Chapter
III

After their dance before the Queen, Christian helped Nora Becket settle on a cushion. He felt no remorse at having tormented her. It served her right for keeping him swollen with lust for days. Even when he’d been furious at her for thwarting his revenge on Jack Midnight, he’d wanted her. It was the way she covered herself from neck to toe. All that shrouding made him want to tear off her clothes to see what she was like beneath.

Some women wore their innocence like a halberd, he mused. Women like Nora. He preferred an honest bawd, one who served beer and meat in an open-necked gown with her breasts exposed in invitation. In the years since his father had found him again, he’d had his fill of noblewomen who eyed his codpiece from behind their fans and sent cloying notes to him, begging for an assignation.

No matter their station, women wanted him for his beauty, a beauty that had caused him more pain than pleasure. None could see the patchwork creature that capered in the disguise of an earl’s son. He was both wool and satin, felt and velvet, knitted together with threads of gold and a good bit of frayed twine.

Rejoining his friends, Christian deliberately took part in a card game with Roger Mortimer so that he could sit with his back to the girl everyone called the mouse and who he knew was no mouse at all, but a phoenix. He was winning a fortune from the old Marquess of Winchester when Edmund Bonner was announced. A couple of men hissed behind their hands, another man muttered a curse, and some of the Queen’s council looked as if they’d like to spit.

Bloody Bonner, the people called him. Bishop of London, burner of heretics. Roger Mortimer had told Christian that Bonner had just sentenced an aged cobbler for heresy. The old man was ignorant; he didn’t know the Mass from a bushkin. Christian turned sideways in his chair to watch Bonner waddle up to the Queen. He was so fat, his skin looked like it was in danger of splitting. Sweat dripped from beneath his cap, down his bulging cheeks, and into the neck of his robe. Christian yawned, tossed a card on the table, and through half-lowered lashes stared at the papers Bonner carried.

After presenting the papers to the Queen, Bonner signaled to the servant who followed him. The man came forward with a lap desk and held it for the Queen. Mary glanced at the sheets of paper, then signed them while talking to the bishop.

A man who had entered with Bonner suddenly turned and caught Christian watching the group. Moonlight-silver hair curled over his ears. in spite of his lean build and prowling wolf eyes, Luiz de Ateca managed to convey imperial power and splendor in his dress and demeanor. De Ateca smiled a gloating smile at Christian and bowed. Christian turned back to his cards.

Bonner retrieved the signed papers from the Queen, and he and his party left the presence chamber. Luiz de Ateca followed, but stopped beside Christian.

“You weren’t at Mass.”

Christian threw down a card, but didn’t look up at de Ateca. “I worship at home.”

“If at all,” de Ateca said. “It’s unseemly for the Queen’s great nobles to absent themselves from court Mass.”

“Do you keep count of our absences and send word to His Majesty? How tedious, Spaniard. And how expected.”

De Ateca’s hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. He threw back the edge of his cloak and sneered at Christian.

“Do you think I like being exiled on this barbaric and backward island? I could be fighting in the Netherlands or in France.”

Christian laid down his cards and clicked his tongue in sympathy. “And instead you’re forced to roost here on this miserable little island and seduce boys.” His hand snaked out to grasp de Ateca’s arm before the man could draw his dagger. “Careful, if you challenge, the Queen will want to know the cause of our wrangle.”

The Spaniard lifted his hand away from the weapon. His face was crimson with the effort to control his rage.

“Leave English youths alone for your own health,” Christian said. “From now on choose older prey who can take care of themselves.”

De Ateca smiled.

“I tried, but you wriggled out of my trap.” With a lightness of step that belied the anger in his eyes, de Ateca left the presence chamber.

Unruffled by the exchange, Christian returned to his card play, but whatever was in Bishop Bonner’s documents had put the Queen out of temper. She retreated to her privy chamber, and her women went with her. Christian looked up from his bow in time to glimpse the small, intriguing back of Nora Becket before it vanished. Roger Mortimer sidled up to him.

