His Duty, Her Destiny Page 8

  She discovered some of the answers to her questions about three hours later when Ramond returned as he had promised, bowing politely to two of his sister’s friends who were taking their leave of her. ‘Bit irregular, isn’t it, Nick?’ he said, throwing his felt cap down on to the window-seat and running his fingers through his thick hair. ‘All those chaps coming and going? Who are they, exactly?’

  ‘Just friends,’ she said, kissing his smooth cheek.

  ‘Don’t you have any women friends?’

  ‘Yes. Where’s Patrick? Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Thanks to Fergus he’ll be fine. Have you got any food? I’m starving.’ Brushing himself down with sweeps of his hand, he turned to wash his fingers in the bowl held by the servant, wiping his hands on the towel over the man’s arm. It was no imposition to Ramond to wear clothes of the correct length and colour prescribed for law students because, in his own way, he was content to be recognised as such. No jewellery, no ornament, no furs or feathers. Replacing his hat, he sat down to wait as food was brought from the kitchen: cold pies and roasts, herb-seasoned pasties, bread and salads and a dish of early wild strawberries. It was only when they were private again would he give her the news she waited for. ‘He’s at Fergus’s house on the Holyrood Wharf,’ he said. ‘You should just see it, Nick. As fine a place as ever you saw. There’s stabling for—’

  ‘Are you going to tell me about Patrick?’ said Nicola, watching her ravenous brother from across the table. ‘I know diplomats never get to the point if they can avoid it, but I need to know about him. How badly injured is he?’

  Unruffled, Ramond helped himself to a slice of lamb. ‘A glass of that very good wine, if you please? He’s pretty cut up, and sore, and I think he’ll be glad to stay where he is for a while. But he’s tough. He’ll mend. Fergus’s men are taking good care of him. Ferg says you can visit him tomorrow, if you wish.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he come and tell me himself?’

  Briefly, Ramond looked up from his plate. ‘Did you want him to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you think he ought to have done.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t have killed him, would it?’

  ‘So what’s happening between you two, then? Is it to do with Father’s promise?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was some relief in discussing the matter with Ramond, though even now she was not sure whether she had his full attention in view of the fast disappearing plateful of food.

  ‘And you’ve agreed?’ he said, still stuffing his mouth.

  ‘No, Ramond. I haven’t agreed. Nor shall I be doing.’

  He turned a chicken leg over to see where next to bite. ‘Right. So is that why you were holding hands?’

  ‘That’s his kind of persuasion. You know how he likes to get his own way.’

  ‘Well, I can see why he’d want to get his own way if you were the one on offer. Fergus is not a stroppy young lad any more, you know, nor is he daft enough to try to persuade you, just to prove that he can. If he’s offering for you, it’s because he wants you.’

  ‘That’s exactly what George said. But you’re wrong, Ramond. He’s offering for me because he promised his father he would. He was killed last year, you know.’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ‘He’s not going about it the right way, either.’

  ‘So how d’ye want him to go about it?’ he said, quietly, laying down his knife and his food and wiping his fingers on the napkin. Giving her all his attention at last, he said, ‘You want him to change. Is that it?’

  Suddenly confronted by his intelligent brown eyes, she found the question remarkably apt. ‘Well…yes. A little more gentlemanly humility. A little adoration…tenderness…an apology for…oh, you know.’ Spoken out loud, the list began to sound like the weak men she had sent away quite quickly over the last few months. ‘Is there so little softness in him?’ she whispered, thinking of the white rabbit.

  Ramond snorted, looking at her from beneath his brows and shaking his head. He leaned towards her, and she knew what to expect. ‘Nick,’ he said, ‘he’s Fergus. He’s never had much softness.’

  ‘Well, it’s time he learnt, then.’

  ‘No, it’s not that he doesn’t know, it’s just not the way he is. He’s direct, not subtle. He goes in a straight line, not round the mulberry bush. That’s how he wins. You can’t change that, or pine because he’s not like others. He’s not like others, is he? And there was a time when you admired everything he did, but, unfortunately, you were a wee lass and you got run over from time to time. But you’re not a wee lass now, love. You’re a woman. You can deal with it.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should have to deal with it, Ramond. I don’t want to.’

