The Traitor's Tale (47 page)

"Without them, there'd be nothing," Joliffe answered as abruptly. He went forward, into the warm spread of the candlelight. The rest of them, even Vaughn, stayed near the door, in the shadows, leaving this to him. "The man and one of the nuns are here on someone else's behalf. The other nun is here because the first one is. There's no more I'll tell you than that. We have to speak to his grace the duke and no one else. And soon."

Over the years Frevisse had seen Joliffe be—and seem to be—some several things, from a rascal of a traveling player to a careless fool to a spy to almost a friend, with more understood between them than was ever said. As a player, he had any number of voices he could use, could seem to be a great many kinds of men, but until now she had never heard him thus—a man sure of his authority speaking as equal to another man of authority, telling him what they would do. And from the way the man was standing suddenly rigid, staring at him, he had never heard it either, and after that staring moment he demanded back at Joliffe, "Without I know anything more than that?"

"Without you know anything more than that," Joliffe agreed. "Men have died for knowing it, and I will not tell it to you, Sir William."

"But you'll tell it to my lord of York."

That was accusation more than question, and Joliffe answered it as such, not giving up an inch of certainty. "I'll tell my lord of York because likely
his
life depends on he knows it. What he does then will be his choice. Including telling you." Without pause but his voice suddenly lightened, he went on, "By the way, what happened in Wales? Was there truly order for your death?"

It was an unsubtle turning of their talk, and Sir William paused, his gaze still hard and assessing on Joliffe, before he accepted it and said, "There was. And for York to be arrested. Arrested!" Sir William barked a harsh, angry laugh. "It never came to a single blow. He faced down Stanley's officers and there was the end of it. Harry Norris, for one, ended up sitting to wine and dinner and a long talk instead of putting him in shackles and prison!"

Joliffe matched Sir William's laughter and asked on the ebb of it, "Did Harry know who gave the orders? Did York ever find out?"

And Frevisse suddenly understood he was not simply using up time. He was trying to lay hold on another strangling rope of the web there was through all of this, hoping for more answers; but Sir William made a disgusted sound and said, "Everybody had their orders from Stanley and supposed he had them from Somerset. What do you suppose?"

That question came sharp back at Joliffe, who said, "I do think they'd both be hard put to order their dog to sit and be obeyed."

"Hm," Sir William said. Their shallow laughter had fallen away from both of them. For a long moment they only stood, looking at each other, each waiting for the other to speak, and when Joliffe did not, Sir William finally said flatly, "You mean it about telling only York."

Joliffe made a small assenting movement of his head.

Sir William stared at him a dissatisfied moment longer, maybe still uncertain how things had shifted between them from master and man to two masters. Then he shifted his belt with both hands, probably in outward sign of resettling his mind, and said, "No point in our standing about, then. My ladies, pardon for my lack of courtesy. I pray you, sit." And to Joliffe again, "I'll
send someone to put a word in his grace's ear, on the chance he can slip free of our good abbot the sooner."

"We can only hope," Joliffe said smoothly, like a gracious guest accepting a host's right attentions.

Frevisse thought he was playing it too far, and maybe Sir William did, too. His look held on Joliffe a moment more before he again chose to let it go, settling for a silent bow of his head to Frevisse and Sister Margrett on his way to the door. They both made curtsies in return but it was to his back as he went out the door, closing it behind him.

"So," said Vaughn.

"So," Joliffe agreed.

There seeming nothing else to say, no one said it, and in their silence, Joliffe went to the candlestand, took one of the lighted candles and lit the rest, the soft light blooming to fill the room.

"Better to wait in light," he said, "than have things come at us out of the dark."

With no knowing how long their wait would be, Frevisse and Sister Margrett went to sit on a short-legged chest against the wall near a window; Vaughn chose a low-backed chair and sat with his head down and hands clasped; Joliffe hitched a hip onto the corner of a table from which he took up a small, plain-bound book and began to turn the pages. Beside Frevisse, Sister Margrett began to whisper the beginning of Compline, the day's final Office. Without thought, simply from long custom, Frevisse joined her, hardly listening even to herself, until the familiar words and their peace took hold on her and she began to say them with her mind as well as her mouth, and then with her heart.

"Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace
..." Now dismiss your servant, Lord, according to your word, in peace . . .
"Salva nos, Domine. . . et requiescamus in pace."
Save us, Lord . . . and may we find rest in peace. Taking the comfort there was in knowing that these words, this hope, had outlasted the ambitions and lusts of more hundreds of men than she could count or know.

They had finished and were simply sitting, Vaughn silently watching his thumbs tap together, Joliffe holding the book without ever turning a page, when a footfall on the stairs brought them all to their feet, with Frevisse's momentary peace gone well before the door was opened and Sir William entered and stood aside for the man following him.

Even if Frevisse had not seen Richard, duke of York before this, the broad chain of glinting gold and white-enameled roses worn wide on his shoulders, the rich sheen of his long, deeply blue surcoat, and the way he carried himself, straight-backed and with lifted head, proud with certainty of his place in the world, would have told her here was a high nobleman.

