"Leave us alone, please," she said to the maids. The two girls scurried out of the room and Rodney stepped in. He stood looking at her as she stood with one hand resting on her small case and the other holding her brush. She shrugged and her teary voice came lightly. "I see no reason that I need leave this behind," she said, lifting the brush a bit.
"You need leave nothing, madam. Everything that has been yours is yours now."
She moved away from him and he watched her back as she spoke. "I would like you to send a coach and cart to Bellerose with the servants and most of the things that are packed. When they are gone I will need you to help me find passage out of England under a name that will draw no attention. I think I can supply more than enough money if it proves difficult."
"You could go to Bellerose and allow Lord Seavers to join you there when this skirmish is over. It shouldn’t last long."
"When I am gone you can join the rest of the staff in the country or wait here for Lord Seavers, whichever you prefer," she continued as if he had not spoken at all.
"You need not leave the country yet," Rodney informed her again. "You need not flee Lord Perry. I doubt he can hurt you."
She turned abruptly and Rodney saw the tears in her eyes. "Geoffrey would offer no solution save ending our bargain as it was meant to be. I will not let him tarry with his confusion while my risks grow." She swallowed and tried to control her tears. The gunfire from the battle at Lowestoft could be heard in the city and people rushed by land and water to get closer to it.
"I will go away. Lord Seavers can bury his wife and get on with his life. Perry can go straight to hell."
"Lord Perry may search for you," Rodney offered. "He may not accept your ‘death.’"
"In this time of plague? Let him search. I wish him luck."
"Reconsider, madam. The boy needs time and patience to—"
The brush she still held came down with a smack on the table beside her bed. "The man has had time enough!" she stormed, though her words came in a hushed whisper. "I think it time I set my sights on men and not boys!"
"He’s dealt with so much chaos and—"
"He’s dealt with nothing! That is why he is still a boy—because he cannot deal with his chaos and his problems." Her eyes watered and her expression grew softer, though troubled. "Good sir, I know you love him, but do you not see? He cannot act on his own mind, his own heart. I cannot wait upon our young lord’s whim. I cannot look into his cold eyes again and wonder if he will let himself love me or hate the very sight of me."
She shook her head. "It is time for me to leave. Find me passage or I shall have to do it myself."
Rodney dropped his head in disappointment. "I would prefer to change your mind, but if I cannot, then I am forced to make this as easy for you as possible. Your passage is arranged."
"Thank you, Rodney, I know it is difficult—"
"You have a visitor."
"No visitors now. Tell whoever calls that I’m preparing to leave the city because of—"
But even as she spoke, Rodney was pulling the door to her bedchamber open. There stood Preston, his hat in his hand and his rumpled light brown hair soaked with sweat. He must have only moments ago climbed down from a horse that brought him back to the city after his search for his sister.
As she looked at him, tears came again to her eyes. The expression on his face showed a wealth of knowledge. Rodney stood just paces aside as they looked across the room at each other.
"Alicia," Preston said, his voice soft and filled with emotion.
The brush fell from her hand and, with a cry, she flew across the room and into his arms. Through her mind flashed the memory of the boy who scolded, buttoned her red cloak, and helped her into a waiting coach. As he held her she imagined herself as a child; her tears were both fearful and elated.
"Alicia," he said softly. "My Letty..."
Thirteen
Not another day, lovey, not another minute. I’ve had my fill of your schemes and deals and should’ve known before I left the country that you toted a pack of lies from the first."
"There’s no place for you to go, save the streets, Charlotte," Perry said coolly. But for all his calm exterior, there was a rage burning inside of him that he found more difficult to control with every passing second.
"Ah, you’re wrong about that, love. I’m taking myself to the court and I’ll find someone there who’ll listen —"
Perry’s loud and cruel laughter rang through the small, filthy room. "You honestly think anyone will listen to you?"
Charlotte’s chin began to quiver, a thing that rarely happened to her. She was usually tough and clever enough to make the best of her hard luck...but now she was frightened. Every morning and every evening, the death cart moved through the street she lived on, and Perry was doing nothing to see to her protection. "I’ve a strange feeling you hope I die of plague," she told him, her voice softer than it had ever been.
Again he laughed, a low, sinister sound. There was a gleam in his eye. He looked around the room and reached finally for an orange that sat in a bowl filled half with fruit and half with garbage and rinds. He plucked a cloth article from the bowl and looked at it. "What is this?"
"Her ladyship’s purse, that’s what," Charlotte said.
"How did you come by it?"
"I saw her at the ‘Change and plucked it straight off her hand, that’s how. And told her I knew she wasn’t who she said she was." Charlotte gave a nod. "Scared her plenty, too."
Perry’s brow wrinkled as if in thought. The bitch had become a little too brazen for his purposes. "Did anyone see you?"
"No one knew me, Culver, thanks to you."
"It’s not my fault it didn’t work out better, but there’s still time enough to—"
"There ain’t no time, Culver," she said shortly, spreading out the sheet that covered the bed and throwing a dress onto it. It took Perry a moment of watching to realize this was Charlotte’s way of packing. "It’s true I’ll have me some trouble getting anyone to pay me any mind, but there’s things of my father and his father that I’m the only one to know; and once someone will listen, I’ll at least get my money."
