A Lady’s Secret (6 page)

P
etra almost wrenched it open and ran back out again, but she was being ridiculous. So these people were poor and from the smells, unclean, but they offered what they had. She gathered her manners and thanked her hostess again.

The woman grunted and waved her to a seat.

A table took up half the room, with a crude chair at head and foot and a bench down either side, but some wooden chests against the walls could also be seats. Petra walked to one of those, not liking the way the floor squished. It was covered with rushes, but clearly they lay over earth and the rain was seeping up.

These poor people. At least they had a fire, burning in a hearth that made up most of a side wall. On either side shabby curtains hung over arches that must lead into the other half of the house. They had food, too, for a cooking pot hung over the fire, attended by an ancient, humped-backed woman. The old woman was staring at Petra—if she could see out of eyes so pouched. Her yellowish skin lay thinly over bones, giving her an almost skeletal appearance. Petra found a smile and wished her a good evening.

The woman grunted, swigged something from a flagon, and returned to her pot.

Petra sat, trying to gather her cloak around her, both for warmth and to stop it trailing on the dirty floor. The few windows were high and shuttered and she doubted they had any glass in them, for drafts wavered the solitary candle on the table. From the smell, it was tallow, but there were other smells, and some, she feared, came from the cooking pot.

Madame Goulart went through the left-hand arch and Petra heard muffled voices. For a moment she was suspicious, but she remembered the two women who’d opened the gates. They’d be changing their wet clothing. They’d gone out in the rain to let in distressed travelers, even though fearful because their men were away.

These people were very Good Samaritans, and she must remember that.

Madame Goulart returned bearing a large earthenware jug and a leather pouch. She gave the pouch to the old woman and put the jug on the table. She took down a wooden beaker from a shelf and poured into it, then brought it to Petra.

Petra thanked her but had to ask “What is it?” Travel had taught her that local food and drink could be peculiar.

“Poiré.”

Ah, the pear cider of northern France. Petra longed for good wine or coffee, but this was wholesome.

“Thank you. Most refreshing. I am Sister Immaculata.”

“Where you from, then?” the woman asked, studying Petra with eyes almost as pouched as the crone’s. She was fleshy rather than skeletal, but her skin, too, was sallow.

“Milan,” Petra said.

“That is in England?”

Petra realized she should have given an English place, and was tempted to agree, but it was too strange a lie. “No, madame. It is in Italy.”

Madame Goulart reared back. “Your brother claimed to be English!”

“Oh, we are, madame, but we have no convents in England, you see, so I had to travel to Italy to join one.”

The woman still frowned, and Petra was glad to see no crucifix here or other sign of devotion. “My brother and I shouldn’t have pressed on, but I weep to think my poor mother might die before I see her one last time.”

Madame Goulart still frowned, but then the other two women entered.

They were about Petra’s age, and unlike their elders seemed healthy and cheerful. One wore a green skirt, the other a yellowish-brown one. Both wore dark red country bodices, laced in front, over plain shifts, and wooden clogs on their feet. All the women wore clogs, and given the state of the floor, Petra wished she did, too.

The one in the green skirt stared at Petra and said, “Oh, but you
are
beautiful.”

It made Petra blush, but she could think of nothing to say other than, “Thank you.”

Brown Skirt poked a pointed elbow into her sister to remind her of her manners, and they both sat on a bench. But they kept flickering glances at Petra, as if she fascinated them. Of course, with most nuns living in cloister, they might never have seen one before.

They were old enough to be married, but wore no rings. Petra wasn’t entirely surprised. Green Skirt seemed a bit slow, and had large eyes that should have been appealing, but which put Petra disconcertingly in mind of a cow. Brown Skirt’s eyes were small and too close together, and when she smiled, she showed small, sharp, crooked rat’s teeth.

Petra, you’ve never studied a rat’s teeth. Be charitable!

Promising to do penance, Petra smiled at both and said, “Good evening.”

