“Victuals? Why would Avery send you out for those? He said naught to me of this.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Pray, moderate your tone, sir. You are but a guest in this house, even if you are a distinguished one.”
Kirlham said nothing, but his face darkened, and she felt a tremor in her breast. When he nodded, she explained it would have taken much too long to get a decent batch of bread together in the present chaos, especially when some of the flour had become wet. Tilting her head to one side, she added, “I must excuse you for being ignorant of domestic matters at Selwood. I hope you will not embarrass us both by questioning my movements again.”
Sir Thomas appeared to be chewing over her answer—from the look on his face, he would doubtless go in search of Avery to check if her story was true. He bowed. “Your pardon, Mistress Barchard. The events of last night have unsettled me.”
Emboldened by her success thus far, she said, “I believe we are victims of a criminal act. Has the miscreant been caught?”
A grim smile curled his lip. “Don’t worry your head over such matters. If you could see to the domestic arrangements, I’m sure the men will relish whatever repast you have to offer them before they depart. Anon.”
As Kirlham turned his back and marched into the house, Alys let the sacks slide to the ground. His smile said everything… they’d caught someone. But was it Kit? And why did Kirlham not simply tell her? Surely he couldn’t know of her association with the gardener, or he would have acted already. Unless he was playing her.
She grabbed up the sacks and hurried into the house, terrified at what she might discover.
None of the servants was behaving as if there were a prisoner in the house, but she dared not question them, for who knew who might be in league with the conspirators. Complaining to all she met, including Kate, that the inundation had left the house smelling rotten, she found the perfect excuse to go to the garden—to fetch sweet strewing herbs.
There was no sign of Kit, nor, luckily, any trace of blood or hint of a struggle. She’d have liked to search the cellars, too, but the lower regions of the house contained too many people she didn’t know, and couldn’t trust. Suppertime came, and still there was no sign of rescue from without.
Alys was seated opposite Richard Avery, trying to make pleasant conversation, but all the while detesting him and hoping he’d choke on his manchet bread. To Hannah, and Avery’s London friends, the event of the flooding was an adventure, something to be talked about for weeks to come. They made great drama out of it, wondering how much it would all cost to amend, and whether there was any danger of it happening again.
No one lingered below for entertainment that evening—the dampness coming up through the floors and staining the walls made remaining downstairs uninviting. A few gathered in the long gallery, but Alys slipped away to a small upstairs attic, the window of which afforded a good view of the courtyard and surrounding countryside.
Still no sign of Rupert or Walsingham and his men. She felt hollow, panicked. The longer they delayed, the greater the risk to Kit. And possibly to herself. With only the knife hidden in her belt for comfort, she stared down through the dusk, willing the rescuers to arrive.
There was a bustle below—and Avery and Kirlham strode back and forth, as a small group of men left the house. She recognized them as the “constables”, but Kit was not among them. Soon, all but one had departed—the largest and most threatening of them all disappeared back into the house with the gentlemen.
Was Kit dead? Did the plotters think their danger over and done with? Suddenly, his face swam before her. Surely a man so full of zest and sheer masculine energy could not be snuffed out like a mere candle. He must be still alive somewhere—he was the kind of man who would battle on until the very end.
Nothing further happened. Kit, or his body, were either secreted at Selwood or somewhere on the way to London by now, being conveyed to the ringleader of the conspiracy. Alys pressed her face against the glass panes of the window, striving to hold back tears. How could she live with herself if Kit were still near at hand, and she did not take every opportunity to help him?
The only place she had not been able to search was the cellars. Kate had decreed that no one was permitted to go down there, because the waters had not fully subsided, and the floors were slippery and dangerous. Making up her mind, Alys crept down the stairs unseen, then headed for the steps leading down into the undercroft. A foul smell rose from below, and with it came a faint sound, like somebody moving through the floodwaters.
Her heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears, and she froze. “Who’s there? What are you doing? Mistress Aspinall forbids access to the cellars.” She hoped she sounded authoritative.
The splashing stopped. She repeated her question, and the archway below disgorged a large figure she had seen before. By the lantern held in his great fist, she could see it was the wall-eyed man. He nodded at her in recognition.
“Mistress Barchard, Sir Thomas bade me stay here and keep watch. He fears for the foundations.”
She swallowed as she observed the huge shoulders pushing at the seams of the man’s doublet, below which were chest muscles protruding almost as far as his stomach. There was no hope of getting past him by force to examine the undercroft—but she had to do something. He was surely not down here for the reason he had given—any one of Selwood’s servants could have taken on such a task, and with better knowledge
