Kitabı oku: «The Abducted Heiress», sayfa 2
‘What?’
‘Is he dead?’
‘I don’t know. I think…I think so.’ Desire’s voice faltered.
Jakob pressed his lips together. She sensed strong emotions ruthlessly concealed beneath his calm manner. For all his current passivity, she was sure he was still deadly dangerous.
‘My lady! My lady!’ The roof suddenly filled with her servants. A young porter ran past Arscott. He seized Jakob’s arms in a cruel hold, twisting them up behind Jakob’s back and forcing him on to his knees. The porter was joined by other members of her household. There were shouts for lights and ropes. Desire stared at Jakob as her servants surrounded him. She was afraid he might resist and there would be more injuries, but he let them bind him without protest.
‘Hang him from the parapet! Fetch another rope for the noose, Tanner!’
‘No!’ Desire cried, horrified at the idea of her servants meting out such rough justice. She was sickened that two men had already died, but Arscott had discovered them armed and in the very act of attacking her. He had done what he believed necessary to protect her. The third was already tied up and no longer an immediate threat to anyone.
‘My lady, he’s nothing but gutter scum,’ the head porter protested, visibly shaking with outrage at the violation of the house.
‘He must go before the courts,’ Desire insisted forcefully. ‘There will be no lynchings from my roof. Take him to Newgate.’
The men muttered with dissatisfaction, but she knew they would not disobey her direct command.
‘He must be held prisoner until he comes to trial,’ she said, steel in her voice.
‘Then he’ll hang,’ said the head porter. ‘Waste of time and trouble—’ He caught Desire’s eye and ceased his audible disapproval of her command.
Jakob turned his head towards her. He looked straight into Desire’s eyes. He was on his knees, her prisoner, but he had not been defeated. His raw, virile power might have been temporarily contained, but it hadn’t been destroyed. She saw pride in his fierce gaze as their eyes locked.
The impact shook her to her core. She felt as if he had branded her with that burning glance. For several seconds, she was unable to move or even to look away.
‘My lady? Are you injured?’ Arscott asked.
Jakob shifted his attention from her to the steward, but Desire still felt the impact of his searing blue gaze. Had he been promising he would one day have his revenge on her for this defeat and humiliation?
‘My lady, are you hurt?’ Arscott said more urgently.
Desire gave a start and looked at him. The steward was of slight build and average height. At first sight he didn’t appear much of a fighting man, but as a youth he had been a fearsome sharpshooter during the war between King and Parliament. It seemed his marksmanship was as accurate at the age of thirty-nine as it had been when he was seventeen. Now he was watching her with a worried frown.
‘No,’ Desire whispered, still shaken by the glance she’d exchanged with Jakob. She was only half-aware of Arscott taking the pistol from her. ‘You saved me!’ she exclaimed suddenly. ‘Arscott, you saved me!’
He bowed slightly in acknowledgement of her words. ‘I’m here to serve you,’ he said, though there was a hint of anger in his well-controlled voice.
‘I…I…thank you.’ Desire’s legs turned to water. She turned her head away and locked her hands in her skirts so that no one would see how badly they trembled.
As she did so, she noticed a surreptitious muttering among her household. Jakob was on his feet again. The head porter had put another rope around his neck and was using it to lead him towards the stairs. She was sure her servants would obey her direct orders within the confines of Godwin House—but she had a sudden premonition that a fatal accident might happen to Jakob Smith before he ever reached gaol.
‘Stop!’ The order ripped from her throat.
Everyone turned to look at her. Even in the half-light she saw the sardonic expression on Jakob’s face. He knew as well as she did what the men planned for him.
Desire kept her arms by her sides and her shoulders square, but she gripped her skirts convulsively as she scanned the faces before her. Surely not every man was riven with the need to avenge the violation of the house? But to her dismay, even the usually level-tempered Arscott seemed to be suppressing simmering hostility.
Then she saw Benjamin Finch, her Gentleman of the Horse, who had only just arrived on the roof. Like most of her senior household, he had served her father before her. He was older than Arscott, and somewhat out of breath from running up the stairs, but he was always good at moderating disputes and he commanded respect among the other men.
‘Benjamin!’
