A Crowning Mercy (49 page)

She watched him that evening and saw a new Vavasour Devorax, a drunken man who blossomed in the company of the tavern and regaled them with hair-raising stories of battles old and recent. He sang songs, shouted jokes, and guarded her door that night with drunken snores where he lay on the floor outside.

They left the main road the next day and threaded their way across a fertile countryside. At one point, indistinguishable from the other places where they had stopped while men scouted the path ahead, Devorax gave an order that was greeted with a cheer. The men pulled off their orange sashes and brought out creased, white, royal favours. The sight reminded Campion of Toby. It cheered her up. Vavasour Devorax told her that they had pierced the ring of fortresses that surrounded Oxford. They were in Royalist territory.

Campion's spirits rose all day. She had not seen the country since she had been taken to London. The crops were nearing ripeness, the woods and hedgerows overflowing with greenness, and once, after Devorax had galloped the troop up a gentle hill, she stood her horse and stared at larks that tumbled their song in the free sky.

Vavasour Devorax looked at the happiness on her face. His voice was mocking. 'Try looking ahead of you.'

She did, and saw the silver thread of the river cutting across the landscape. Clouds threw vast shadows that mottled the countryside, but by the glint of the Thames, clear in the light, was Oxford. A city of stone, lavish with spires and towers, and surrounded by a vast, sprawling earthwork. The ramparts defended the King's new capital from his enemies in nearby London. Devorax looked at her. 'Looks good from here, yes?'

She nodded. 'Yes.'

'It stinks when you're inside.' He laughed, showing his big yellow teeth. 'Come on!'

He produced a paper that took them easily past the guardposts where the road went through the huge earthen wall. Guns pointed outwards from stone platforms dug into the walls' tops. They came to a second guardpost at the edge of the city proper, and again Devorax's paper drew respect from the sentries. An officer looked at Campion. 'Who's she?'

'The damned Queen of Sheba. Mind your own business.'

Once inside the city, Campion understood why Devorax said it stank. It did. It was horribly crowded, the streets seemingly busier than London. It was a university city still, though many of the colleges, Devorax said, had been taken over by the court or by the King's army. The royal court was based here, with all its servants, courtiers and hangers-on; the placemen who followed kings as gulls followed a boat. The city garrison was huge, many of the men had brought their wives with them, and the streets seemed impossibly full. There were refugees, too, people like Lady Margaret and Toby. Devorax spoke of them, his tone managing to subtly denigrate them. 'Your friends are lucky.'

'Why?'

'The good citizens of Oxford, in their love for the King, have doubled, re-doubled, and doubled again the cost of a room. However it seems that Lord Tallis has given Lady Margaret Lazender a lavish part of his house. This way.'

He knew his way about Oxford, leading her confidently to a narrow street near the city centre. Mason pointed to a house and Devorax stopped outside. 'Put her baggage down.' He looked at her. 'This is it.' He leaned from the saddle and thumped on the door.

Campion was excited, barely able to contain her joy at the reunion. She waited for the door to open.

Devorax scowled and knocked again.

The door opened and a maidservant looked timidly at the tall, grim soldier. 'Sir?'

'Were you asleep, girl?'

'No, sir.'

'Is Sir Toby Lazender here?'

'He's out, sir. Lady Margaret's here, sir.'

Devorax nodded down at Campion's baggage, then spoke again to the maid. 'Take it inside, girl. Hurry!' He looked at Campion, standing by the door. 'In you go.'

'Aren't you coming in?'

'What for? You think I want to make polite conversation?'

She shook her head, made to feel uncomfortable again. 'I must thank you, sir.'

'True. Have you got the seal?'

'Yes.'

'Look after it.' He gathered his reins and turned his horse. 'I'll send you a message when I need you. Don't expect anything to happen soon.'

She tossed her head, offended by his offhand manner. 'I don't expect anything, sir.'

'Good girl!' He laughed. 'Never expect anything! Then you'll never be disappointed.' He seemed pleased. 'And one last piece of advice.'

'Sir?'

'Stay away from the damned Puritans. They hate beauty.' With that he rowelled his horse, the hooves sparked on the cobbles, and he was gone. Campion was astonished, staring after the retreating troop. Had that been a compliment from Vavasour Devorax?

'Miss?' The maid was nervous. 'Miss?'