“Someday you’ll touch de Ateca’s honor too nearly,” Roger said.

“Our comely Luiz helped bring the Inquisition to this kingdom. I want to duel with him.”

Roger shrugged and changed the subject. “Bonner’s on the trail of Archibald Dymoke.”

Christian turned back to the table and swept his brightly painted cards into a pile. “Bonner is always hunting someone.”

“But he knows Dymoke is in London, and he’s determined to catch him. Someone should run a pike through Bonner’s fat paunch.”

Spreading his hand of cards before his face like a fan, Christian waved them as if to cool himself and studied his friend. Roger conformed to the Queen’s Mass like everyone at court, but like Princess Elizabeth he was too much an intellect and a humanist to be a fanatic.

“Better to put him to a treadmill,” Christian said. He folded his cards and tapped them on Roger’s sleeve. “But then he’d sweat like a roasted pig and flood the Thames.”

Roger gave a bark of laughter. Christian threw the cards on the table and turned away. Roger’s hand touched his arm.

“Do you go to the bear baiting tomorrow?”

“Why not? If I can’t watch a heretic roast, I might as well gaze upon a pack of starving dogs maul a blind bear.”

Roger’s hand tightened. “After the baiting we can go to a play.”

“Are you still sniffing after that strumpet with the golden hair?” Christian asked. “Ah, the suburbs of pleasure. Southwark is my favorite district in London, dear Mortimer. Perhaps I’ll help you track your girlish bawd.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. With you at my side, all I have to do is sit back and wait for the women to swarm. I’ll act as your bodyguard while I wait for her to show herself.”

Christian escaped with a promise to see Roger the next day. He was soon back at Vasterne House, where another, more reluctant disciple awaited him. Leaving off his cloak, doublet, and sword, Christian poured two goblets of wine and climbed the stairs to the third floor of the house. In a corner tower, he paused for a guard to let him into a locked chamber. He slipped inside and leaned against the door to close it. Crossing his ankles, he cocked his head and studied his prisoner.

Blade had been sitting in the window seat contemplating the sheer drop to the flagstones below. When Christian entered, Blade flung himself out of the seat and stood tall and defiant, with his back to the window. His chin lifted as Christian raked his gaze over him from curls to boots.

“You filthy spawn of a trugging house,” Blade said, “let me go.”

Christian shoved away from the door, walked toward the youth with a light, graceful tread, and held out a goblet. Blade swore, but he took the wine.

“You have the key to your emancipation,” Christian said. He collapsed into the window seat and rested his arm on a bent knee. “Tell me where to find Jack Midnight and you may prance out of my house like a Morris dancer.”

Noting how Blade stared at the door, he smiled. “It’s not locked.”

“I don’t repeat my mistakes,” Blade said.

“Then you’re ready to tell me your real name.”

“Go piss off one of your towers.” He took a long drink of the wine.

“Dear boy,” Christian said, “a vocabulary that consists mostly of profanity is a sign either of limited intelligence or lack of education. Desist from lewd language, I beg of you. It’s boring.”

Scowling at his captor, Blade absently tried to strangle his goblet.

Christian turned his head away from the youth and gazed out the window. “Can it be, my ill-tempered colt, that the reason you refuse to give your name is because you don’t know it?”

With a twist of his body, he whirled around in time to catch the empty goblet Blade hurled at him. He tossed both vessels aside, heedless of his wine splattering on the floor. Blade let out a surprised curse as he was swiftly captured, and one of his arms was twisted behind his back. Christian shoved the youth across the room until Blade was smashed against the wall. He bent the boy’s arm up and was rewarded with a gasp.

“I’m not a patient man. London has eighteen prisons to choose from, and I can put you in any one of them. I assure you, your accommodations won’t be on the master’s side, with a lovely bed and board. It will be the Hole for you, where you’ll dine with rats and lie down with corpses.”

