd had to leave his bed and seek the chamber pot. He'd gone to the windows repeatedly, knowing there was no way he could see Elizabeth's tower window from his room. He'd listened in vain for a woman's screams, knowing just as well that the storm would muffle any outcry she made.

He jumped when Tom tapped at the door. “Who is it?”

“Tom the groom, yer lordship.”

“Come in.” Dunmore peered at the man's face, trying to decide if his mission had been a success. “Damn you,” he snapped, “you're dripping water all over my floor. What have you been doing—swimming?”

“ ‘Tis rainin' out, m'lord.” He pulled the pistol out from beneath his rain-drenched cloak. “ ‘Ere be yer gun, yer lordship.” He laid it gingerly on a low table.

Dunmore swore a foul curse as he rose from his bed. “I know it's raining, dolt. Do you think me deaf, I cannot hear the rain and thunder?” He hobbled toward the groom. “Well? Did you do it or not? Is she dead?”

“No m'lord, I couldn't throw the lady from the tower window as ye asked. I'm done wi' killin'.”

“You fool!” Purple veins bulged on Dunmore's forehead. “Again!” he screamed. “You dare to come here and tell me you failed me again?” He walked to within an arm's length of Tom, raised his walking stick, and slashed him viciously across the face.

Blood welled up on the groom's face as he ducked out of reach of Dunmore's fury. Tom's features hardened. “Lord or not, ye've nay right t' strike me like a dumb beast.”

“Strike you! Strike you, you dog's vomit! I'll kill you!” Dunmore staggered toward him and lashed out with his stick again.

Tom caught the end of the cane and twisted it out of his master's hand. He snapped it across his knee. “No more,” he threatened.

Dunmore swore and lunged toward the pistol on the table. Tom sprang as the lord's hand closed around the weapon's grip. Dunmore fought with surprising strength, and the two fell to the floor, struggling, and rolled over and over, each striving for posession of the gun.

Thunder muffled the sound of the explosion. Dunmore cried out once and then fell back, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Shaken, Tom rose to his feet and stood with the smoking pistol in his hand until Dunmore's body ceased to twitch, then he stepped over the spreading pool of blood and put the weapon into his lordship's hand.

“Ye got it wrong, m'lord,” Tom said. “ ‘Tweren't ‘er ladyship what killed ‘erself out o' shame. ‘Twas ye. Ye couldn't bear the shame o' another man beddin' yer lady when ye could nay mount ‘er yerself. Poor ailin' lord. Yer sickness musta touched yer mind.”

Smiling in the darkness, Tom backed from the dead earl's chambers and closed the door tightly behind him. “ ‘Tis the stables and a warm bed fer old Tom,” he murmured. “And I'll be as sorrowed as the next when word o' me lordship's death comes belowstairs.” He sighed. “And ‘twas jest as ye said, m'lord. ‘Twas easier the second time.”

 

The journey to Bristol was not one that Elizabeth would wish to repeat in her lifetime. They traveled mostly by night and slept by day in ruined churches or barns, and once even in the shelter of a great hedge. Cain's wound gave him a fever. For four days he was too sick to ride and they had to trade one of the riding horses for the privilege of camping in a farmer's stone sheep shed. They ate rabbits that Robert snared, and stale bread, and sometimes nothing at all.

They rode the horses at breakneck speed until the animals' sides ran with sweat and foam sprayed from their mouths. When the roan mare went lame, Elizabeth traded her to a tinker for two flea-ridden blankets, a kettle of hot stew, and a tin of powdered dovesfoot to curb Cain's infection and lessen the fever.

“The gypsy will hang if he's caught with one of the earl's horses,” Robert reminded Elizabeth as they rode from the tinker's camp.

“True enough, but a man who makes such poor stew deserves to hang.”

On the eighth day, Cain was strong enough to ride alone, and although they were down to three horses, they made better time. They'd seen no sign of pursuit, but none of them was willing to relax his guard.

“Lord Dunmore will see us all in hell,” Elizabeth reminded Cain and Robert. “He'll stop at nothing to find us, and his gold will buy many favors.”

Cain's hand went to the hilt of the knife he wore strapped on his waist. “No one will take you while I live,” he promised her in his native tongue.

She shook her head. “We must all live.”

“Amen to that,” Robert agreed. “I've no wish to meet my maker with four inches of steel in my gut.”

Refugees fleeing from London's plague clogged the roads and made travel on the highways difficult. The villagers' fear of the black death made all strangers suspect, and after one farmer shot at them, the three learned to keep off the roads and away from settled places. They sighted troops of soldiers almost daily; once, they barely escaped a roadblock at a ford in a river.

Cain pulled his hat low over his face and kept his head down whenever they passed anyone on the road. They took turns sleeping and keeping watch, venturing to make human contact only when hunger made them desperate. And when they did seek food or a place to sleep, it was usually Elizabeth who did the bargaining.

“You be as sharp as a peasant wench,” Robert said admiringly as they divided a roasted hen. “Begging your pardon, m'lady, but I'd never have thought of giving scissors for my dinner.”

“Bridget's scissors for her mistress's chicken,” Elizabeth replied with a grin. “I'd say the bondwoman made the best of the deal.”

“Aye, there's something to that, but the farther we go from Sotterley, the more you sound like my own sweet Bridget and less like the grand lady you are.”

“I do what I must.” Her eyes met Cain's. “We all do what we must.”

On the evening of the twelfth day, they crossed the Avon and reached the outskirts of Bristol. Cain and Elizabeth waited in a shadowy lane near a small church, while Robert rode in to try and locate Bridget's brother-in-law at the tavern. As they grazed the horses beside the tombstones, a wedding party came out of the church.

The young bride's laughter drifted through the peaceful graveyard, and Elizabeth felt a pang of regret. Her hand went unconsciously to her belly, and she drew in a deep breath. “Are we truly wed in the eyes of God, Cain, or is this child I carry to be born in bastardy?” It was the first time she had voiced the fear that had plagued her since she'd first realized they had created a babe. It was also the first time she had spoken to Cain about being pregnant.

He chuckled softly, put his arms around her, and pulled her against his chest. “This one knows of the child to come, Eliz-a-beth. It gives me joy.”

She nestled her head beneath his neck, letting her fingers trace the line of his jaw. “How did you know?”

“Your body tells me. Are you sorry we make this little one?”

“No. I want your child, but . . . How can we be married? You're not even a Christian.”

“No, and you be not of the true people—the Lenni-Lenape. My God cares not. He opens his arms to all children of the earth.” He kissed her hair, then tilted her chin to place a gentle kiss on her lips.

The kiss was sweet, but it did not quell her concern. “To be born a bastard is a terrible thing,” she said when their embrace ended. “If I've sinned, our child will carry the stain forever.”

He laughed. “How can
ommamundot,
a child, have sin before he draws birth? The English are wrong. A child is good. A child belongs to Wishemenetoo. He is only . . .” Cain frowned as he searched for the right word. “. . . loan to parents. A gift of joy. This word you say
—bastard—
this one does not understand. Wishemenetoo's gift can only bring honor. If there is bad, it rests on head of mother and father, never
ommamundot.”

Elizabeth looked up into his face. “Would you speak the marriage vows before a clergyman of my faith?”

“No English shaman would say the words for us.”