'Is Lady Margaret in?'

'Yes, miss.'

'Take me.'

She was nervous, excited, a hundred thoughts and emotions crowding her brain. She followed the maid down a long, gloomy, panelled passage and waited as the door was knocked on. An imperious, familiar voice answered.

'Come!'

'Miss?' The maid held the door open.

Campion hesitated. The voice came louder.

'Who is it? Am I supposed to guess?'

Campion went in slowly, almost hesitantly. There had been moments when she had dreamed of this meeting, when the thought of Lady Margaret and her son had made the horrors of the Tower seem less real, but she had never thought again to see the aquiline face with the grey, piled hair or hear the impatient, ordering voice. Campion stood facing the garden room and smiled. 'Lady Margaret?'

'Child!' And suddenly Lady Margaret was hugging her, clinging to her, saying unintelligible things in her ear, and Campion clung to the older woman until she was pushed gently away. Lady Margaret shook her head. 'You're crying, child! I thought you'd be glad to see me!'

'You know I am.' She was crying for sheer happiness and relief. They hugged again, and then talked as though they had only five minutes to meet. Campion was laughing and crying, talking and listening, clinging to the older woman's hand.

Lady Margaret pulled off the bonnet and poked at Campion's hair. 'You look quite dreadful, child. Didn't anyone cut your hair?'

'Dear Lady Margaret! They almost burned me alive. I didn't have time for hair!'

'Yes, dear, but we should always try to look our best when we die. First impressions are very important, Campion, and God may look on the inward things, but he's more of a fool than I think if he doesn't take a peep at the outer things as well.' She turned to a table and rang a bell. 'We shall take some wine, dear, then clean you up before Toby comes back.'

A door opened and Enid, Lady Margaret's own maid, came in. 'Lady Margaret?' She saw Campion, put her hands to her face in surprise and looked as if she would cry.

'Enid!' Lady Margaret frowned, enjoying herself. 'Have you seen a mouse?'

'It's you!' Enid ran into Campion's embrace.

Campion hugged her. 'Enid?' She wanted to cry again because of the welcome, the pleasure, the sense of being home.

Lady Margaret sniffed. 'It's hardly the Holy Ghost, Enid. Say something intelligent to Campion.' She smiled as Campion embraced Enid, waited until they had talked for a moment, and then ordered a bottle of malmsey wine. 'And after that, Enid, we'll have to do something with Campion's hair.' She frowned at the dress. 'It's nice of you to be in mourning for Sir George, dear, but I think something a little more joyful for Toby.'

Campion thought it best not to mention that the mourning had been for Old Tom. 'How is Toby?'

Lady Margaret sat down, back straight and head high.

'He swings between extreme misery when he believes you will not get here, and unseemly joy when he decides that you might. I can't think why. There are some perfectly beautiful and eminently well-born girls in this town, some of them with adequate busts. You've lost weight, dear. There's one girl in particular I tried to introduce, Lady Clarissa Worlake, but Toby's very stubborn. I can't think why.'

Campion smiled. 'Do you really want him to marry Lady Clarissa?'

Enid had brought the wine into the room. 'She'd have killed him if he had.'

'Enid! I've had occasion to correct you in the past!'

'Yes, my Lady.' Enid smiled over Lady Margaret's shoulder, then handed them each a glass of the sweet wine.

'How's his wound?' Campion asked.

'He's lost two fingers,' Lady Margaret held up the two small fingers of her left hand, 'which embarrasses him. He wears a glove. His shoulder's very stiff, but truly his recovery was remarkable. I quite thought he'd die on the way here.'

'When will he be back?'

'I thought you were happy talking to me!'

'I am, Lady Margaret, you know I am! As happy as I could be!'

'I doubt that, child, but you said it very prettily. Toby won't be back till evening, so we've plenty of time. You must tell me everything. You can leave, Enid, that table's quite adequately dusted.'

They talked through the afternoon, still talking as Lady Margaret and Enid cut and curled her hair. Caroline, who would have done it, was staying with her sister and brother-in-law. There was only Lady Margaret, Toby, and one servant apiece in Oxford. Lady Margaret chose a dress from among those Marta Renselinck had purchased and gave it grudging approval. She gave the story of the seals and the Covenant much greater approval. 'So you're rich?'

'If I assemble three seals.'