“You don’t frighten me,” Blade said through whitening lips. “I’ve seen Newgate.”

Christian again rammed his captive against the wall. “But have you been on holiday inside the Wood Street Counter? No food but what passersby throw through the window at street level, prisoners dying of festering sores, children crying over the bodies of their parents. You might get better treatment, though, if you bared yourself for the gaolers.”

Blade laughed, then sucked in his breath at the onslaught of pain from his twisted arm. “You’re trying to frighten me. Do you think, having been with Midnight, that such prospects hold any terror for me?”

Christian was quiet for a moment, then stepped back, easing the youth’s arm out of its contorted position. He kept hold of it and began rubbing the abused joints at elbow and wrist. Blade suffered the treatment only because he couldn’t get his arm back.

“Jack Midnight attacked me and my father when we were out hunting,” Christian said in the amiable voice of a troubadour. “He skewered the earl and tossed me over his saddle. I thought my father was dead. I tried to escape for months and spent most of my time bleeding from his whip. Eventually I learned not to try to leave, and then my memories faded. I liked being a rogue.”

Blade pulled his arm away. “I can’t help you.”

“I was right. You don’t know your own name.”

“You bleeding ass,” the youth said.

“Is that how he kept you? Only he knows your identity, and unless you obey, he won’t tell it. Rich. But consider that Jack Midnight is likely to keep you dangling from his belt strap until you die. Would you like to know why he’ll do it?”

“Go to Hades,” Blade said. “You made up a fairy tale and convinced yourself that it’s the truth.”

Christian walked back to the window seat and perched there. “But, my dear, your accent. When you’re puffing like a bellows and all roused up, you sound like an Oxford cleric. If Midnight took you as my substitute, I want to know it. You see, Midnight hates noblemen with a festering, putrid virulence that makes Bloody Bonner look like St. Francis.”

Blade shook his head. “You’re lying.”

Hopping to his feet, Christian stretched his arms lazily, then sauntered to the door. “It appears, my dear, that you must either suffer or be seduced. I shall ponder on which will be more edifying to your soul.”

Late the next morning Christian wandered home in the company of Inigo Culpepper and a few ladies from the most luxurious brothel in Southwark. He returned armed with information and a smile that Inigo said made his stomach feel as if it were lined with knives. They all retired to his chambers, where Christian submerged himself in the hot water of a bath and soft female hands. Inigo lounged on his bed and sucked at a wine bottle. Christian was just tying his hose when a servant brought word that Nora Becket was below.

Shoving his feet into velvet shoes, Christian pushed away the woman who was playing with the open ends of his shirt. He hadn’t suspected it of Nora. Some women were aroused by rough treatment; he’d been wrong to think she wasn’t one of them. Here she was at his door when she should be eschewing his company like a nun confronted with a pimp. Christian laughed and twirled about. The full sleeves of his shirt fluttered like wings.

“I’m off to company, sweetings. Make merry with Inigo.”

He raced downstairs, heedless of serving men and maids, and threw open the doors to the great hall. She was standing just inside the entrance, all tricked out in a gown better suited to a merchant’s wife. He cast an irritated look at the black velvet yoke over her bosom. At least she’d removed her black silk mask, which she wore whenever she was about in the city.

“It’s the mouse,” he said, slamming the door shut. He stalked to her, caught the turned-back edge of her collar, and tugged at it.

“Oxen wear yokes, my dear. Leave them off next time or I’ll have to resort to Blade’s methods of exposing your lovely skin.”

Her mouth popped open, and Christian had to kiss it. His lips fastened on the cherry-colored flesh, and he felt a puff of air as she gasped. Pulling back a bit he whispered, “Softly, easy and slow, like spring rain, like the melting of a candle.” He kissed her again, sucking at her tongue, and felt her small body tremble. Her hands made fists in his shirt as she tried to shove him away.

