Chapter Fourteen

Will sat in a sufficiently loud tavern in the town of Ross, satisfied that few if any of the patrons would know him by sight. More importantly, none would ever recognize that it was Hugh de Vere who sat across from him at the crude table.

"Was I the true target from the beginning," Will asked him, mildly curious, almost as though it did not matter, "Or was it always the man from Livonia?"

Hugh had taken pains to appear as nothing more than a prosperous burgher passing through the town. It was impressive, really, that he had managed to thoroughly conceal the noble birth and high station he so valued. Now he shrugged at Will, his boredom at the question only half-feigned.

"I know naught of it, nor do I doubt you will learn the truth yourself in time. I can say only with certainty that in Rome they despise this Quinten – and in England, Roger Mortimer despises you. Easy enough for such men to find a common purpose."

It was no more than Will had already told himself many times. In truth it made little difference if the damage to Ruardean was intentional or merely a happy accident. But the stories that men told mattered, and it was useful to know how the rumors were painting this little episode.

Of course he could always go to court and discover for himself, but the prospect seemed unbearably tedious. He far preferred to meet with a trusted ally from that world. Well, mostly trusted.

"Aye, true enough," he said to Hugh. "Though I did not think Mortimer so intent on striking a blow against me that he would reach all the way to Rome."

"Hark who you speak of," Hugh scoffed as he reached for his ale. "If there is a chance he might gain more for himself, a Mortimer would venture into Hell itself. And verily, Hell is not more treacherous than Rome of late."

"Well said." Will raised his glass in wry acknowledgement. "But now tell me what sentiment will greet Molay when he arrives in England to beg aid for his Templars?"

Hugh seemed genuinely bored at this topic, but was kind enough to oblige him. "Many at court yet whisper of the foulest corruption among the order. It is a rumor that will not soon die. And even were they pure as fresh snow, I think me their cause will not find royal favor. Our king is less inclined to crusade than ever. His eyes turn to Scotland now."

If Hugh could be fully trusted, Will would speak the thought that came into his head: that the king would not be so ready to abandon the idea of crusade did he not feel his age. Edward was hale enough, but the years were showing and he knew it. Will had sought to turn this weakness to his advantage in recent years, persuading the king that a return to the Holy Land was a worthy last endeavor before entering his dotage. When done subtly, it nearly always worked. Vanity was such a reliable tool.

Subtlety was not Hugh's strength, though, so Will used a different tactic.

"And thus may France gain glory while English eyes are turned to Scotland," Will shrugged, and drank his ale in an impressive show of nonchalance. "But God has seen fit to make Edward a circumspect man, less inclined to bold gestures than the French king. It cannot be helped."

The little flash of malicious delight in Hugh's face assured him these words would be repeated. Fortunately, this was in essence the same argument Will had made for years, the whole reason to bother with a well-planned crusade: the alliances to be forged, the trade to be established, and above all the influence to be gained. Let England at last matter in the wider world instead of languishing, small and inconsequential, in this far corner of Christendom. King Edward cared for all that, too, but not nearly as much as he cared to be seen as an equal to the French king.

Will drank his ale and idly thought of the path his words would take. Hugh would tell his lover, and that man would in turn tell his wife, who could never resist sharing such things with Lord Beck, who whispered in the king's ear daily. Within a week it would reach Edward, and Will need never go to court.

While Hugh prated on about Scotland's politics – a profoundly dull subject – Will allowed his own thoughts to wander. Predictably, they went immediately to his lady wife. All her vast, fascinating mystery had become a favorite diversion of late. Nothing quite entertained him as much as wondering what she really was, and how he might tease the truth of her out into the open.

An image of her nagged at him: pale and wary, eyes round with surprise, hands raised to her mouth as the smell of the burning hair shirt filled the room. He was sure now that whatever faith she had was true and deep, if unusual, and his dire warning had only served to make her more certain she must hide it. It made him feel like the blackest villain, that she might constrain herself for fear of him.