  Ramond was sure that she could. In her own way she was every bit as determined as Fergus. There had been many times when, just to prove she could go it alone, she had refused help, her elbows and knees bleeding from falls, her lip cut from the mock jousting she had been determined to join in, just to be near him. She would never have allowed Fergus to hold her hand if she had not still harboured some feelings for him. ‘I think you should,’ he said, admiring the sweep of thick lashes upon her cheek. ‘You’re not safe here on your own, Nick, with all these people walking in and out. Fergus can protect you.’

  ‘They’re friends,’ she insisted. ‘Stop worrying about me, Ramond. I’m safe enough.’

  ‘From those simpering swains?’ he said, tipping his head towards the door. ‘I should hope so. Who were they? Do they always dress like that?’

  Nicola doubted that he needed to know. ‘Ramond,’ she said, ‘would you do something for me? I need an escort. I want to go to Southwark.’

  With a quick dab at his mouth, Ramond laid the napkin on the table before answering. ‘Why on earth would you want to go there?’ he said.

  ‘Because there’s a tavern where a friend of mine goes. I’ve heard he gambles and I want to see for myself. This evening would be best.’

  Disapproval showed on every line of her half-brother’s face, from creased brow to tightened lips, and she knew she should not have asked. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said, standing up. ‘I have to be back at my lodging every night by nine. Rules, you know. And this evening I have to be present at a disputation. In fact, I’d better get a move on.’ Brushing aside the request as if it had hardly existed, he kissed Nicola on each cheek and held her at arm’s length. ‘Now don’t you worry about Patrick. He’s as safe as houses with Ferg. You’ll be able to see him tomorrow and I’ll come as soon as I can get away. Lovely meal. Thank you.’

  ‘You were right to come here, Ramond. God be with you.’ She walked with him outside to his horse.

  He smiled, detecting something in her demeanour. ‘Why not ask Fergus to escort you to Southwark, if you must go?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said, watching him take the reins from the groom. ‘We’ll see.’

  His foot was already in the stirrup when he hesitated and took it out again, handing the reins back to the groom. ‘Wait,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ said Nicola. ‘Forgotten something?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, slipping a hand under her elbow. ‘My priorities. Come and sit over here a while and tell me the real purpose of this visit to Southwark. They can manage without me this evening, and I can pay the fine for being out all night. Family first, love.’

  Resisting the impulse to throw her arms around his neck, Nicola perched on the mounting-block in the sunny courtyard while Ramond sat below her to listen to what Fergus had told her earlier that day about Jonathan Carey, Earl of Rufford. ‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she told him, ‘but it’s clear I must try to find out for myself. It would be sheer madness to go there on my own, or even with one of the servants, but if you’d come with me, Ramond, I could put the matter to rest. I like Lord John, but perhaps I’m not such a good judge of character as I thought I was.’

  ‘I agree that you must find out for yourself without Fergus being t
here. If you’re going to hear slander in front of witnesses, they must be impartial. But the Bear Gardens are no place for ladies to go, no matter what Fergus says.’ He swatted a buzzing wasp with his riding whip.

  ‘Then I’ll go as a lad,’ said Nicola. ‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Ramond. ‘What d’ye think George would say? Or Ferg, for that matter?’

  ‘They’ll not find out, will they? Look,’ she said, smiling at Ramond’s frown, ‘all we have to do is wait till suppertime and then join the crowds. You know how they flock across the bridge then, and you’ll be with your young brother Nick.’ She dropped her voice a tone, accordingly. ‘I’ll wager I can throw a dice and use a dagger as well as you, Ramond.’

  The frown vanished. ‘You always could, pest.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, all right. But don’t think I shall stay there a moment longer than need be. We find out all we need to know and no more. Understood? And I shall need to send a message to my tutor.’

  ‘To tell him where you’ll be, Ramond? Surely not!’

  ‘No, silly. To tell him where I’m supposed to be.’