‘My lady, are you hurt?’ His voice was sharp with anxiety as he looked first at her, then at the disorder around her.
‘No. Benjamin, this man is my prisoner.’ She pointed at Jakob, letting her hand fall quickly before anyone could see it was shaking. ‘It is my will and command that he be delivered safely to Newgate. He must stand trial for his crimes here today. I want you to make sure that he is delivered unharmed to gaol,’ she concluded in ringing tones.
At the end of her speech Jakob gave a small, ironic bow in her direction. Several servants looked mutinous but, to Desire’s relief, Benjamin immediately accepted the charge she laid upon him. In a quiet, but firm, voice he gave the necessary orders for Jakob to be taken under guard to the gaol.
Now the worst was over, Desire wanted to burst into tears. Two dead men were being carried from her roof. Only by a hair’s breadth had she managed to avoid a lynching, and the angel who’d invaded her garden at sunset had turned into a devil at twilight.
Desire had been a child during the first Civil War. Her father, the Earl of Larksmere, had been a Parliamentarian. For five weeks in 1644 Larksmere House had been besieged by Royalists. For those five weeks Desire had lived in the heart of violence. She’d even suffered the consequences of it—she unthinkingly touched her scarred cheek—but that had been more than twenty years ago. Her life had been peaceful for a long time. The nightmares of the past were no more than distant memories, but she felt as if she’d once more become the frightened, helpless child who’d watched in confusion while adults fought around her.
‘It would be best if you sit down, my lady.’ Arscott guided her to a stone bench. ‘It was an unpleasant incident, but soon everything will be back to normal.’
Desire looked around and saw that he was right. The roof was now deserted except for her and the steward.
‘An unpleasant incident?’ she repeated disbelievingly, amazed that Arscott could so lightly discount what had happened.
‘My apologies,’ he said stiffly. ‘I did not mean to belittle what happened. But it is better not to distress yourself over such things. It is over now.’
‘Yes.’ Desire took a deep breath, determined to maintain her composure in the face of Arscott’s stiff-backed demeanour.
Her family and his had been connected for several generations. Desire’s grandfather had considerably enlarged Godwin House during Elizabeth’s reign, and Arscott’s grandfather had been the master stonemason who’d worked on the new wings. Arscott’s father had also been a mason, but Arscott had chosen to serve the Godwin family more directly. He had begun as a footman and risen to be steward of Godwin House. The death of Desire’s father, followed very soon after by the death of the man Lord Larksmere had appointed as her guardian, could have caused great upheaval in her life, but Arscott’s competence and loyalty had protected her from many potential hazards. She was enduringly grateful to him, though she did not find him a particularly congenial companion.
‘You are right,’ she said, straightening her shoulders. ‘We must not dwell on what just happened. But we must take steps to prevent it happening again. You have often mentioned the possible risk if I go out, but I never thought I would be attacked in my own home.’
‘No, my lady. But you are a rich prize, as we’ve discussed before,’ Arscott replied sombrely.
He spoke in his usual, measured tones, but Desire thought she saw a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. It occurred to her that he might have interpreted her comment as a veiled criticism. That hadn’t been her intention but, now she thought of it, how had the villains gained access to the house?
‘There are many men who wouldn’t baulk at marrying you by force if they had the chance,’ he said grimly.
‘I know that. But I thought I was at least safe here. How did they get in?’
Arscott’s expression blanked. ‘I have done everything in my power to keep you safe,’ he said, ‘but there are gaps in even the best defences. They got in because they bribed one of the new porters. I thought he was acting oddly. When I questioned him, I discovered the villains were already on the roof. I came at once!’
‘Thank you.’ Desire looked around her darkness-shrouded garden. For years she had seen it as her sanctuary. Now it no longer seemed quite so safe. She shivered with fear as she remembered how the man with the pistol had claimed her as his bride.
‘They didn’t all come through the door,’ she said. ‘One climbed the wall.’
‘He did?’ Arscott muttered a curse, then quickly apologised. ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’
He hesitated, then took one of her hands in a comforting grasp. Desire was startled at the unprecedented familiarity of his gesture. She had known Arscott all her life, but he very rarely touched her. She was disconcerted by his attempt to reassure her, and withdrew her hand from his as tactfully as she could.
