The Tudor Vendetta (17 page)

“You’ll be late for the feast,” she said, echoing my previous thought, though the manner in which she pronounced
feast
held distinct sarcasm, as if plentiful food was the last thing I should expect. “You have yet to bathe and reek of horse. My lady will not be pleased; she values punctuality and cleanliness above all else.”

Again, she spoke with marked scorn. Servants must be hard to come by here in Withernsea, I thought, for Lady Vaughan to put up with such insolence. However, having been raised myself among servants, I knew they often carried hidden resentments.

We traversed a dank passageway and climbed another short flight of steps to a door that Agnes took her time opening, using a key she produced from her apron pocket as if it were a talisman. The lantern was guttering by now, producing more smoke than light. Between its oily stink and the darkness around us, I was starting to feel sick. When she pulled open the door to reveal the kitchen, with its fire pit and basting heat, I rushed past her as she gave a nasty giggle, such as a wicked child might emit after drowning a pet.

A robust woman with rubicund cheeks and floppy bonnet fastened under her numerous chins barreled from behind the kitchen’s block table, which was strewn with guts. I smelled the disemboweled fowl cooking on spits arrayed above the fire—and took quick note there was no kitchen boy present—as the woman declared, “Agnes, by the rood, I told you to fetch herbs, not dawdle your heels. His lord and ladyship are already in their chambers preparing to receive our guest—” She came to a standstill. “Who might this be?”

Agnes said, “Our guest. I found him outside the garden postern. He did not realize that we always lock that door by nightfall.”

“Yes, I am Master Prescott,” I said haltingly to the woman, brushing my horse-soiled hands across my breeches and attempting to bow before I remembered she was also a servant.

The woman was aghast. “But, you—you are supposed to be in your chamber. We serve supper in less than an hour! Agnes, you were to fetch him and bring hot water for his bath.” She directed her wrathful stare at the maidservant, who seemed not the least concerned as she proceeded to the table and deposited a handful of crumpled leaves from her apron pocket.

“I did,” Agnes said. She turned to hang the key on a hook by the door. “The water must be cold by now. He was not to be found. What was I to do? Search the roke and be taken by sprites? You told me to fetch herbs for pies.” She pointed at the pile. “There they are.”

“Well, I—I never…” Mistress Harper—for she must be the housekeeper—bulged with outrage until I said quickly, “It is entirely my fault. After greeting my lord Vaughan in the cemetery, I went to the stables to check on my horse and manservant. The time got away with me. My abject apologies; if you could direct me to my chamber, I promise to wash, change, and be in the hall promptly within the hour.”

Mistress Harper clucked her tongue in disbelief. It reminded me of Alice, whenever I told a fib and she caught me in it, and made me warm to the housekeeper at once. I knew this sort of woman—efficient and solicitous, as Alice had been.

“I doubt that,” she remarked but her gaze warmed in return. “But you must hurry along, regardless. My lady does not take to tardiness.” She jabbed her hand at Agnes. “Show him upstairs and return here at once. We still have these pies to garnish.”

Agnes gave me a slithering look as she led me across an inner quadrangle separating the kitchens from the manor, through another door, and back down a passageway toward the hall, turning from the chapel to a main staircase leading to the upper floors. I noticed a faded tapestry adorning the balustrade. It must have been fine once, with hints of glittering silver threads that proclaimed it an expensive import from the looms of Burgundy or Flanders, but now it was as faded and neglected as the rest of the house.

On the second floor, Agnes opened a door to reveal a simple chamber with an arrow-slit window set in the far wall, the room furnished with an oversized bed hung with a tester, a stool, a chair, and a chest for clothes. My saddlebags sat unopened on the chest. A smaller room off the bedchamber served as garderobe and privy; upon its chilly floor was a linen-lined tub filled with—as Agnes had supposed and a dip of my finger confirmed—cold water.

I turned back to her. She lounged in the doorway, rolling the door key about her spindly finger. Her knuckles were red but not chaffed; for being the only maidservant I had seen in the house, she appeared remarkably unharried.

“Shall I assist my lord in disrobing?” she asked with a sly affectation that set my teeth on edge. Insouciant
and
a slattern: I decided I did not care for Agnes at all.

“No, thank you.”