He was about to tear the cursed yoke when something pulled at his shirt. He tried to ignore it, but the fabric was yanked sharply three more times. Lifting his head, he looked down. A cherub in Becket livery was scowling at him, a small fist twisted in the cambric of Christian’s shirt. Sunbeams from a window cast light on curls as bright as polished gold.

“Unhand the lady, my lord.”

Christian glanced at the blushing Nora. “An unlikely duenna. Is he supposed to swear to your innocence when you lose it?”

“No,” Nora said. She tried to pull free of him, but Christian gathered her closer and nuzzled her neck.

“Get rid of him,” he said.

The brat kicked him. Thrusting Nora from him, he swooped down and picked the boy up. The boy hollered and kicked, trying to bite Christian as he held him high in the air.

“Cherubs shouldn’t act like pixies,” Christian said. “Shall I hang you from a roof beam?” He ducked a kick. “The flat of my hand on your bum is what you need.”

“No!” Nora cried out. She fastened both hands around his arm and pulled.

“It wasn’t his fault,” she said. “You misunderstood, my lord. I only came to bring you the puppies.”

Christian lowered the boy to the floor, but kept hold of the back of his cloak. “The puppies?”

She nodded and cleared her throat. “Will you wait?”

After releasing the child, Christian spread his arms wide. She darted away and returned with a covered basket.

“I haven’t the means to show my gratitude properly,” she babbled as she shoved the container at him. “And I’m afraid my f-father is … difficult. But I wanted to do the honorable thing, to express my indebtedness. They are pure-bred, and great fighters, and they will protect …”

He realized she couldn’t go on because he was staring at her. He lowered his gaze to the basket. The cover was moving, and he shoved it aside. Two fat, tawny mastiff puppies snuffled at his hand. One tried to bite his finger while the other gnawed on his signet ring. Christian touched the tip of a wet nose, then looked up into Nora Becket’s earnest, glowing eyes.

“I know the gift must seem poor,” she said. “But it comes with my heart’s good wishes.”

“God’s toes, she’s brought me puppies.”

They stared at each other as Christian struggled with the unaccustomed experience of finding himself without words.

“I’ll take them back,” Nora said.

“You will not.” He walked to the door, opened it, and handed the basket to a serving man. Turning back to Nora, he said, “Go away, Nora Becket. I beseech thee. Get thee from my sight and let me hear no more prattling of debts and gratitude. I want none of it, and none of you.”

•   •   •

She’d given him puppies.

Christian leaned back on a cushioned bench in the bear garden on the South Bank of the Thames. Below, in the circular arena, the bearward and his men were staking out the bear. Scarred, slavering, and mad, the creature rocked from side to side and bared its fangs. In the stall with Christian sat Roger Mortimer and his current amour, Ned Howard, and several other young savages drunk on beer and anticipation of sport. Barbara White sat beside Christian. Her guffaws had ceased to make him wince, for he’d long since stopped listening to her.

Nora Becket had given him puppies to thank him for saving her life. Not jewels, not plate, not her body. Puppies.

It was clear she expected no gift of gratitude to come for him from her father. Christian supposed that a man who would send his daughter to court alone and without a proper wardrobe would hold her life cheap as well.

Their names were Homer and Virgil. That miniature bodyguard Arthur had told him so. He’d also said that Christian was lucky, for his mistress entrusted few with her orphans. Christian laughed at that memory, earning himself a speculative look from Roger. Those two puppies had already tried to gnaw his sword scabbard and had relieved themselves on the cushions on the floor of his bedchamber.

If only she hadn’t given him puppies. Then he would have left her alone. He had cast out of his mind, but she’d come tripping back in with her great, luminous brown eyes, her humility and shy ways. It was too late to ignore her, and already he was plotting to have her with all the energy and obsession he brought to finding Jack Midnight.

The sun was bright and hot and sent waves of smelly heat rising up to the box where he sulked. Closely packed bodies, the odor of dog and bear, the smell of fresh pastries and beer all surrounded him. Idly he watched a nip and a foist work the crowd below with the help of a doxy who distracted potential victims. They were of Mag’s pack from down at the Bald Pelican.