‘My lady, you know that I will always do everything in my power to protect you,’ he said. ‘But until you are married you will always be at risk from those who seek your fortune.’
‘I know,’ Desire said wearily. ‘But how am I to find a husband? By all accounts the nobility is full of rapacious villains. I’d hate to fall prey to a man such as Lord Rochester. How am I to avoid such a fate?’
‘By choosing a man you know to be honest and loyal,’ Arscott replied.
‘But I don’t know any—’ Desire began, her voice rising in exasperation.
‘My lady, my family has served yours for three generations,’ Arscott interrupted. ‘Your father himself selected me to be his steward. I have always been honoured by the trust he placed in me and the high esteem in which he held me. Under any other circumstances I would never put myself forward in this manner. But your plight is desperate. Until you marry you will always be at risk of further attempts to take you by force. And the years are passing. Soon—’
‘I know!’ Desire longed to hold her own babe in her arms. She didn’t want to be reminded that her chances of doing so diminished with every year she remained unwed.
‘Forgive me.’ Arscott bowed his head. ‘I did not meant to cause you distress. But my lady, there is a way you can safeguard yourself from fortune hunters and have the children you long for.’ He dropped suddenly on one knee beside the bench.
Desire stared at him in disbelief, too startled to notice when he took her hand in his once more.
‘If you had a more worthy suitor I would never put myself forward,’ he said. ‘But as your husband I would continue to protect and serve you as loyally as I have done as your steward.’
‘You want to marry me!’ she exclaimed, dumbfounded by his proposal. The possibility of marrying the steward had never before occurred to her.
‘I will make you a good and faithful husband,’ he assured her, his grip on her hand tightening. ‘You may be sure I will never expose you to hurt or insult.’
‘I’m sure…’ Desire swallowed, hoping Arscott hadn’t sensed her instinctive dismay at the prospect of marrying him. She was grateful for the dim light, which prevented him from seeing her clearly.
What he suggested would no doubt provoke outrage in many sections of society. There was a vast gulf between their social rank and fortunes. But at that moment Desire did not recall that Arscott was the son of a stonemason. It was the thought of sharing his bed that chilled her heart.
She knew that such an objection was foolish and impractical. Most brides had little choice in who they wed. But when she imagined lying beside Arscott in the dark, every fibre of her being cried out against such intimacy. She respected the steward. Admired him even. And God knows she was grateful for his loyalty through all the years of his service. But she didn’t want to marry him.
‘I do thank you for your kind offer,’ she said. She was too soft-hearted to reject him immediately, but she tried to prepare him for her ultimate answer. ‘I will consider it very carefully. Perhaps we can discuss it again when we have all had a chance to recover from what happened earlier. I confess, I’m still a little shaken now.’
‘Of course, my lady.’ Arscott released Desire’s hand and stood up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily. But until you are safely wed you will remain in danger. It will be best if you don’t consider too long.’
Desire suppressed a shiver of apprehension. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘Anyone else who might have been planning to abduct me will surely think twice now. Now they know they are more likely to end up dead than married.’ The words emerged more harshly than she’d intended. She was still shaken by Arscott’s ruthlessness on her behalf.
‘I had no choice,’ said Arscott. She could hear the thread of anger beneath the rigid deference in his voice. ‘There were three of them. And my pistol misfired.’
‘I heard it—!’ Desire began.
‘I fired the musket,’ said Arscott, ‘but the pistol misfired. I could not threaten the two remaining men with it. Only fight hand-to-hand to save you.’
‘I will always be grateful,’ Desire said. The last thing she wanted was ill feeling between her and her steward. ‘It’s dark. Let’s go inside now.’
Chapter Two
Newgate, Tuesday 4 September 1666
‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’
‘The Papists have fired London!’
‘Nay! The flames of hell are purging the corrupt city!’
‘It’s the French to blame. Throwing fireballs into the houses…’
‘’Tis God’s punishment for the sins of the Court…’
‘The Dutch are taking vengeance for our recent victory…’
‘St Paul’s burns…’
‘We’ll all burn!’
Jakob listened grimly to the uproar around and below him. He was in Newgate, awaiting the next gaol delivery to the Old Bailey. At the best of times the prison wasn’t silent, but now the cries of his fellow captives had risen to a frenzied cacophony of panic.