'It's very useful for a girl to be rich.' She had refused to take Campion's money draft, saying it must go to Sir Toby as head of the household. 'You say that noisome little toad Cony has two of the seals?'

'Yes.'

'And that quite horrid brother of yours is helping him?'

Campion straightened her stomacher, looking at herself in a long mirror. 'You haven't heard the best news.'

'Tell me, child.'

Campion turned to face Lady Margaret. 'I'm not a Slythe.' She blushed, not sure whether the truth was such good news to a prospective mother-in-law. 'I'm one of Kit Aretine's bastards.'

Lady Margaret, with her penchant for genealogy and erudition about the most extraordinary families, loved it. 'Kit Aretine! Your father! I'm so glad, dear, I'm so glad! I've often thought I didn't want Slythe blood in my grandchildren, but Aretine blood is really quite acceptable. There's Scottish blood there, but that can't be helped.'

'Scottish?'

'Sweet Lord, yes! Kit's mother was a McClure, with some heathenish name like Deirdre. A pretty woman, I believe, but definitely Scotch, though I think she lived long enough in England to lose the worst of that legacy.' She sniffed in disapproval of all things Scottish. 'So Kit's your father!'

'Yes.'

'And on the wrong side of the blanket! Well, we'll just have to ignore that. He always was a scoundrel. He was put in the Tower.'

'For calling King James "that Scottish thistle of ungendered prick".'

'You acquired some very charming language in prison, child.' Lady Margaret sniffed. 'Where is your father now?'

'In America, Maryland. If he's alive.'

'I see.' It was obvious that the mention of America did not impress Lady Margaret unduly. 'Will he come looking for you?'

'I don't know.'

'I hope his language has improved if he does. I imagine not. One can't think that the settlements are anything but uncouth.'

'I'm not sure I want him to come.'

'Don't be so very stupid, Campion. Kit Aretine was said to be the most handsome and witty of men. I've always wanted to meet him.' She stepped away. 'You look quite passable. Let me get you some earrings. And pinch your cheeks, child, you need colour.'

They sat in the garden, between shady pear trees, and Campion listened to the story of Lazen Castle and of how Sir Grenville Cony had expelled the family. The Lazenders, Lady Margaret said, were ruined. Their lands were gone, their money, their home too. Charles Ferraby, the ox-eyed boy who was to marry Caroline, had withdrawn his hand. No one needed a penniless bride. Only Lord Tallis, an old friend of Sir George, had offered help.

Hooves sounded at the end of the garden, a voice called out and a gate slammed. Lady Margaret cocked an ear. 'That's Toby, dear. Hide yourself.'

'Hide?'

'Of course! You should always surprise your men, it keeps them interested.'

There was a grassy space between high bushes, a space hidden from the house, and Campion waited there through the seconds that seemed like eternity. Her heart was thumping. She felt excited, as though she was a small child playing a thrilling and secret game. She heard boots in the passage that led beside the garden to the house, the sound of a door, and then, muffled but distinct, the sound of his voice. She had a sudden, terrible memory of the Tower, of the rats scrabbling on a cold, foul floor, and then Lady Margaret's commanding voice dragged her back to this lilac-shaded garden. 'Go into the garden, Toby. I wish to talk with you.'

She heard his footsteps on the flagstones that bordered the lawn. Then silence. She waited. His voice came again. 'Are you coming, mother?'

'In a moment, Toby. Don't be tedious. Tell me the time.'

His boots sounded again, this time muffled by the grass. Campion tried to compose herself, to make her face serene and calm. She patted the ringlets of her hair, and then she could see him, his hair red in the sun, his left hand gloved. He was dressed in black. He stopped at the sundial. 'It's nearly half past six, mother!' He turned, getting no reply, and saw the blue dress beneath the lilacs.

'Toby?'

She could not be calm, she could not be serene. His strong face was showing astonishment, joy, and then they were in each other's arms, his maimed hand was about her shoulders and her face was buried in his chest. 'Toby!'

'You're here.' He tipped her face up, and then kissed her tenderly, almost in wonderment as if he did not believe it. 'Campion?'

They kissed again, this time as if they would crush the one into the other, never to let go, never again to be parted. She held on to his rough, leather armour, clinging to him as if to life itself.

Lady Margaret's voice came from the house. 'Toby!'