“As my lord wishes.” She dipped a shallow curtsey that offered me a good glimpse of small breasts tucked within her gaping bodice. She was about to turn away when my hand shot out and caught her thin wrist. She whirled on me.

“The key,” I said, before she could issue another uninvited solicitation.

Agnes cocked her head. “Lady Vaughan does not care for locked doors.”

“Except for that garden postern,” I reminded her, and a flush crept into her concave cheeks. “The key, if you please. There are items in my saddlebag I must protect.”

Her gaze darted toward my bag, even as she pretended to consider for a moment before she handed me the key. “As you wish, my lord. Lady Vaughan will not be pleased.”

“I am sorry to have displeased her so much before I have even made her acquaintance,” I replied, “but as I said, I carry important items and my door must be locked when I am not in my room. And,” I went on, as her eyes narrowed, “I am not a lord. Master Prescott will suffice.”

Before I shut the door, I gleaned covetous greed on her face.

Oh, no, I did not care for Agnes at all. But resentful servants had eager tongues, and hers, I suspected, could be unloosed, if I had the need for it.

I was late. As soon as I descended the stairs in my somber court doublet of muted green velvet, matching breeches, and dark hose, I heard voices in the hall and among them was the high tone of a noblewoman. Whatever distress Lady Vaughan had undergone at the death of her son had been set aside in lieu of her visitor, as I discerned the moment Gomfrey pompously and unnecessarily preceded me with the announcement of my arrival. I stepped into the hall to find Lady Vaughan with her husband before the fire-lit hearth.

The candelabrum flickered with fresh tapers, as did the overhead chandelier, but this excess of light scarcely banished the brooding shadows at the walls, as though the hall had only reluctantly released its habitual gloom.

As I bowed, I heard rustling skirts approach and looked up to find myself appraised by a haughty figure dressed in a high-necked black gown of antiquated design, its sleeves voluminous and lined with squirrel pelt. She wore a crescent hood that revealed a seam of fair hair tucked underneath its rim, the seed pearls adorning the hood’s edge muted, of inferior quality.

Lady Vaughan appeared at least ten years younger than her husband. She had been fine once, much like the tapestry on her stairs. Yet like that tapestry, her beauty had dissipated, her flesh pared so that her green eyes under plucked brows were like watery emeralds in an assiduously pale face that had rarely seen the sun. Her nose was arched, her bone structure angular. A slight slackness under her chin betrayed premature bitterness and encroaching age—though, judging by her demeanor, she must have inspired covert desire once, even if she had probably disdained it. I detected rank in her face and manner: she held herself as though she came from noble blood. If so, life here must have been a purgatory. Women like her were bred for court, to serve royal mistresses and marry into their own pack; they were not meant for decaying manors, wed to husbands with little to commend them.

How had she ended up in Vaughan Hall?

She held out a slender hand. “Master Prescott?”

Taking her hand, I grazed it with my lips. “My lady, it is an honor.”

Something dark flashed in her eyes. “Is it?” she said, and before I could reply, she pivoted like a damsel before a coterie of admirers to her husband. “He is most charming. But so young: You did not tell me he was so young, dearest Thomas.”

Lord Vaughan muttered, “I did not think of it, Philippa. His age seemed irrelevant.”

Their affectionate use of first names rang false but the smile she bestowed on me was definitely not. It was dazzling, seemingly welcoming yet tinged with malice.

Lady Philippa Vaughan had the smile of a practiced predator.

Again, this I had expected. I was the uninvited guest who had interrupted their mourning and personified the power of an unwanted queen. Nevertheless, it put me on guard. Why would she feel a need to disarm me, unless she was already prepared to deceive?

She let the silence between us settle. Then she said to Gomfrey, “Have the first course served.” She led me to the table set with pewter fingerbowls, plates, goblets, and decanters, her hand light on my sleeve. Leaving me at my chair, she assumed her place with Lord Vaughan at the head of the table. I was surprised no one else was present. “Is Abigail not joining us?”

Lady Vaughan laughed. “She’s a child. And children, however delightful, do not share the board with adults.” She paused, again with that air of someone gauging a potential enemy. “Do you have children, Master Prescott?”

“No. I am not married.”

She lifted her chin, as though the concept were anathema. “How unfortunate. Marriage can be such a joy in the best of times, and a necessary solace in the worst.”