  The village of Southwark lay on the opposite bank of the River Thames and could only be reached by crossing Tower Bridge or by taking a boat to one of the jetties. From the river, the impression was of fair orchards and gardens sloping down to the water, of thatched rooftops and a sprawl of timber-framed houses, the church tower of St Mary’s Overy—over the river—and the road leading southwards. On closer inspection of the congested lanes one could find a proliferation of bath-houses known to Londoners as ‘stews’, gaming and bawdy houses, noisy taverns and cockpits, bullrings and bear-gardens where animals were baited for sport and bets were laid, dens where thieves, and worse, plotted how best to relieve unwary visitors of their money or their virtue, or both. Here, in the thriving thronging thoroughfares of Southwark, well-dressed men and women strolled to see the sights and to enjoy a kind of fun laced with danger, to recoup money they had lost the previous night, or to eye the Flemish madames brought over especially for the purpose of private entertainment.

  Some of it, though, was far from private and very far from quiet. Women called to the two young men who sauntered along, the taller one of the two trying not to blush at the explicit suggestions thrown his way, or at the offers to show him what he might not find elsewhere. Failing that, there were signs painted on the walls facing the river, a boar, a swan, a bull and cardinal’s hat: there would be no excuse for mistaking the address here, or the prices that were called out by cheeky young lasses and their brothers. Lamps had already been lit; business had already begun.

  ‘This is weird.’ Nicola giggled. ‘I’d never have thought Lord John would come to such a place.’ Well used to dressing and behaving as a male, Nicola had no need to practice the stride or the swagger, the hands-on-hips stance as they watched street-corner gambling, the quick glance at pretty women and at the weapons carried by their escorts.

  As the laden wherries tied up at the jetties, apprentices swarmed in troubleseeking gangs, and Ramond nudged Nicola to one side as they passed. ‘Watch out!’ he warned. ‘It’s a may-ing time again. Better find what we’re looking for and get away before the rioting starts. I suggest we go to the Tabard and make some enquiries.’ It was, by coincidence, the shortest night of the year, when light lingered over the most distant reaches of the river, when it seemed as if all of London’s revellers had congregated in Southwark to cause as much mischief as they could at the Midsummer Night bonfires in an orgy of merrymaking that for most of them would end in a stupor or in a new day, whichever came soonest.

  By the time they had discovered where they might find Lord John and his drinking and gambling fraternity, Ramond was already doubting the wisdom of bringing his sister, for now her jaunty smile had begun to wear thin in the roguish masculine atmosphere around them. She was slight, her curves disguised by a thickly padded doublet that came well down over her hips, her hair enclosed inside a boyish plant-pot felt hat. And she was far too lovely to resemble anything except the most effeminate young man, which put Ramond in an unusually difficult position. He had seen people’s envious grins and their unwanted interest.

  They need not have been too concerned, however, about being recognised, for by the time they found the crowd they were looking for in a dimly lit and noisy tavern-cum-gambling-den, Lord John’s eyes were focussed only on the wayward dice spilling across the table, and it was clear that he had been drinking heavily.

  A shapely young woman tried to sit on his lap, but his bad-tempered push sent her hurtling into the arms of the spectators with an oath that took Nicola by surprise, coming from the suave companion she had been with only that morning. ‘Interesting,’ she murmured to her brother. ‘Another side?’

  ‘There’s always another side,’ he replied sagely, taking a sip of warm ale. ‘If we wait, we shall see more of it.’

  ‘How d’ye know?’

  ‘He’s losing.’

  Ramond was right. Lord John’s extravagant headgear now lay in a pile in front of one of the three other players, his dyed kid gauntlets folded on top in resignation. With an angry growl, the loser stood up and stripped off the sleeveless jerkin of padded velvet and laid it on the table with a flourish. ‘My best bloody pourpoint,’ he yelled at his companions. ‘Come on. You’ll not win that off me.’

  The three players leaned back, laughing. ‘I’ll wager you don’t get the Lady Nicola’s clothes off as fast as that, my lord. Do you? Eh? How long’s it going to be before you see a bit more of her?’

  Another one chipped in on the same theme. ‘Ah, she’s got him on a string, has the Coldyngham wench. He’ll not get into her shift as fast as he gets into his lady wife’s. Now there’s a willing woman for you. A fifth bairn in the pot, is it?’