Cow Eyes smiled back, but anxiously. The other showed those teeth. Perhaps neither was normal. This seemed a very unfortunate family.

“Solette and Jizzy,” Madame Goulart introduced. The slow one seemed to be Jizzy and the sly one Solette. “And my mother attends the pot.”

Petra had seen the woman add things to the pot—some herbs from the pouch and more vegetables. Trying to make their poor meal stretch to five more mouths. Petra wished they had some food to offer.

“That is a dog your brother has?” Madame Goulart asked.

Petra was still having trouble with the dialect. “Yes, an absurd thing, is she not?”

“Pretty collar. Your brother, he is a rich lord?”

Were they planning to demand an outrageous amount for a night’s shelter?

“We’re simple people, really, but we will pay generously for your hospitality.”

“Good, good. Come, Sister. I’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”

Petra followed her through the right-hand curtain, praying for better than she expected. She found herself in a room containing just one bed. The bed was low and large, and she saw no doors or stairs that could lead to other rooms. She was going to have to share one bed with the whole family? But Madame Goulart walked toward the back wall, which was entirely covered by dark red curtains. Petra hurried after. Thank God.

The woman parted the curtains in the middle to reveal something quite like a nun’s cell, with other curtains making side walls. The end of the room held curtained sleeping alcoves—perhaps five of them? Peculiar, but Petra could have cried hallelujah with relief.

She hurried forward but halted, hit by yet more smells. The prevailing damp and rot was joined by unwashed sheets, old spilled wine, perhaps even urine, and something else. A rank, musty odor that turned her stomach.

“Oh. I…”

“What?”

Inspiration flew to Petra like an angel. “I cannot sleep in a room without an open window. I’m sorry. It is the rule of my order. I must be ready for God to take me at any moment.”

“God needs a window?” the woman asked with surprising perception.

Petra spread her hands. “It is the rule. I will return to my brother….”
Please.

But Madame Goulart said, “That wouldn’t be right, Sister,” and stumped off to the right.

The woman dragged back the curtain at the end of the row to reveal an identical sleeping space. It was as filthy, but had a shuttered window. Petra opened the shutters and inhaled damp evening air. “Thank you, madame. God bless your holy kindness.”

The woman grunted, but seemed to expect Petra to return to the kitchen. Petra needed a moment to pull herself together. “I have a few prayers I must say, if you don’t mind.”

Mère Goulart shrugged. “I’ll send for you when the meal’s ready.”

She left, dragging the curtain closed behind her, but at least left the candle. Petra pulled back the coverlet but saw, as feared, a stained sheet. She hastily covered it again. She’d sleep on top of the coverlet, wrapped in her cloak. It would be chilly, but she could offer up all her sufferings as penance for her many sins.

Especially that of responding to Robin Bonchurch’s kiss.

Not only was it foolish, it was wrong. She might not truly be a nun, but she’d worn the habit for three years and had always believed that as long as she did so, she should follow the rule of the Community of Saint Veronica—the rule of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Yes, she’d made the right choice to avoid night out there with that man and temptation.

She went to the window and inhaled fresh air—then laughed to herself. In other circumstances, the smell of a farmyard would not have been so welcome.

Her spurious brother, Robin, was right. She should have stayed with Lady Sodworth. Even though she’d have had to take care of the little monsters, she’d be warm and fed. As for Varzi, she must have imagined him. The world wasn’t short of round men of medium height who dressed plainly, but she’d leapt to a conclusion, acted impetuously, and was being suitably punished. She had a cold, damp, dirty night ahead of her.

The view outside was equally forbidding. The walls of the old house were feet thick and the window chest high, restricting her view to the rectangle in front of her. All she could see was mud, sheds, and the high wall with cloudy twilight beyond. Were the men still out there? Ridiculous to think they weren’t, but she had to check.

She hooked her arms over the sill, jumped, and pulled herself up to balance there. Laughter almost tipped her over. If her hostess returned, how could she explain this? Obligatory convent exercises? Laughter died because it hurt her ribs, but she had the reassuring glimpse she sought.