Newgate was not only a gaol, it was also one of the seven ancient gateways into London. Its two massive stone towers straddled Newgate Street. Every day people crowded through the iron gates and beneath the portcullis on their journey into, or out of, the City. But for two days there had been no normal traffic through the gate. The sounds of London descending into chaos had filtered through the thick stone walls and iron bars of the gaol.
News of a fire in the east of the City had first reached the gaol on Sunday morning, but fires among the old wooden buildings of London were so common that initially only a few doom-mongers were alarmed.
All the same, speculation about the extent and cause of the conflagration quickly circulated among the prisoners. By Monday it was claimed that the fire extended from London Bridge in the south to Lombard Street in the north. That it covered the whole of the waterfront for almost the entire length of Thames Street. Rumours abounded. Many people believed absolutely that the fire had been started deliberately by a Dutch baker. Others that the French had ignited it by throwing fireballs into houses. England was at war with both countries. On Monday night the fire destroyed Cornhill and advanced inexorably on Cheapside.
By Tuesday morning, St Paul’s Cathedral and Newgate were both under immediate threat. It no longer mattered to anyone trapped inside the prison how the fire started. Their only concern was to escape. Even in their confinement the prisoners could hear the terrified screams of those who fled through the gate in search of safety. They could also hear the thunderous roar of the fire raging towards the towers. The stench of burning was stronger than the usually overpowering stench of the gaol. The air was foul with smoke.
Jakob stood at a barred window, his throat raw from the polluted air. He took shallow breathes to avoid pulling the smoke too deeply into his lungs. He was in a better position than many prisoners. They were incarcerated in squalid quarters below ground. Fortunately Jakob had not come penniless to gaol. He’d bribed the Keeper of Newgate to house him in the more comfortable conditions of the Master’s Side at the top of the prison. He’d also taken the first opportunity to send out a message to his cousin, the Duke of Kilverdale. The Keeper had been impressed by Jakob’s high-ranking connections and since then had treated him with careful respect.
But so far Kilverdale had neither returned the message nor appeared in person. On Monday morning, after two nights in Newgate, Jakob had reluctantly sent out another message. This time to his grandfather, who had a house in St Martin’s Lane. Under other circumstances Jakob would have waited considerably longer for Kilverdale to respond before asking for Lord Swiftbourne’s help, but he believed Lady Desire was still in imminent danger. There had been no reply to his second message either.
Jakob tested one of the bars at the window, while he wondered with some annoyance where Kilverdale had gone. His cousin seemed to be constitutionally incapable of staying in one place for more than five minutes.
The roar of the fire was louder, closer. Smoke curled through the bars. Burning embers swirled past the window, a terrifying portent of what was to come. Jakob’s muscles tensed with horror at the thought of being caught like a rat in a trap before the flames.
He shook off the ghastly image and went to hammer on the locked door.
‘Hey! Are you going to leave us to roast?’ he shouted.
It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded information about the fire. Since he had the money for bribes, the gaolers kept him reasonably well informed. This time no one replied. He waited by the door an instant longer, then returned to the window. He’d checked all possible escape routes when he’d first arrived, and he’d quickly discovered that the mortar holding the bars was in poor condition. Though the prison was a formidable building, it was old and in disrepair.
Jakob had spent much of his time over the past two days chiselling away at the soft mortar with a large iron nail he’d purloined during his transfer into the cell. The fire had been his ally in his escape preparations. Anyone who noticed how much time he spent at the window would assume he was trying to follow the progress of the flames.
Now he braced one hand against the wall and wrapped his other hand around the first iron bar. He focussed all his strength and dragged the bar free. It grated loudly against the crumbling brick, but there was no need for silence. If anyone heard him and came to prevent his escape, they’d open the door.
An open door was all Jakob needed.
He was about to drop the bar on to the floor when, beneath the ever-present roar of the fire, he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. In the few seconds before the door swung inwards he thrust the bar beneath his doublet.
‘What took you so long?’ he demanded, striding towards the terrified gaoler.
‘Hurry! We’re going to the Clink.’ The gaoler coughed and gestured frantically towards Jakob with his left hand. In his right he held a musket.