She and Sister Margrett sank in floor-deep curtsies as Joliffe and Vaughn made low bows. By the time she and Sister Margrett had risen and Joliffe and Vaughn straightened, Sir William had closed the door and York had crossed the room to the table and full into the candlelight. "Master Joliffe," he said.

"My lord," Joliffe returned.

"And your companions?"

"Dame Frevisse is cousin to her grace the duchess of Suffolk and here on her behalf."

Frevisse made a curtsy, not quite so low as before, to acknowledge that and, raising her head, met York's gaze, startling in its sharp assessment of her before he slightly bowed his head in return.

"And Sister Margrett, here to companion Dame Frevisse,"

Joliffe went on. Again the curtsy and brief bow of the head. "And Nicholas Vaughn, likewise here for the duchess of Suffolk."

Again the sharp, assessing look and bow of the head to Vaughn's low bow. But with courtesy served, York looked full at Joliffe again and said, "You've been ill, Joliffe?"

Joliffe's surprise showed. "My lord?"

"You look worn by more than merely too much riding. Was it illness? Or were you hurt?"

"Hurt, my lord."

"In this matter that Sir William says you say is urgent?"

"Yes, my lord."

"But you do well enough now?"

"Yes, my lord. Well enough."

Frevisse, watching them, thought that by rights the only thing that might have been alike about the two men was their age—both somewhere around their fortieth year—but there was more than that. Their pride, for one thing: something Frevisse had long known about Joliffe and could easily have guessed about York, he being who he was. Her surprise was at seeing the respect there was between them. She knew well that Joliffe did not readily give respect to anyone, while York could hardly be expected to give it to a hireling spy, which was, when all was said and done, what Joliffe must be. But the respect was there and shared as York said, "So you've come with something to tell me, and they're necessary to the telling."

"To tell you and to give you," Joliffe said. "Save for Sister Margrett, who's the one innocent in this." He turned to her. "If you will go aside and pardon us for it, my lady?"

Sister Margrett, making no objection to being innocent and sent aside, bowed her head and silently withdrew to a corner farthest from them in the room. There, she lowered her head, crossed her hands into her opposite sleeves, and went still, as little there as she could possibly be without leaving the room.

"Dame Frevisse," Joliffe said.

Frevisse went forward to join him in front of York. Time was come to be rid of the letter and unwillingness was on her like a weight of lead, because once it was given, once York had read it, there would be no way to unknow whatever it said. And if it said what she and Joliffe feared it did . . .

She paused, her hand resting on the clasp of her belt-purse. "There's one thing first, my lord. Vaughn."

He came forward to stand beside her, the two of them together in this for Alice's sake; but he left the words to her, and keeping her gaze steady on York, she said, "Without the duchess of Suffolk's aid and willingness, we would not have this thing. She believes it holds truths that could ruin her son. She also believes they are truths that should not stay hidden. What she asks in return for giving it to you is that you will do all that you may to protect her son's rights and title and inheritance if this should prove as . . ." Frevisse sought for the word. ". . . ill a thing as she fears. Will you swear to do that?"

It was no little thing to ask a royal duke for his oath, nor did York immediately give it but regarded her steadily before saying, "Is it as dire as that?"

"We think so, yes," Joliffe said before Frevisse could answer.

York looked at him. "Do you think this is a pledge I should make?"

"Yes, my lord."

York returned his look to Frevisse, signed himself with the cross, and said, "Then I swear to do all I may to protect young John de la Pole's rights and title and inheritance, to save him as much as in my power lies from the consequences of his father's deeds." He signed the cross again and asked of Frevisse and Vaughn together, "Enough?"

She looked at Vaughn, who nodded agreement, and she faced York again to say, "Yes. Enough."

She had done what she could for Alice. Refusing to let her fingers fumble, she brought out the packet and held it out to York, both glad to be rid of it and nakedly afraid. She looked into his face as he took it and found he was looking at her, not the packet, as he took it; and it might have been the candlelight or else her own imagining, but her own feelings looked mirrored in his gaze. He was no fool. He had his fears and suspicions, too, and if the letter said what she thought it did, he was right to be afraid of it.

He turned toward the candles, held the packet the better to see the seal on the cord around it, and asked, "Whose seal?"

"Edward Burgate, the duke of Suffolk's secretary," Joliffe said.

York broke it, unwrapped the cord, set it on the table, began to fold back the oiled-cloth wrapping. Sir William began to move forward to York's side. Joliffe put out a hand toward York, saying, "It might be best if only you read it first, my lord. It may not be for anyone else to know."

Sir William stopped, outrage and uncertainty unsteady across his face. York looked from Joliffe to him and back again.

"Have you read this?" he asked Joliffe.

"No, but I have a strong suspicion what it says, and if I'm right, the fewer who know it for certain the better, my lord."

"Suspicion," York echoed grimly. "After my greeting in Wales, I'm willing to listen to suspicions. Sir William."

With a discontent near to anger and not hiding it very well, Sir William stayed where he was.

They all stayed where they were while York finished unwrapping the packet and laid the cloth on the table. York looked at the imprinted wax holding closed the several-times-folded papers that had been inside the cloth. "Suffolk's," he said, broke it, and unfolded the papers. In the silence of their waiting, he began to read, and while he did, no one shifted or stirred.