Once a Bride (29 page)
“If the proof is so solid, then why not just hang the man and be done?”
“Believe me, Roland, I wanted to. Kenworth urged me to, and I was on the verge of carrying the rope over to the Tower and wrapping it around Sir John’s neck myself. Then that damned fool Lancaster began his rounds of my advisors, urging caution, claiming that perhaps not all was as it seemed.” Edward waved a hand in the air. “They stayed my hand. Insisted I wait. For what? The man is guilty. So now he sits in a comfortable chamber in the Tower instead of lying in his grave, a most unfortunate twist of fate, I say.”
“You are that sure of Sir John’s guilt?”
“Look for yourself.”
Roland put his goblet down, strove to keep his hands from trembling, giddy with delight for what he’d accomplished, yet dreading what he might see.
Edward opened a drawer in his desk, withdrew a scroll, then waved it in the air. “Here. Read. Then tell me if I am not justified in my anger.”
Roland unrolled the scroll, and his heart fell. He couldn’t read the language of the Highlanders, but saw why the king’s anger was justified. Here were names— Sir John Hamelin, and MacLeod, chief of a mighty clan.
“My skills at language do not include Scottish, my liege.”
“MacLeod thanks Hamelin for pikes and swords to use against our army. Apparently Hamelin also provided delicacies for the chief’s table and flour for his storerooms.”
Roland rolled up the parchment and gave it back to Edward. “Rather damning. Might I ask how Kenworth came by it?”
Edward tossed the scroll back in the desk drawer and slammed it shut. “Caught a Scot messenger riding through his holdings in the north and this was in his packs. Without that bit of luck we might never have known.”
Bit of luck? Roland’s head whirled with other possibilities, but he pushed them aside. He’d come to learn the missive’s contents, and that done, shouldn’t push his own luck any further.
“My liege, if I may, I should also advise caution.”
“Oh, Roland, not you, too!”
Roland smiled at the aggrieved tone. “I fear so. Granted, the missive is damning, and if Sir John is guilty you should, quite righteously, hang him. But that missive … ’tis so blatant. I understand there are more missives, in Lancaster’s possession. Have you seen them as yet?”
Edward’s spine grew rigid. “Not as yet.”
Roland wasn’t about to comment on the king’s obstinacy in refusing to grant Lancaster an audience out of pique.
“ ’Twould be interesting to compare the documents, would it not?”
“Perhaps.”
Roland saw an opportunity to not only further his cause but be of service to Edward—to help bridge the crevice between the king and Lancaster.
“Would you like me to look at the documents for you?”
Edward tilted his head. “I have to ask myself why you are so willing to involve yourself in this affair.”
“For justice’s sake. To be of service to you where I can. Choose whichever reason you like.”
Edward glanced toward the window, stood still and silent for more moments than Roland liked. Then he smiled softly.
“What if I choose Lady Eloise?”
Hellfire.
The reaction must have shown on his face. Edward chuckled.
“Come now, Roland. Your willingness to do her bidding is rather telling. You wish to know whether or not I am going to hang the lady’s father, do you not?”
Roland took a deep breath and decided that diplomacy wasn’t within his realm of skills. “For her sake, I would rather you did not. However, if he is guilty, then I would help you haul the rope to the Tower.”
“I know, and for that I thank you. I also think you have your suspicions about who hired the ruffians who roughly handled your squire and tried to kidnap Eloise.”
“Sir John seems to think Kenworth—”
“Ah, yes. His old enemy, the one who gave me this missive.” Edward shook his head. “Always the struggle for power. Always one lord against another. Kenworth urges a swift trial and hanging; Lancaster urges caution despite the evidence. ’Tis mind-numbing, betimes.”
“My liege, I know both Kenworth and Lancaster are related to you, so you strive to keep on good terms with both. My question is how much trust do you place in either?”
Edward never hesitated. “Only as much as I dare, nor can I afford to show preference. So long as they pick at each other they do not harry me.”
“Might I have your leave to carry on? See what I can discover?”
“You have my leave, but you have not much time. I must bring this situation to conclusion with a few days. God’s wounds, I would welcome some small piece of evidence to sway the tide either way. And be careful of both earls, Roland. Be
most
careful.”