‘To hell, more like.’ Jakob strode through the door, helped on his way by a shove between the shoulder blades.
All around him he could hear frightened, angry shouts. The gaolers were trying to march their prisoners away to the alternative confinement of the Clink Prison in Southwark. But the gaolers were disorganised and as terrified as the prisoners. Once they reached the street it was easy for Jakob to escape in the confusion.
As soon as he was alone in a debris-filled alley, he paused to get his bearings. Inside the prison he’d become almost used to the roaring approach of the fire. Outside in the street the noise was a physical assault on his whole body, pounding his ears and disorientating all his senses. Stones exploded in the high temperatures. It sounded as if a battle was being fought within the flames.
He turned to take his first real look at the fire—and shock briefly held him completely immobile. The fierce gale that had been blowing since Sunday had whipped the sulphurous flames into a savage inferno. It towered high above the tallest buildings, dwarfing everything in its path. The sky above was black with smoke.
A shower of crimson fire droplets rained down upon him, covering his doublet with tiny, blackened pinpricks. The intense heat scalded his eyes and seared his face. Acrid smoke gusted suddenly around him. Choking him. Nearly blinding him. His lungs burned. The flames seemed almost alive in their malevolent intent to devour everything in their path.
He shook off his momentary horror and turned to run through the thick layer of ash that swirled in the streets.
By now his temporary lodgings in the City would surely have burned. There was no point in going to the house in St Martin’s Lane because the message he’d sent there had been left unanswered. Besides, he wasn’t keen to present himself to his grandfather in the guise of an escaped convict. Now Jakob was free, he regretted the necessity that had forced him to send that message.
He paused to check his location and a fit of coughing tore his lungs.
He remembered the moment her ladyship’s steward had levelled his pistol at him. Jakob had dived flat behind the meagre protection of a bed of herbs. The steward had pulled the trigger, but the pistol had misfired. Jakob had no doubt the man had intended him to die on the roof of Godwin House.
He’d survived the débâcle because of a misfired pistol and Lady Desire’s absolute determination he would live to stand trial. He recalled the way she’d held him at bay with the pistol she’d taken from her attacker. There was no doubting the lady’s courage, but the fire would not respect her dignity or her privacy—and it was not the only threat to her safety. No doubt she’d already fled from her grand mansion in the Strand, but Jakob wanted to know where she’d gone.
He was covered in soot and ash. Just another desperate man escaping from the fire. As long as he avoided members of Lady Desire’s household, he was unlikely to be recognised. Perhaps he could find someone to tell him what he needed to know. He owed the lady his life. He meant to repay the debt.
Desire stood in her roof-garden, the key to the river-gate clutched in her hand. She stared, transfixed, at the burning city. With the exception of a couple of watchmen left to guard the property from looters, she was alone in Godwin House. She wondered vaguely whether Arscott or Benjamin Finch had realised yet that they’d left her behind.
She hadn’t intended to stay, but in the end she hadn’t been able to leave. Godwin House was her home—this garden her sanctuary. She had a superstitious fear that if she deserted it she might never see it again.
The arrangements they’d made to convey the contents of the house to safety had made it easy for no one to notice her absence. The most valuable items had been taken away either by carriage or in the river barge. Arscott had gone with the barge, intent on protecting the locked chest that contained all of Desire’s monetary wealth. There was more than nine thousand pounds in the heavy chest, the revenues from all the Godwin estates scattered throughout the country. Arscott had taken the head porter and several of the strongest menservants with him to guard the chest.
Benjamin had been in charge of the three coaches that had hauled away other chattels as well as most of the staff, including Lucy, Desire’s personal maid. There had been some discussion about whether Desire would be more comfortable in the overcrowded barge or a coach. No clear decision had been made. In the confusion it had been easy for both men to assume that their mistress was safely in the care of the other.
Despite her fear that she might lose her home, Desire had not consciously intended to stay behind. Somehow she simply hadn’t left. She wondered if she was living up to some deep-rooted family tradition of not running away in the face of danger. Twenty-two years earlier, her mother had lived—and Desire had nearly died—by that creed. In the absence of the Earl, the Countess had taken charge of their Devonshire estate. She had held the fortified house for Parliament against besieging royalists for five weeks of fierce fighting. Even the injuries to her daughter had not compelled the Countess to yield. Only the arrival of Parliamentarian forces, led by Desire’s father, had brought an end to the siege.