Mag. Christian smiled to himself at the memory of the woman. Almost six feet tall, she ran an alehouse that, like others of its kind, sheltered the activities of a band of thieves and swindlers, as enterprising a crew as any in London. Mag even ran a training school for pickpockets—nips—and cutpurses—foists. It was to Mag that he’d run when he’d escaped Jack Midnight when he was twelve.

Christian abruptly forgot about Mag when he heard Nora’s name. Odd, he mused, how he could hear her name even above the catcalls, the hawking of vendors, and the rumble of the crowd.

“What did you say?” he asked Barbara.

“I said I couldn’t believe Nora Becket deigned to come here.” Barbara nodded to the benches on their right.

There she was. Nora Becket lifted her skirts and slid onto a bench. Her features partially concealed by a black silk mask, she was with several of the more adventuresome court ladies. She clasped her hands in her lap and kept her gaze trained straight ahead. She was pale. He couldn’t see her eyes, but what he could see of her face was immobile, as if she dared not move for fear of breaking. Not once did she look down into the arena where the baiting was about to commence.

Roger whistled. “I didn’t think she’d do it.”

“What?” Christian asked.

“Come here. Last night at the palace Jane Dormer taunted her that she was a mouse and hadn’t the stomach to join in true sport like bear baiting. She called Mistress Becket a mouse to her face, and so Nora wagered that she would come today.”

Grasping the rail in front of him, Christian watched the girl. When the dogs were released, her hands jerked in her lap, then went still. She was still staring into the distance. One of the ladies whispered something to her, and Nora slowly lowered her gaze to the pit.

Five mastiffs were snapping at the bear. One charged and ripped into a leg. Blood spurted from torn flesh as the bear swatted the dog from its thigh. Two more dogs charged, and the bear caught one in its jaws. The mastiff screamed. Yellow fangs bit into the dog’s back while the rest of the mongrels fell upon the bear.

Christian glanced from the spectacle to Nora. She grasped her silk mask and tore it from her head, then dropped it as she lurched to her feet. One hand clutched at her throat while the other groped for and found the scented pomander ball hanging from her girdle. She held it to her nose. Above her hand, her eyes were wide and fixed. Christian was up and running for the stairs before she fled.

He waited for her on the second landing. Hearing light, uneven footsteps, he moved closer to the stairs. She didn’t see him. She dropped the pomander and almost fell down the last three steps in front of him. He caught her by the arms.

Eyes wide and unfocused, she stared at him.

“Lord Montfort.”

Her face had lost all color and her skin was damp. When her throat convulsed and she tried to pull free, he swept her up in his arms.

“Try to hold it until I set you down,” he said.

Running downstairs, he accosted an attendant and asked for a place of privacy. He was shown to an uninhabited office. Placing Nora on a bench, he slipped one arm around her waist and cupped the back of her neck with his other hand. He shoved her head between her knees while she muttered a protest.

The attendant brought a basin, damp cloths, and beer. After dismissing the man with the reward of a few coins, Christian placed the basin on the floor and applied a cloth to Nora’s face and neck. She was still white, but her breathing was no longer so rapid. He wiped a bead of sweat from her cheek, but another followed. They were tears. Pulling away from him, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Christian sat beside her, cloth suspended in the air, and waited. The sobs grew until he thought she would choke on them. Her body shook with the force of her grief, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach as though she were in pain. The violence of her grief stunned Christian. Then he remembered the puppies.

He pounced on her. Lifting her onto his lap, he shoved her face into his shoulder and squeezed his arms tight around her. He felt her tip-tilted nose burrow into his neck. The muscles in his chest contracted.

“You little fool,” he said into her veil. “Goose. Idiot. Your heart is tied to your sleeve, and you can’t go about letting others use it for a shuttlecock.”