Reassuring but painful.

Four shapes sat around a cheery fire. When they laughed, she longed to be with them. She freed one arm to wave, but no one saw her so she slid back down to her feet and brushed flaked stone off her habit, stupidly close to tears.

“You looked like a medieval princess in a tower pleading for rescue.”

She spun around, and there he was, arms on the sill, looking in, dimples in his cheeks. Coquette sat on the sill at his elbow, ears twitching. Petra could almost imagine the dog was wrinkling her nose at the smell.

“What are you doing here?” Petra asked, keeping her voice low. She didn’t want to be heard in the kitchen.

“Coquette saw you wave and insisted. I think she misses female company.”

Petra stroked the pretty dog. “I doubt it. It’s you she loves.”

“Then she’s a fool. If there was any meat on her I’d sell her for soup.”

Petra shook her head at him, but she was smiling just for the pleasure of his company. “You take good care of her.”

“I’m a dutiful fellow burdened by desirous females. So, what do you desire, princess? Rescue?”

She remembered why she’d needed to be away from him for this night. “No, of course not.”

He peered past her. “Not the most inviting chamber.”

“They’re poor.”

“The poor can be clean.”

“So can the rich, and they’re often not.”

“True enough. Are you all right?” he asked seriously.

Petra eased back the curtain to be sure no one was in the room beyond.

When she turned back, his eyes were watchful. “Why the caution?”

“I don’t want to hurt their feelings.”

“But?”

“They’re a strange lot.”

“Strange? In what way?”

“I don’t want to be unkind, but one of the daughters might be simple and the other…I don’t know.” She touched her head.

“Probably too many cousins marrying.”

“Probably. Though, in fact, they’re not much alike.”

“There’s just the three women?”

“No, there’s a grandmother. She’s horribly hunched, poor thing, and drinks, perhaps to kill the pain. They’re an unfortunate family.”

He was leaning his arms on one side of the sill, she on the other so their faces were only a foot away. The tallow light was dim, but if anything it cast drama onto the elegant lines of his face and lips. Lips she remembered against hers.

“Something’s the matter,” he said.

You.
But Petra only said, “Tiredness, probably, but I don’t expect to sleep well.”

He rested his hand on hers. “I’ll do better for you tomorrow. State your wish, princess.”

Petra knew she should pull away from that warm touch, but she needed human contact right now. “A palace,” she said lightly, but then shook her head. “A clean, well-aired bed will do, in a clean room—a room entirely to myself.”

“Not quite what I had in mind,” he said, but the light humor in it stole offense. “We’ll stop early tomorrow to be sure of it. Perhaps in Montreuil. The luxury of the Court de France should compensate for this.”

“The French court?” she asked, puzzled.

“It’s a hostelry. A very grand one.”

“I don’t require grand. I’d rather we made haste to England.”

“Why? Why the hurry?”

Petra shook her head. “Don’t pry at me now. I don’t have the wit to amuse.”

His hand tightened slightly in comfort. “Very well. But later, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep in a clean, well-aired bed entirely to yourself…”

“Even then you won’t get my secrets, sir. Not even with torture.”

“It wasn’t torture I had in mind….”

She moved her hand away, but he captured it and raised it to his warm lips. “Trust me, Petronilla
mia
. Whatever your urgent purpose in England, you will need me.”

Her breath felt thin, but she tugged. “Your price will always be too high.”

He released her. “See, I set you free. I will never force you to anything. But reality will. I predict failure if you escape from me.”

If the two-feet-thick wall hadn’t been between them she might have hit him.

“How can I be free if I must escape?”

His eyes met hers. “Alas, you’re right. I’ll try to respect your wishes.” He drew back, taking his dog.

“Good night, sweet lady of the secrets.”

Petra watched him disappear into the darkness, fighting an urge to climb out after him, but also wishing she could flee him now.

She had pursued her plan thus far and made it almost to England. She only needed Robin Bonchurch to get her there, and then she would escape him. She had a dagger in her pouch and twenty guineas hidden in the end boards of her prayer book. Once in England, she would find her father, and then all would be well.