So Eloise had told him. And being careful had landed him in deeper water yet.
The meat pie was cold, but Roland didn’t seem to mind. He ate while standing. Between bites he’d related the outcome of his audience with the king. Neither she nor Geoffrey interrupted, except once, when she let out a groan at the mention of names in the missive the king allowed him to read.
Roland wiped his hands on a linen towel. “Edward is not averse to my doing some prying. He never said so, but I think he has some doubt about the missive’s validity. The missive angers him, and aye, if your father had gone to Edward he might have found himself at the end of a rope immediately. By enlisting Lancaster’s aid, he gained some time. Problem is, now that we have time, what do we do with it? Confront Kenworth? Question Lancaster?”
She had no immediate suggestion to give. Nor did Geoffrey.
Her brother stood at the end of the bed, lost in thought. As much as she appreciated his company over the past few hours, she hadn’t been able to relax until she heard Roland’s footsteps on the stairs. She had barely been able to contain her relief to have him back in the room where she could see him. Now Geoffrey’s presence, and Timothy’s, prevented her from doing what she longed to do— throw herself in Roland’s arms and sob her joy that he’d not been sent to the Tower.
Forced to rein in her emotions and deal with the issue at hand, Eloise vented her frustration. “What I would dearly love to know is if the missives are real or fake.”
“Father believes the ones he saw are real,” Geoffrey commented.
“Only because Brother Walter told him so. I am not sure I trust the word of the monk.”
Geoffrey rubbed at his forehead. “As Roland said, having both Father’s and the MacLeod’s names given in the king’s missive seems blatant when the other missives are written differently. Could the missives Father saw be real and the one in the king’s possession fake?”
“Possible,” Roland said, “but ’twould seem to me they must be written by the same person. Kenworth intended to capture your father and bring him back to London along with the missives he would conveniently find in your father’s accounting room. We must assume he intended to use those missives as further evidence against Sir John. If all the missives were purportedly sent from MacLeod to your father, then all must be written in the same hand or Kenworth’s scheme would not work. So, they must all be fake or all be real.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “Not necessarily. ’Tis quite possible the one with the names is a forgery. Done well enough, ’twould be most difficult to tell them apart.”
Eloise put her hands to her temples, the ache beginning to throb. “So how do we find someone who can tell the difference?”
Geoffrey began pacing, the thud of his boots on the planks an ominous beat. Even the patter of rain on the window irritated her taut nerves. There must be some way to untangle this mess, but her mind refused to force order out of the muddle.
Roland put a hand on the back of her neck, massaged gently.
“Shall I ask Mistress Green for a potion for your head?”
She would rather lean against him, close her eyes, and allow his fingers to work their magic than swallow a potion. Just having the warmth of his hand on her neck, his fingers circling, felt like heaven.
“Mayhap later. ’Tis not unbearable.”
Geoffrey stopped pacing. Eloise turned her head slightly to see him staring out the window.
“I spent many months with monks,” he said, his voice soft. “We students were expected to write in a legible manner, so toiled with chalk and slate, stylus and wax tablet, until we could form our letters to the teacher’s satisfaction.” He turned around then, his voice becoming stronger. “Those who had an interest in taking vows and being of service in a monastery’s scriptorium were held to a higher standard. Over and over they practiced a single letter, on and on until each letter was a perfect copy of the other.
“Do either of you happen to know what Brother Walter did before Father took him into his service as a clerk?”
Roland’s hand stilled.
Eloise could only stare at Geoffrey, stunned at the implication. “You think Brother Walter forged the missive?”
“ ’Twould seem possible. If we assume the missive giving names is forged, then Kenworth must have given
someone
a real missive from which to copy the handwriting. Why not a cleric who might already have practiced the rudiments of making letters appear as exact as the next?”
A memory niggled at Eloise, of the monk lying on the floor, bleeding, her so angry at her father for deserting her. She’d taken the cleric down to tend his head, him becoming distressed because her father wasn’t about.