He felt her nod. Smiling, he buried his hand in her velvety black hair. His fingers found her neck. It was moist and hot; he kneaded the muscles. As he held her, a roar came from the bear. It was muffled, but Nora jumped and began to tremble again.

“Don’t think about it,” Christian said. He swore when she started to sob again. His hands bracketed her face, and he fastened his mouth on hers. Her sobs vibrated in his mouth for brief seconds before she drew back. He let her go, setting her beside him on the bench. Rising, he offered his hand.

“I’m taking you back across the river, sweet mouse. We’ll go in my barge.”

“I came with—”

“Let them wallow in blood,” he snapped, then groaned silently when she flinched. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh.

He took her arm and conducted her out of the arena. His pleasure barge waited on the bank of the Thames. Pennanted and gilded, stuffed with cushions and covers, it was a gift from his father. Christian had Nora safely tucked into the cushions before she’d decided she shouldn’t be going anywhere with him. She started to protest, but he hushed her.

“We’re casting off,” he said, “so there’s nothing to do but wait.”

A light, pattering sound drew his attention. Along the bank a small angel in Becket livery raced toward them. The page Arthur hurled his body across the increasing distance between the barge and the shore. Christian sighed and braced himself. As the boy arced toward him, he reached out and yanked at his flying cloak. Arthur landed on his bottom on the floor of the boat. Nora laughed at him and helped him up. Arthur plopped himself down on the floor again so that he was between Christian and Nora. The child lifted a rounded chin and scowled at his adversary.

“I accompany my lady at all times.” Arthur pounded his fist on the deck to emphasize this announcement.

“Not if I drown you in the river,” Christian said.

Arthur folded his arms over his chest and kept scowling. Nora admonished the boy, and Christian smiled at him nastily.

His men oared quickly, and Christian distracted Nora from the silent and resentful Arthur by telling her a story about a black witch who turned a goldsmith’s apprentice into an eel.

“Witches,” Nora said. “Fie.”

“Fie!” Christian put his fists on his hips and frowned. Suddenly he pointed into the water. “See. There it is now. The very one.”

Nora leaned over the side of the barge. Christian dipped his hand into the river and flicked a spray of water at her face. She squealed, then jumped back and gawked at him. He leaned against his cushions and chuckled. His mirth ended abruptly when a pillow hit him square in the face. He caught it and held it up as a shield, but Nora’s barrage was over. She was eyeing him warily, as if she regretted her rash familiarity and expected him to hit her. He lowered the pillow and grinned at her.

She gave him a tiny smile in return. “Thank you, my lord, for rescuing me again.”

“I shall apply to the Queen for a license and monopoly. Snatching you from disaster is beginning to take a lot of my time.”

“I regret it, my lord.”

“Christian.”

She shook her head.

“I’m going to call you Nora, so you might as well call me Christian.”

She didn’t answer. Turning her head, she gazed out at the houses along the river. Around them sculls and barges swarmed over the water. The sound of waves hitting the barge mixed with hailing calls from oarsmen. Arthur was still frowning at him, watching him as if he expected Christian to leap upon his mistress at any moment.

Christian let Nora be, however. He was content to study her profile. She had the blush of a Dutch tulip in her lips and cheeks. Her forehead was a gentle curve that sank into the bridge of her nose. Wispy black curls at her temples danced in the breeze. He avoided looking below her neck.

He should take her back to the palace, but he wasn’t going to. Where could he take this gentle yet lush young woman, though? He let his hand trail in the water while he thought of the stews, taverns, and gardens that were his favorite haunts.

“We’ll pass the rest of the afternoon in pleasance, my lady,” he said, smiling lazily. He ignored her shake of the head and started singing an old French song.

The boat hit the northern bank as he finished. He pulled Nora up and helped her onto the dock. Giving her no opportunity to protest, he clasped her by the arm and hustled her into the streets of London.

“Come along, my night-black mouse, and I’ll wrap you up in my vices.”