Culver heard the bells tolling outside for the dead and shook his head sharply to remove the sound. He felt unusually hot, and he knew it had little to do with the weather.
"An’ if I can’t get anyone at the court to hear me, I think I’ll take myself to the chaplain. Or Lord Seavers. I don’t want to cause no one trouble—she can rightly have his lordship—I just want a piece of what my father—" She broke off.
"Damn me, Perry," she cursed, turning on him. "Do you have any idea how I hate you for the lies you told me? That Seavers was a wasting old man, that he’d spend all his money on ships—that one, that ‘Lady Seavers,’ she don’t look like she’s done without."
Perry watched her with a calmness that belied his inner turmoil. "I imagine you’ll be wanting your vengeance."
"I’d be the happiest woman alive if they’d hang you," she spat, turning to pick up an article of clothing from the floor and toss it onto her pile on the bed.
Perry began to open and close his hands, stretching his fingers and then making a tight fist. "You’re not the only one with regrets, pet," he said viciously. "I regret ever laying eyes on you."
"I don’t wonder at it, milord," she huffed, beginning to pull the comers of the sheet around her clothing.
Perry felt the knife from the fruit bowl in his hand before he realized his own intention. He moved toward her back.
"I’ve got to blame myself for listening to you, but everything else bad has been your—"
Her words stopped with a grunt and a foul gurgle as her hand went to her throat and she felt the knife piercing her and the blood running over both their hands. Her head turned slightly as she looked at him, her eyes glazed and wide, a trickle of blood coming out of the corner of her mouth. And then she fell motionless to the floor beside the bed.
Perry stood for a
moment looking down at her lifeless body and the bloody knife in his hand. He had no regret for killing her. He also had no plan. His movement had been spontaneous, unplanned. She caused more risk to him than she was worth. And the sight of the purse—she was not afraid to get too near the Seaverses. She would not be afraid to confront Geoffrey. Or the king.
He could not be ruined by a filthy, stupid whore.
"Bring out your dead. Bring out your dead," called the driver of the dead cart from the street below.
Perry wiped the knife on Charlotte’s dress and rushed to the window. "You," he called. "You there! Come up!"
"I don’t go in no plague house," the man cried back.
"There’s no plague here. I need help. I’ll pay."
The man driving the cart looked around briefly. The streets were nearly deserted.
"Don’t worry, man," Perry called. "No one’s going to steal it."
He reluctantly got down and walked toward the building, and Perry heard him coming up the stairs. The door was opened for him as he reached the apartment.
"Where do you take the dead?" Perry asked anxiously.
"For burial," the man answered, astonished at the question.
"Will you take this one and call it plague?" Perry asked him.
The man looked at the body on the floor and saw the blood soiling her. He looked back at Perry with wide, horrified eyes.
"Aye, she’s been stabbed. But I’ll pay you better money than you’ve seen picking up plague deaths if you’ll take her and forget my face."
"Be glad to help, gov’na, but if I takes a bloody body, somebody’s likely to ask me questions."
"We’ll tie something around her neck and you can say it was a lanced plague boil."
"Like to, Gov’na, but—"
"Twenty pounds," Perry said, knowing it would nearly wipe him out of funds.
The little man shivered a bit as he stood there. He was faced with a murderer, he knew that. Maybe the man would kill again. And twenty pounds was more than he’d earn this year.
"All right. Let’s hurry with it, chap."
Perry stooped over the body, pulling the sheet off the bed and tearing a long strip of it off. He wrapped the linen around and around the neck.
"They don’t usually get boils on the neck, you know," the man said.
"You can sneak her past," Perry said without looking up.
"Truth is, no one much likes t’look at ‘em."
"There. Take her out."
"You’ll have to carry her down. She’s a mite much fer me.
Perry grumbled and started to lift the heavy body.
"Ah, first me money..."
Perry halted his action and stood to dig through the inside pocket of his surcoat, pulling out a pouch and shaking its contents out on the bed. He separated two coins for himself and gave the rest to the little man.
The man smiled and counted while Perry struggled with his burden. Down the stairs and out onto the street he walked, looking about suspiciously, but seeing no one about. The man jumped back on his wagon and resumed his shouting without giving Perry a thanks, good-bye, or any further recognition. "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!"
He moved his cart along down the street for another few minutes, grateful that no one had answered his call. From behind him, a man’s voice called to halt him and he reined in his horse, turning to look.
"That body you brought out," the man said. "I’d like to see it."
The little man on the cart paled slightly. "I don’t have to show the dead," he argued.
"I’ll pay to look."
The man sighed and jumped down, going around to the back of the wagon.
"She’s not plague, is she?" the man asked.
"She looks like plague to me," the driver insisted.
"What did he pay you to put the body on the dead cart?"
The man shrugged. "I couldn’t take no pay."
"I’ll pay you double to hold the body back from burial just long enough for my employer to get a look at her. It won’t take me more than an hour to find Mr. Prentiss."