“A good theory, Geoffrey,” Roland said. “But your father said Brother Walter made a thorough confession about Kenworth’s plan. Would the monk not mention having forged either one or possibly all of—”
“That is it!” Eloise jumped off the bed, her excitement too great to contain.
Both men looked at her as if she’d gone witless. But she hadn’t. Not yet, anyway.
She put her hands up, palms outward, holding back the flood of impressions and memories, sorting through them, hoping her logic held firm. Eloise closed her eyes to help her concentrate.
“That morning, Father called me up to his accounting room. Brother Walter lay unconscious on the floor. Father told me what was happening, that he considered the monk untrustworthy. Then he stuffed the scrolls into a traveling pouch, gave me advice about how to deal with the earl, and left.
“Naturally, I was stunned. I also assumed Father and the monk had scuffled—though the monk told me later that his own clumsiness was at fault, that he’d tripped and hit his head against the desk. Anyway, when I finally took the monk down to have his gash tended, he began asking about Father’s whereabouts, became very agitated when I could not answer him.”
Eloise opened her eyes, sure of her conjecture now. “He ran about the keep and grounds searching for Father, insisting he must speak with him immediately, and issuing dire warnings of the doom to befall us if he did not.”
She looked from Roland to Geoffrey and back again. “What if Brother Walter hit his head before he finished confessing his part in Kenworth’s plot? Could he have been on the verge of admitting that he forged the missive in the king’s possession?”
Geoffrey rubbed at his chin. “Perhaps. But if the sin sat so heavy on his mind, then why not tell you later?”
“He was adamant that he speak with Father. I should have pressed him, but I was so angry with him I could hardly bear to look at him. And I had to prepare for the earl’s arrival. In hindsight, I should have allowed Marcus to press him for information.” She flopped down on the bed in disgust. “Damn.”
“He may not have, anyway, Eloise,” Roland said. “If you will remember, Simon, Marcus, and I tried to get him to talk after we found him. He would not then either. If I had allowed him to remain in hiding—”
“You had no choice. Kenworth wanted him found. Sweet mercy, I wanted him found so I could show him the gate.”
Geoffrey softly commented, “ ’Tis possible he did the forgery, and even if not, he may know who did. One of his fellow clerics, perhaps. Where is Brother Walter now?”
Knowing full well, Eloise groaned and put her face in her hands, allowing Roland to answer.
“Kenworth has him.” Roland shook his head. “If the monk made a similar confession to Kenworth, I fear for the monk’s life.”
“Then let us hope the man showed some sense,” Geoffrey commented. “Assuming he lives, where would he be?”
“Likely at Kenworth’s residence.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Aye. We began our journey to Lelleford there.” Hearing the rising excitement in the men’s voices, Eloise looked up at Roland and Geoffrey. “I beg pardon, but you cannot walk up to the door and demand Kenworth hand over Brother Walter.”
“Perhaps not,” Roland admitted. “However, there may be a way to reach the monk without Kenworth knowing. I could go over, watch the place, see what I can learn.”
“I can go along,” Geoffrey offered with a grin. “I do have some experience in skulking around in the dark, moving quietly.”
Roland immediately took exception. “One of us has to stay here to guard Eloise and the others.”
“I can go.”
Eloise glanced over her shoulder at Timothy, who’d sat cross-legged on his pallet and said nary a word until now.
“Nay,” Roland said firmly.
Timothy sighed. “You must allow me out of this room sometime, my lord. I know where the residence is located. I also know how to get in through the servants’ entrance. ’Twould be rather simple for me to find out if the monk is there.” He rubbed at his ribs. “Besides, Kenworth owes me. If the lout who attacked me lurks about the place, I should like to know.”
Eloise didn’t like the softening of Roland’s eyes, but this wasn’t her decision. It was a matter between knight and squire.
“Can you accomplish the task during day’s light?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Without causing yourself further hurt or getting caught?”
Timothy unfolded his legs and got to his feet. “I shall do my best to avoid either.”
Roland was quiet a moment, then shook a finger at Timothy. “You are to take no chances, and if you are not back within the hour, I am coming after you.”
Timothy smiled, then left the room.
Eloise closed her eyes and prayed.