That was why he was thinking of pearls now. Pearls were meant to signify purity, a symbol of Saint Mary. She would like that. Or maybe jet, polished and buffed to a high shine. Sleek black beads paired with silver roundels, understated and elegant, as austere as she was. If that was indeed how she truly was. Black might be more fitting for her as a penitent, too, though there would be few to see it. She had not often been to court, and now there was no question of her going.

The strange thing, the thing he could not help considering now, was his own growing disinclination to return to court. A poisonous place, he had always privately called it – and taken pride in his ability to thrive there. But now it felt stale and predictable, the same game played over and over.

"Any word against Stowell will aid your cause." Hugh's voice broke through, saying something about his circle of courtiers. His voice held a keen interest, a priceless opening that on any other topic might be of some use.

But Will only shrugged. "If Stowell's greed and vainglory do not already sicken them, there is little else that will. Hypocrisy is his great flaw, and they forgive him as they forgive themselves."

If the bishop had ever committed an offense that might be used against him, Will was well positioned to know it. God knew he would welcome it. Alas, Stowell's vices were all acceptable ones. He briefly considered fabricating something that might circulate among the gossips, but already he was tiring of this game with Hugh: the information exchanged, the pieces moved across the board, the endless strategy.

Will's own position was weakened. He accepted that. It had been weakened before and no doubt would be again. This was the way of things, the unavoidable ebb and flow of power, and it would be foolish to expend effort now when only time could repair it. There was no sense in brooding on the matter. He would rather think of beads bouncing across the floor, her hands gripped tight, her face in the moments after her release, soft and open and true.

Pearls, or jet, or maybe a deep and glowing amber, like her skin.

He said, "Come to Ruardean later in the season. I will send word to you and some fellows. We will hunt," and bid a distracted farewell to Hugh.

In Hereford and Gloucester, the merchants had professed to have no dealings with the Lady of Ruardean. But Will had learned of a goldsmith, much admired and sought after for both his craft and his discretion, who came frequently to this town of Ross. One of his knights had said, "Were I to make a trade without it become known to all, that is where I would make it." And so they were here.

It was easy enough to find the goldsmith, and easy enough to see that he would happily trade whatever he knew for a few coins of silver. Will gave a description of his wife – and of Lady Constance, reasoning that she might well send someone trusted to attend to her business. He even described the beguines who, much to his frustration, had recently vanished.

"Nay, I've dealt with none who is like what you describe." The goldsmith scratched his jaw, thoughtful. "If my lord will give an account of any piece that was sold, I can ask after it in Bristol, where very fine gems are more like to change hands."

But Will had no piece to describe; he only had suspicions. Instead, he asked the goldsmith to bring forth an impressive selection of jewels and stones, onyx and emeralds, pale blue chalcedony and golden jasper. The pearls were not as lustrous as he'd hoped, but he noted that the bloodstone was uncommonly handsome. It was a dazzling array.

In the end he could not resist the polished coral, bold red and gleaming bright. The color of it would liven her muted dress and contrast beautifully with her own coloring. And the expense of it was pleasingly impressive – if she must flaunt her piety, then let her do it in a way that was fitting to her station.

"There is a man called Stephan," the goldsmith mused as he picked out the best beads. It was a calculated aside, too casual to be anything but a well-considered tidbit, given in thanks for such a rich commission. "He works among the whores in the stews of Hereford. Now and again he has brought me a bit of gold that might be like to come from a rich household."

This forced Will to consider how much he cared. It would cost another day to go to Hereford, a high price to follow a hint that might prove to be nothing. But it was exceptionally tempting. Experience had taught him that a person's most practical dealings – especially financial ones – held a wealth of information. Instinct told him her passivity was not a mask of defense, but one worn to disguise a secret purpose. Learn the purpose, and he would learn her.

He went to Hereford. He chose one of his men to seek out this Stephan instead of going himself, to avoid the rumors that would undoubtedly spread if the Lord of Ruardean visited the stews to ask if his heretic lady wife was known to a man there.