  Nicola froze, feeling the hairs prickle over her scalp despite the stifling warmth of the stinking room. Was this what Fergus’s man had heard? Her good name being bandied around a dice table by half-drunk lechers? Heaven forbid.

  Ramond gripped her arm. ‘Do you want to go, Nick?’ he said, not bothering to lower his voice in the shrieking din of the room.

  ‘No…stay. Surely he’ll protest?’

  But, far from protesting, Lord John saw the chance to elaborate, if only to delay the moment when he would lose his jacket, and he fell back on to the bench with a laugh that rose to a grating falsetto. ‘Oh, no, my lord,’ he mimicked, contorting his face to a mask of primness, ‘the winner will be allowed to take me home, but no more than that. I’m a virgin, you see…’ the accompanying bellows of laughter nearly drowned out the next bit ‘…and no one must remove my kirtle.’ The voice changed, suddenly. ‘Virgin my foot,’ he roared. ‘The chit is no more a virgin than I am, I’ll bet my house on it.’

  ‘Your house? You’re serious, my lord?’

  ‘No, you fool. But I’m serious about taking the Coldynghams for a ride, especially the wench. Silly whore! She’s—’

  Ramond’s dagger was out of its scabbard before Lord John could tell them what else she was, pointing at the soft flesh of his throat in a very unaccomplished manner that betrayed his lack of practice. Even Nicola could see that this was a move motivated more by anger than ability. ‘Which Coldyngham in particular, my lord Earl?’ snapped Ramond. ‘Will any of us do, or must he first be as drunk as you?’

  ‘Ramond…Ramond…come away!’ pleaded Nicola, tapping his back. ‘Leave them to it, please. Please!’

  The three friends were rising to their feet, feeling for their daggers, and, as Nicola drew hers in defence, Lord John sprang back out of danger, laughing at Ramond’s threat. It happened very quickly, and Nicola wished with all her heart that she had accepted her brother’s advice to go before things got out of hand. They were no match for four ruffians of Lord John’s sort, used to tavern brawls.

  Grabbing Ramond’s arm, she swung him round to face the four of them with her beside him, praying that the wavering lantern flame would no
t illuminate her face. ‘Back towards the door,’ she whispered to him. ‘Quickly, Ramond!’

  ‘This dog has insulted my sister and my family,’ Ramond yelled. ‘He shall apologise to me, or pay the price.’

  Carefully, and insultingly slow, Lord John withdrew his dagger and smiled, a canine grin that Nicola had never seen till now. ‘Your sister, Coldyngham, is a teasing whore,’ he said. ‘Anybody can go in and out of her house at any time of day or night. It’s time she was taken in hand, lad. Come on, then. What are you waiting for?’ He held his arms out wide with hardly a glance at Nicola, though she knew that any move from her would be instantly countered.

  The situation was critical. ‘I’m waiting for an apology,’ said Ramond, taking a step towards him. Then, seeing that no apology was forthcoming, he snatched at Lord John’s abandoned heap of clothes and hurled them at his face, lunging forward as the Earl’s attention was diverted. All at once, there was a wrangle of men throwing tankards, pulling and pushing, hauling on necks, throwing punches and slashing with daggers, howling like demons, tipping tables and benches, sending bodies crashing to the floor with ripped clothes and bloodied noses. Ripe for a fight, onlookers joined in, swinging fists at anyone. Nicola was knocked to the floor under a table, hitting one of its legs with her head and sending her hat rolling away.

  She felt the collar of her doublet being pulled backwards and, despite her protests, she was hauled like a puppy into a space between several pairs of legs. ‘This way, young sir,’ said a familiar voice, implying a certain weariness with the process. ‘How many times a day do you have to be rescued, for pity’s sake? Come on. Stop struggling, lad. It’s me.’

  ‘You!’ Torn between relief and humiliation, she struggled to her feet while making a dive for Ramond’s arm just in time to prevent his dagger from sweeping across Lord John’s shoulder and, at that moment, the eyes of her accuser opened wide as if his drunkenness had for that split second been suspended. He recognised her, tumbled dark hair, furious eyes and all. And in men’s clothing.