I deliberated her words even as I leaned back to allow Gomfrey to pour perry wine from the decanter into my goblet. Was she trying to say she had married below her rank and now found she must endure, as her situation had turned sour? I did not see anything remotely approximating joy or solace in Lord Vaughan. He motioned to Gomfrey to serve him as well, and drank from his goblet at once, down to the dregs, despite the sharp disapproving glance his wife shot at him.

Nor, I thought, did I see any sign of the distraught mother who had recovered from a near-deadly fever only to return to her bed in anguish, so much so that she could not join her husband and daughter at her son’s gravesite. She appeared both healthy and reveling in the novelty of having a guest on whom to test her claws.

The time had come to see how sharp those claws were.

“I was deeply sorry to hear of your son Henry’s death,” I began. “Had Her Majesty known of it beforehand, she might have delayed my visit until a more appropriate time—though, given the direness of Lady Parry’s situation, I fear time is of the essence.”

“My son died in God’s grace,” she said. “I grieve him as only a mother can, but, as you say, Her Majesty’s interests take precedence. We can only assume that whatever mishap has befallen Lady Parry is most urgent, seeing as we have had no further word of her. We cannot suffer another tragedy. Better you are here now, when a remedy might yet be found.”

Her sentiment sounded rehearsed, as did Lord Vaughan’s solemn nod at her side. Was I obliged to deal with his wife alone in the matter of his own aunt’s disappearance? Agnes and Mistress Harper entered with platters of food, preempting my next question. As Gomfrey remained by his master’s chair, the sweating housekeeper and stone-faced maidservant served. It suddenly occurred to me that I had forgotten my promise to Shelton; turning to Mistress Harper, I said, “Can you please see that some hot fare and a jug or two of ale are taken to my manservant in the stables? He has a hearty appetite, and I’m afraid we ate little during our travels.”

Mistress Harper shifted a nervous glance to Lady Vaughan, whose entire countenance turned glacial. She clearly was not amenable to sharing her largesse with menials, especially not a manservant who did not work for her. But she did not contest, nodding curtly to Mistress Harper to indicate approval. I thought of the name Raff had mentioned, considered letting it slip as I took up my knife to cut into the roast capon on my plate. If I asked who Hugh was, would Lady Vaughan tell the truth? I had the distinct impression she would not, if it did not suit her interests, and so I decided to trust in Shelton instead to pry the necessary information from Raff. Besides, I did not care to expose Raff to censure from his mistress, should his slip of the tongue provide a necessary key to the mystery I sensed brewing here.

“Upon my report, I am sure Her Majesty will be sensitive to your period of mourning, but, yes, I fear she does expect full cooperation,” I announced. Let the weight of my authority subsume whatever double-dealings Lady Vaughan had up her sleeve. “Lady Parry’s disappearance has affected our queen most grievously. She demands a solution, preferably one which entails her lady’s safe return.” I knifed my capon. “I know a note was found on Lady Parry’s saddle and tendered to Her Majesty by the escort she sent here. I have read the note. Tomorrow morning, I wish to see the spot where it was found. Upon my return, I will question every member in the household, including Abigail. I trust that suits, my lord Vaughan?”

The direction of my request was deliberate and Lady Vaughan’s clenched jaw revealed she knew it. Without looking up, Lord Vaughan mumbled, “Yes. I’ll take you there myself.”

“Thomas, you cannot!” The clatter of Lady Vaughan’s knife on her plate brought everything in the hall to a standstill. She paused, gave a self-deprecatory laugh. “I mean, you can, naturally, but surely we can direct Master Prescott to the location where we found the note without the need for accompaniment? It is nearly a half day’s ride, after all, and I had hoped to have you here to help set the household in order. We require a return to some normalcy, if only for Abigail’s sake. The poor child has lost her only brother and now she—”

“Is in need of a new tutor,” I cut in, with an understanding incline of my head. Lady Vaughan froze. “He, too, disappeared with Lady Parry. What was his name again, pray tell?”

“Master Godwin,” she said through her teeth. “Master Simon Godwin.”

I kept my expression impassive, hiding my rush of satisfaction. Shelton had guessed wrong. Whoever Hugh was, he was not a servant or the tutor.