She hoped and prayed.

T
he curtain rattled back without warning, and there was Solette, eyeing Petra suspiciously. Petra gave thanks that she had instinctively gripped her rosary and would look as if she prayed. She followed the young woman back to the kitchen, carrying her guttering, smoking candle. She placed the candle with another on the table, and with the fire, the room seemed positively merry after the dank cell. For greater cheer, a hunk of yellow cheese now sat beside the coarse bread.

Madame Goulart sat in a chair at the end facing the fire and waved Petra to a seat on the bench to her left. Jizzy sat on the other bench, still looking anxious. Petra smiled at her, but it didn’t seem to help.

The old woman ladled soup into bowls that Solette carried to the table, serving her mother first and then Petra. Petra thanked her, but she’d forgotten the smell of this brew. Perhaps a meat bone had been used when past its best. Perhaps the cook had tried to mask decay with extra herbs. Perhaps the old woman had lost her sense of smell. There was certainly a lot of sage, a herb best used in moderation in Petra’s opinion, but no one else showed any sign of minding.

Once the soup was served, Solette helped her grandmother to hobble painfully to the empty chair opposite Madame Goulart, then sat beside her sister. When Monsieur Goulart was home the chair at the head of the table would surely belong to him….

“Perhaps you’d offer grace, Sister.”

Madame Goulart’s words pulled Petra away from the half-formed thought. Petra said a brief prayer of thanks for the food and also asked God for blessings on this household, for they surely needed them. Everyone picked up a wooden spoon and began to eat.

Petra filled her spoon and took a mouthful—then had to force herself to swallow it. It must have a bushful of sage in it, and there was definitely an unpleasant taste beneath. She stirred it as the others ate with relish. Truly, local tastes were different.

“Eat, eat!” the old woman croaked, showing a few long, blackened teeth.

Petra looked back at the stew, bracing herself to force it down as penance, but then a whole clove of garlic bobbed up. She remembered an unfortunate sister in the convent. “Oh! Is there garlic in this?”

“Of course there’s garlic,” the crone said. “What’s soup without garlic?”

“Yes, yes, but you see, I can’t eat garlic. It makes me terribly ill.”

“Garlic?” queried Madame Goulart. “How can anyone be made ill by garlic? It’s good food, Sister. Eat.”

That shot out like a command, but Petra put down her spoon, the focus now of unfriendly eyes. She felt bad, but she couldn’t eat the stuff. “Truly,” she assured them, recalling Sister Beata’s sufferings. “It gives me terrible cramps and foul gases. You wouldn’t want me in the house if I ate this.”

After a tense moment, Madame Goulart waved toward the bread and cheese. “Make up with that, Sister.”

Petra thanked her with true sincerity and sliced into the loaf, then cut a wedge of cheese. The bread was coarse and chewy, the cheese pungent, but she had to struggle not to gobble it. When the pear cider came around, she drank deeply and praised that, too.

Perhaps the mood eased, but apart from her thanks, everyone ate in silence. It was clearly their normal way, and in the convent meals had been silent, but Petra found herself longing to speak. She wasn’t sure how long the family might sit here in silence, but once she’d eaten her fill, she used the soup as escape.

“Please excuse me. Even so little garlic has stirred my insides. I will retire to my room.”

Madame Goulart’s face was stony, but she said, “The privy’s in the yard, but the mud’s bad. Jizzy, give the holy sister a bowl.”

Jizzy took a mixing bowl off a shelf and thrust it into Petra’s hands. Petra thanked her, said, “Good night, and blessings upon you all,” and escaped.

Probably they were as pleased to see her go as she was to leave.

Once through the curtain, Petra realized that she had no light, but she didn’t want to return. The clouds must have cleared a little, for some moonlight enabled her to make her way past the bed to her dirty cubicle. Who slept where? Monsieur and Madame Goulart in the big bed, the grandmother and girls in the cells? Perhaps there were sons.