He sent his guardsman Adda, a closemouthed Welshman who could be trusted to make the inquiries of this Stephan in Grope Lane. Then Will himself turned to walk in the direction of the cathedral, following a nagging little memory.

Among the many things about which his wife had prayed loudly over the years, and that fortunately he had not entirely ignored, was her patronage of the hospital of Saint Ethelbert. They had quarreled about it once, years ago, a strange episode that stuck in his memory. He supposed it could not rightly be called a quarrel when he had only contradicted her through clenched teeth while she, in turn, concealed her disgust. He had merely asked how Ruardean would be acknowledged for so large a gift to the hospital. Some decoration, or a stone laid, or the naming of a chapel within – the common practice when great sums were given. It was the chief reason for giving great sums, after all, and he had thought naming a chapel would please her.

She had not objected to this scheme, but equally she had not agreed. Her disdain had been inexplicable, but palpable.

In the end she had donated a much smaller amount – too small to warrant any grand recognition – and then said nothing more on the matter. But last week he had consulted the household ledger and saw she made regular donations to the hospital. Never any amount that would draw undue attention but, taken all together, it was already more than the sum she had originally proposed.

A quiet drip of coins over the years that achieved exactly what she had wanted, and more. It was clever. Exceedingly, admirably clever. She was so very good at hiding something in plain sight.

"But for the generosity of Ruardean, we could not feed even forty souls each day," the canon at the hospital now informed him, after he'd finished with his effusive gratitude. "Because of your charity, my lord, there are no less than one hundred who are given a meal here nearly every day."

The man's cherubic face crumpled a little with confusion when asked if ever he spoke directly with the Lady of Ruardean about this charity. It was clear he had thought it was Will's hand behind the largesse. He explained that each quarter he sent word to Ruardean of how the money was put to use. Rarely had he received any reply or further instruction. This he regretted very much, for he would welcome a discussion of the hospital's many needs.

Now he launched into a lamentation of the damage made to the wooden figure of Saint Ethelbert in the forecourt, and subtly suggested that future donations be put toward a new statue of fine marble. It was exactly the sort of thing a noble patron would provide, complete with an engraving of the benefactor's name at the base.

The priest was already listing his preferred sculptors to do the work when Will interrupted, annoyed.

"Nay, the funds are meant to feed the poor." He was aware that his irritation was as much for himself as the priest. Why should he care how the money was spent? "If ever there is excess, then it will feed yet more people. When it is to be used for aught else, you will be told."

He left then, and returned to the inn to contemplate why good Lady Margaret would go to such pains to conceal her charity. There was no advantage in it that he could see. He could only imagine it was done as some secret penance, and that idea only served to fascinate him further. What grave and hidden sin might she have committed?

Adda arrived soon after. He had easily located the well-known Stephan, who betrayed no emotion at all when the name Ruardean was spoken.

"He said he knows little of your household, my lord, though he knows some children who begged pennies of Lady Margaret when she has passed through the streets of Hereford, rare as that has been. He says he has done no business with anyone of Ruardean save for a squire who two years ago tried to cheat one of the women of Grope Lane. She called on Stephan to aid her in getting her payment, and it was settled quickly." Adda shrugged. "No more than that. He did not seem a liar, my lord."

Neither did Margaret seem a liar. Will sighed to himself, and decided it was better to look for more information in the household ledgers than to hope a stranger in the stews, of all places, would be of any help.

But within the hour, as they stood in the innyard preparing to leave, a red-haired man appeared at the gate. He was clean shaven and dressed in clothes of good fabric and cut, elegant enough but not wealthy. He was short and compact, a body like a compressed spring waiting to be released, but relaxed as he leaned against the gatepost.

Adda quietly murmured that this was, intriguingly enough, the man Stephan.

"Have you business here, Stephan?" Will called, prepared to invite him to share an ale.

The answer was a faint curl of the lip, amused and knowing. It was followed by an unhurried survey of Will's person, from his toes to the tips of his hair.