The thunderous roar of the fire destroying London was horrifyingly reminiscent for Desire of the noise of the royalists’ bombardment of Larksmere House because, trapped behind the defences of the house, there had been no peace and no escape from the fighting. Desire touched her cheek. Her scars were an ever-present reminder of that frightening period of her life.
The strong easterly winds whipped her skirts around her legs. Her dishevelled hair felt gritty with the ash swirling through the air. Her garden was full of flying debris. A charred piece of paper briefly caught against the side of a raised bed. It gusted up into Desire’s face before spinning heavenwards once more.
All the previous night she had watched the fire light up the sky. She’d seen the crimson, snake-tipped flames dance obscenely over the rooftops and curl wickedly around the church spires and towers. She’d seldom visited the crowded streets of the City, but she’d imagined walking along them. She had always enjoyed knowing there was so much enterprising human life close by. She even enjoyed listening to the harsh, vulgar curses of the Thames boatmen as they plied their trade on the river adjoining her property.
Now London was being destroyed before her eyes. And the fierce wind was driving the flames dangerously close to Godwin House. She was almost sure that Fleet Street was already on fire. She pressed the shank of the river-gate key against her lips. She had prayed all night for the gale to cease and the flames to be quenched. But now it seemed inevitable that the fire would reach the Strand. It was finally time to leave. She would seek out her watchmen and take to the safety of the river.
She turned to leave the roof—and screamed in terror.
Jakob Smith stood three feet from her. A huge, wild-eyed, soot-grimed monster. She was sure he’d come for his revenge. Shock momentarily paralysed her.
His lips draw back in a snarl of fury as he made a gesture towards her.
She threw herself away from him, falling backwards into a bed of herbs.
He lunged after her.
She rolled frantically away, fetching up against the parapet wall. The impact knocked the air out of her lungs and she gasped for breath. Heard him curse.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he shouted, looming over her.
Desire didn’t answer. She struggled to sit up, keeping a tight grip on the key. It wasn’t much, but it was the only weapon she had. Even a monster like Jakob could not be entirely invulnerable. If she could only find his weakness…
Abruptly he moved away from her. Out of her reach. An expression of grim wariness in his red-rimmed eyes. Wild speculations raced through her mind. She wondered if he’d guessed her intent. The demon had a lot more experience of reading a foe’s intentions than she had. She resolved to keep her expression impassive.
‘Where are your men?’ he shouted at her.
‘What?’ His question startled a response from her.
Too late she realised he wanted to assure himself that no one would interrupt his planned revenge on her.
‘För bövelen!’ he exclaimed, in apparent exasperation. ‘At least on Saturday you had a small army to protect you—some of them even seemed loyal. Today I find you alone and defenceless, like a peach waiting to be—’
‘Not by you!’ Desire shouted back, too angry to be afraid. ‘I’ll die…you’ll die first!’
She tried to dig her heels into the ground, to give herself purchase to scramble backwards along the wall. Instead her foot caught in her petticoats. Before she could untangle herself a large clump of fiery debris cartwheeled down from the smoke-filled sky. The wind bowled the tattered ball of flames across the roof until it was trapped between the parapet and Desire’s tangled skirts.
The fire hissed and crackled as it found new food to feed on. Desire screamed, terror consuming her as flames seemed to engulf her legs.
In her panic she barely noticed Jakob seize her in his arms. A few seconds later he plunged her into the water cistern. Shock knocked the air out of her lungs and an instant later Jakob thrust her billowing skirts beneath the ash-covered surface of the water. The flames hissed and died. Desire panted for breath.
It took several long moments for her wits to return sufficiently to comprehend what had happened. She was sitting in the large cistern, water almost up to her neck, though a fair amount had washed out when Jakob had dumped her into the trough. Bits of soot and ash floated around on top of the dirty water in front of her. Jakob knelt beside her. One of his strong hands gripped her shoulder. The other covered the hand in which, to her somewhat detached amazement, she discovered she was still clutching the key.