She put the bowl down on the floor and sighed, going again to the window. The moon lightened the scene a little, but the night air was damp. She wouldn’t look toward the warmth again. The rake would only take it as encouragement.

How long must her strength last? Perhaps only one day. She had studied maps, and though Lady Sodworth would have taken two days from Abbeville to Boulogne, it was possible in one day if they left early and traveled long. The packet ship to England would leave in the evening. She could be in England on the day after tomorrow, if God would for once be kind. Then she had only to find her father.

If only that were so easy.

She knew the location of his various houses, but not where he was right now. He was an important person at court, so she’d assumed he’d be where the court was, but now it seemed that might not be so. She would check his London house first, and then the one in Hampshire.

If she found him, there was always the risk that her father would deny her. Her mother had been adamant that he wouldn’t, but with time Petra’s faith in her mother’s certainties had faded. Her mother had been ill and desperate and thinking of a man she’d known more than twenty years ago. The only proof Petra had to offer him was a letter from her mother and a picture—a picture of an eye.

Her mother had explained that such images had been the height of romance back then, especially in the whirling mysteries of a Venetian masquerade. Artists had sat in the streets ready to execute such miniatures on the spot, sometimes even without the sitter unmasking. To her mother it had been impossible that the then Lord Grafton would have forgotten her, but Petra had wondered all along. A young English lord traveling through Italy and Greece, supposedly for his education. How many liaisons had there been? How many were remembered weeks later, never mind decades?

And even if he remembered, even if he believed the story, why should he embrace a bastard daughter who turned up out of nowhere? Petra sighed. She’d doubted all along, but this had been her only hope. Her brother was now the head of the family and he had turned against her. Her other brother and sisters feared his displeasure, and once Cesare had revealed her paternity they’d used that as excuse to ignore her mother’s pleas. Her mother’s family, far off in Austria, had fallen from favor and didn’t have the resources to intervene.

As for aristocratic Milan, she’d been foolish with Ludo and not discreet enough, so when Cesare had let word spread that she was not his father’s true daughter, most had shrugged and said that being the acknowledged mistress of il conte di Purieri wasn’t so bad a fate for one such as she. No one wanted to offend the Morcini, Ludo’s family, least of all Cesare. He might be il conte di Baldino now, but he needed the alliance with the Morcini to pursue his ambitions.

Politics, politics. She’d raged to her mother that politics and the ambitions of men could cripple her life, but her mother had been able to do nothing but shrug. She herself had been married to a foreigner she didn’t love for political advantage.

Politics. They had politics in England, too, and her father was deeply involved in such things. If he accepted her, would he see just a new pawn in his games? Could Ludo bring pressure to bear in England? Austria ruled Milan, and Austria had been Britain’s enemy in the recent war, so she hoped not. But could she be seen as an enemy?

Even aware of all these problems, she’d been sure that if her plan failed, she could find a place in a convent and take full vows. Anything was better than being Ludovico’s whore.

Now it seemed that wasn’t possible, and she might have Varzi in pursuit. Which meant, she suddenly realized, that she was putting Robin and his men in danger.

That nursery rhyme came back to her.

Who did kill Cock Robin?

I, said the sparrow,

With my bow and arrow.

I did kill Cock Robin.

She shivered from mental and physical exhaustion, feeling she’d sleep as soon as she lay down anywhere but here. Here, she was reluctant to lie on a dirty bed, but also strangely reluctant to surrender to oblivion.

What, did she think her hosts were going to creep in and murder her? She was no threat to them.

She unpinned her veil from her cap, setting the pins in the gray cloth for storage, and then looked around for a place to put it. Not liking the look of any surface, she tucked it over her belt, remembering the Saint Veronica cloth. Perhaps tomorrow night she’d be able to wash that.

She’d like to take off the belt and pouch, but again there was nowhere to put it. She realized she’d put her bag containing soap and toothbrush down in the kitchen, along with her clean shift. She wasn’t going back out there for them, and what was the point? She hadn’t been offered washing water.