The dead-cart driver scratched his chin in confusion.
"My name’s Scanland. I’ve been watching the lass. I know she hasn’t been sick."
"I can’t tell plague. I just take the dead."
"How much?"
"Just to keep them from burying her? For an hour? I won’t even be done in an hour."
"How much?"
The little man broke into a broad grin showing his missing front teeth. "Forty pounds."
"I’ll give you twenty. And if you keep that body warm, there will be another twenty from Mr. Prentiss."
The man smiled and opened his palm. He took the money and climbed back on his wagon. He clicked his tongue and resumed shouting. "Bring out your dead!" And then he chuckled and talked to the horse. "Plagues been mighty good payin’ today."
The duke of York had commanded the English fleet, chasing the Dutch for over a month, sighting them at Lowestoft. Word was delivered to the palace by Pepys, the king’s diarist, that the two fleets faced each other. Seavers did not hear of the impending battle until after midnight, and then he questioned the rumor until sunrise.
Workers had been hurriedly put to the task of loading his remaining vessels, ships he had deemed nearly ready to sail, and his crews were pulled from inns, bawdy houses, taverns, and street corners. Some of the crew who appeared drunk could have been sick with plague, for they wobbled on board and perspired piteously, but Seavers concerned himself only briefly and let them either sleep, vomit, work off their drink or illness, or flee. Illness was everywhere; it would not stop for war. He would join the battle, however disabled his forces.
By morning he was nearly ready. The brief and anxious visit with his "wife" had slowed his pace briefly, but the moment she left he donned his coat and strapped on his sword. The Patrina pulled out and down the Thames ahead of three other vessels; the channel was crowded and confusing. He could already hear the gunfire, as could most of London.
As the Patrina drew nearer the battle, the explosions became deafening and Geoffrey’s pulse raced. By late afternoon he could see the fighting. A huge warship lay tilted on its side, fired, sails and masts dipping down into the sea. Specks scattered about the water proved to be human life struggling toward upright ships. He was still too distant to see blood, but he felt the blood of the wounded and his chest swelled with excitement, his cheeks flushed with the thrill of war and adventure. The sinking ship belched and jolted: her flag was Dutch.
His first time at sea he had puked for seven straight days. On his second voyage he had climbed the mast, and the sea winds burned his face and warmed his soul and he found his sustenance. Not very many years later, he was sailing on his own captaincy on a ship that rode proudly behind Prince Rupert. Just over a year ago he had sailed for England to New Amsterdam to fight the stinking Dutch, finding when he arrived that Tilden ships, outfitted primarily for trading, had joined the fight. They took the Dutch then and left that port with the name New York.
Geoffrey stood at the helm getting directions from the lookout and surveying the sea, counting the ships, identifying the English. He looked for the Letty all through that day and the next, but did not really expect to see her in the battle. Prince Rupert joined the battle late, and he, the greatest of Charles’s sailors, contributed mightily to the sinking of Dutch vessels.
Seavers fought both by fire and hand for four filthy days and nights and saw one opponent kiss the sea good morning: the great Dutch warship tilted in flames and sank out of sight within a short time. Blood stained his right side from a Dutch seaman he had stabbed as the vessels came abreast of each other, and a painful red flow stained his left side from the blade of an aggressor. His face was blackened from powder and soot, his clothes torn, his belly empty, but his spirits flying high. His guns breathed fire, and his men screamed battle cries and fought like Vikings.
Although the Dutch surpassed the English in ships and
wealth, at the end, the English sent the Dutch fleeing in their broken ships to report thousands of Dutch sailors dead. Nine Dutch ships were taken and more were sunk.
The English vessels returned home in victory, but they were wounded ladies of the sea as well. Filled with joyous and sunburned sailors, their bulging sides charred and split from the battle, the ships were welcomed by an ecstatic town of London. Bonfires lit the horizon and church bells tolled. It did not resemble the plague-torn city they had left behind.
Seavers could not let the excitement of battle fade from his soul, for it was that that sustained him. But there were times during the fighting when a vision crossed his mind and he had difficulty turning his thoughts elsewhere. He shrugged off this image of a dark-haired maid, with soft blue-gray eyes—his high-spirited lover—and raised his sword and barked his orders.
But on the return voyage he could do nothing to erase the pictures in his mind. He saw her clearly, her bright smile and her turbulent tears. He felt his emotions rise and fall as he thought in turn of her standing up to him and calling him a fool, and of her lying beneath him with her arms encircling him and her body moving with his.
She will not let me be, he cursed silently. She will never let me be!
During the hours his men needed his attention, his command, he could barely give them answers to their questions. He watched the sea, the scattered clouds, the crippled fleet returning with victory, and in everything he saw Alicia. He shook his head, but she would not fade.
"They’ll send me straight to Bedlam," he growled.
"Sir?" a passing sailor asked.
"Nothing. Nothing at all," Geoffrey insisted.
And the vision of Alicia in his mind laughed in good humor. "Do not fall in love with me, Lord Seavers. You may never be the same."