"No business," the man named Stephan answered, not bothering to raise his voice above normal speech. "I but wanted to see the vaunted Lord of Ruardean in the flesh."

"And how do you find me?"

The eyes slid over him again, briefly, and ended with a quirk of the brow.

"Large."

With that, he gave the barest bow of farewell and turned, in no great rush as he walked away in the direction of Grope Lane.

Will weighed his options as he watched him leave, then beckoned the innkeeper's young son to him and asked, "Know you that man?"

"Aye, my lord, it's Stephan. Everyone knows Stephan."

"Can you watch him in secret, and give an account of his meetings?" he asked. At the boy's hesitant look, Will assured him, "No harm would come to him through you, and there is coin in plenty to be your reward."

So it was settled that the boy would watch, and that Adda would return weekly to hear his reports. Then they took the road to Ruardean, and Will ignored the feeling of half-knowing a thing, the sense of incomplete accomplishment. He found himself uncommonly eager to be home. So much so that he did not dwell overlong on the startling realization that he had so easily thought of it as home .

Instead he thought of the little hospital as he rode, and the thriving Welshry in Ruardean. He remembered the sincerity that had been in her face as she pled for almshouses to be built for the needy instead of decorations for cathedrals. All that… and how she seldom wore her jewels or fine dresses, unless she must. It meant something, all of it. It was the key to her, he was sure.

They stopped in Ross again briefly, and he paused as he stood before the finished work of the goldsmith. Vivid red beads were polished to a high shine and strung on a cord of silk. The coral was a bright and beautiful secret that had lurked in the depths of a murky sea, brilliance obscured by vast and unknowable waters, a prize to be found and cherished.

It was like her. And it was not like her at all.

He turned to the open sacks of more humble fare. He lifted a handful of boxwood beads, plain and unadorned, then added a few more with simple carvings on their surface. He gave these over to be strung together. The goldsmith offered to intersperse them with gemstones, and struggled to hide his disappointment when he was refused.

They rode on, and reached Ruardean just as daylight dwindled. Will was striding across the forecourt, gladly anticipating a large meal and a hot bath, when he glanced toward the chapel and saw her there, as though she waited for him.

It caused a strange rush of warmth and weakness to wash over him. Just a moment, just one heartbeat that was different from all the others. This seemed to happen every time he saw her now. It should alarm him, in the same way her deception should make him more cautious instead of less.

"You will be weary from your journey, my lord." Her voice was quiet as he approached, her eyes lowered. There was an almost-muted note of shy eagerness in her voice, so different from the breathy subservience she had so often employed in the past. "The kitchen has prepared woodcock baked in the spices you favor. And the strawberries have ripened. You will find a dish of them reserved for you, with almond cream."

Strawberries. He wondered when she had learned his likes, and when she had begun to care about them. If it was real. If it was not calculated.

"I must go to my prayer now," she said, but did not move. A wisp of hair had escaped her veil to curl at her temple.

He untied the leather wallet from his belt. Within it, the crimson beads glowed next to the plain boxwood. He stared at the two, nestled so closely together.

Brilliant, calculated show or plain truth. What he wanted, or what she preferred. He must choose, for now.

"You will want these," he said. He laid the string across her palm, impulsively covering it with his own. They stood that way, hands clasped, the beads nestled in a pocket of warmth they made together. "It is only boxwood. But they say it is a sacred tree."

Her eyes lifted to his, startled, as if she did not expect him to know it. He meant to say it was replacement for the string that had broken, so that he might taunt her with a reminder of her own unbridled lust. But the words dried up as she looked at him.

"My thanks," she said, and he knew there was no falseness in her. Not in this moment. She squeezed his hand tighter, pressing the beads into his palm. "My thanks, William."

It was nothing. Bits of worthless wood on a string. But he did not say so. He only nodded in acknowledgement, and fixed his eyes on the tiny unbound curl at her temple until she turned and entered the chapel.