She pulled her cloak completely around herself and lay on the bed, keeping her sandals on. Then she said a prayer against fleas and composed herself for sleep.

Her mind jangled. What was it that had struck her as odd about the table?

Stop it, Petra. The atmosphere here is strange because the poor women are terrified without their men.

She sat bolt upright. Their men! This evening, with five people at the table, only one space had remained. Was there only one man in the family—Monsieur Goulart? No, there could be two, with a son to take her place on the bench.

Whatever the truth of that, the man of the house would sit at the head of the table, so when he was home, where did the old woman sit? Petra doubted she could climb onto one of the benches. Hard to imagine Madame Goulart lowering herself to sit on one.

The truth was, there were no men. They were women alone, poor things, which explained their poverty and fear. All was explained, and perhaps Robin could be especially generous to them tomorrow.

Petra was awakened by muttering voices. Was it morning already? No, it was dark.

Two or more people were talking in the kitchen, so she’d probably dozed off for only minutes. She huddled into her cloak and concentrated on sleep, but the voices warred with exhaustion. She rolled onto her back, wishing she could go out there and tell them to shut up.

Was it the young women sharing secrets, or Madame Goulart complaining to her mother about the visiting nun who wouldn’t eat garlic and insisted on keeping the window unshuttered? Petra pulled her hood over her ears to block the sound, but her mind wouldn’t calm. It insisted there was something wrong about those voices, something suspicious.

Grumbling to herself, she rose and went to the curtain. She eased it back an inch and the voices became a little louder, but she still couldn’t understand a word. The room beyond was dark, but a bit of light leaked around the edges of the curtain. The big bed looked empty. They were all still up?

They have a right to sit by their fire talking,
she told herself.
Go back to sleep.
But she couldn’t. Ready with the excuse of wanting her things, she slipped across the bedroom and up to the left-hand curtain.

“One of you make sure they’re…” Petra couldn’t understand the last word, but it had been the old woman’s raspy voice.

“Course they are.” That might be Solette. “There was enough”—another unknown word—“to make them sleep for a week.”

Petra’s breath caught. “Them” could only be the men. They’d given them something to make them sleep?

She wasn’t drugged—but she’d eaten only a mouthful of that strange soup. Everyone at the table had eaten from the same pot—but the old woman had ladled it into bowls and Solette had delivered them. Could there have been something extra in the one delivered to her?

Something from that pouch?

But why? It could be because they were afraid and wanted the men to sleep deeply in the night, but that didn’t explain their current conversation. Madame Goulart was talking now, in such a rapid, low voice and heavy accent Petra couldn’t understand a word, but it sounded unpleasant.

Think, Petra,
think
!

She remembered the persistent questions about Robin’s wealth. He’d said that the French thought all Englishmen were made of gold. The woman had mentioned Coquette’s collar. Had these impoverished women decided a treasure had fallen into their hands and planned to steal from the sleeping men? They’d have to be mad. Tomorrow the theft would be discovered, and as soon as they reached the next town…

Her imagination skidded to a halt.

Unless they weren’t to be allowed to reach the next town.

Saint Peter aid us!
It seemed unbelievable, but Petra had heard of travelers disappearing without a trace. She retreated shakily to her cell, struggling to think over a racing heart. If the sleeping draft had been in the soup, the women knew she hadn’t eaten much. They’d know she’d cry the alarm if anything happened to the rest of her party.

But they wouldn’t need to drug her to kill her—three strong women against one, with the old woman to help if necessary. Petra fingered the shape of the dagger in her pouch, but doubted it could hold them all off. With a shudder, she remembered the big knife on the table that had cut so easily through chewy bread and hard cheese.

Saint Peter aid them all.

Then yelling made her almost leap out of her skin, but it was only Madame Goulart yelling at Solette, and Solette screaming back. Then a door slammed. Solette had finally done as she was told, but clearly none of them expected the men to be awake.

Or alive?