Page 74 of Ondine
London
Clinton and Justin had taken a small house right on the river.
It was not a difficult task for them to question and query, mainly because Justin had always been friends with young Buckingham, and Buckingham was known for his vast social endeavors.
They spent their time in a whirlwind of activities, from theatrical entertainment at court to carousing the streets in near drunken stupors.
They invited guests for dinner, they played in ribald fashion with any number of young swains and certain ladies known for being far less than discreet.
To most eyes it would appear that they were no more or no less than the noble rich, sewing wild oats with a certain decadence.
But it was from one of the young ladies—an earl’s sixth daughter with little chance of a dowry and an even poorer chance of securing a sound husband—that Clinton received his first decent clue.
One extremely pleasant evening as they lay together in his bed, he learned from her that one of the king’s guards had retired from the court after that long-ago day of the joust, giving the king no valid reason for his request, yet begging that he be released from duty.
When Clinton demanded to know what his companion could really know of such things, she admitted that she had been clandestinely involved with the man, and therefore had a good understanding of his feelings.
Her father had ended the affair, determined that she marry within her station, even if her husband should prove to be an aged ogre.
The lady’s name was Sarah, and Clinton grew quite fond of her, not only for her youth and beauty, but her frankness, honesty, tenderness, and passion.
He did not go so far as to make any admissions to her, but he told her that it was most urgent he meet with the man.
She agreed to help him. By the following afternoon she returned to the house on the river, telling Clinton that he and Justin might meet with the man at an alehouse near Charing Cross.
Night came. Though Clinton was too enamored of Sarah to trust his judgment regarding her, Justin was not, and he decided to trust her.
He looked Sarah up and down when they were due to depart, noting the excitement in her lustrous brown eyes and her obvious adoration when she gazed upon his cousin.
He knew of her from Buckingham. Her father offered her nothing and kept her in tight rein.
She had in turn offered her own form of obedience, chancing no elopement, but lifting her small chin and living her life as she would, a guest at the king’s court, a companion to his queen, free to enjoy some of her youth before that “ogre” of a husband, eager for young flesh with dowry or no, might be found.
“She’ll have to come with us,” Justin told Clinton. “How else will we know that we’ve discovered the right man? It would be even more dangerous should we make a mistake in identity.”
Sarah placed a small hand into his. “John Robbins is wary of this meeting, Clinton. I understand none of this, but he is deeply afraid of something. He said that he will see you only where there are a multitude of people. I believe he fears that someone seeks his life.”
Justin gazed at Clinton over Sarah’s burnished brown curls and raised an eye. They had to trust someone, and in time, others might talk and realize that they had been quizzing everyone about a long-ago day when the Duke of Rochester had lifted his sword against the king and had been slain in turn.
“We all go, I say,” Justin stated softly.
Shrugging, Clinton helped Sarah into her cloak, and they went out into the streets to hire a carriage.
The alehouse was crowded when they entered, filled with the riffraff of London, riotous and smoky. Men were puffing on pipes, and with the soot from the cooking and heating fires, the place seemed cast into deep mist and shadow.
“Charming,” Justin commented. People were everywhere; it seemed doubtful that they should find a place on a bench to sit, much less discover a certain man amongst so many.
“We’ll go toward the far corner,” Sarah suggested, “for the greatest shadow is there, and then John Robbins will look for us.”
A bawdy drunk tried to waylay Sarah on their journey through the room. Clinton whacked him once upon the arm, and the man groaned with shock. “Eh, guv’ner! Meanin’ no disrespect! Just tryin’ fer a little fun, sir!”
“Try elsewhere!” Justin snapped. “Can you not tell a lady of breeding, man?”
The husky drunk began to laugh. “Ah, sires, you know not the place, eh?”
“What?” Justin pressed him.
The drunk reddened and stared into the foam of his ale. Then he gave off a wheezing laugh.
“Breeding!” He looked back up to Justin a little apologetically.
“Ye’re some noble line yerself, my young lord, so I can see.
Yet not so young, methinks, to have ascertained that noble blood can little rule noble flesh!
” He fell silent, gripping his mug, then motioned for Justin to come closer.
“’Tis a room in back, sire. Commoner and lord, wench or lady, may go there and find whatever they wish in”—he grimaced—“deviations in amore! Ye kin what I’m sayin’? ”
Justin lowered his lashes in a secret smile; aye, he knew what was being said.
Buckingham should have known this place well!
A lord might come here for a casual and easily paid affair; equally, a lady of the finest pedigree might don a cloak and mask and find entertainment secret from family or friends.
The drunk had merely assumed Sarah to be a young lady on the hunt for an adventure that “society” would not allow her.
He dropped a coin on the man’s table, glad to know more of this place they had come to haunt. “Have an ale on me, friend, but warn your companions—this young lady is not for the taking.”
“Thank ye, sire! Thank ye!” the drunk mumbled, and Justin hurried along to join Clinton and Sarah.
They found a bench in the far corner. Justin ordered ale, and they sat, eyeing everyone that came and went within the alehouse. In time a figure approached them, a tall, lean man, heavily cloaked in gray wool, appearing much like a holy father or a pilgrim.
He knew them, or he knew Sarah, for he slid into the bench beside Justin, reaching for his ale, as if it had been ordered for him.
He kept his head lowered, and it was difficult to see his features, yet Justin did glean that he was a man of about thirty years, aged and beaten for that time, nervous and sad of eye.
“I have come for Sarah’s sake only,” he told them. “Talk quickly to me, and I will answer what I may.”
Once, just once, he stared quickly up at Sarah. Something wistful touched his eyes and passed, and again he stared into the mug of ale.
“I need to know something of a day when the king’s life was threatened and a man lay dead in the wake,” Justin told him.
John Robbins stiffened. “’Tis long past,” he said, “and nothing to be gained of it. The duke is dead; his daughter also, I must think.”
Justin gripped his arm. “Nay, she lives! And so does she need help.”
John Robbins stared quickly about the room; even here he was afraid.
“Man, we do not threaten your life!” Justin assured him. “Does someone do so, then?”
“Aye, and not my own! Were I to be discovered in this speech—” He sighed, swallowed a long draft of ale, then said, “I’ve an old mother, living out her final days. Four sisters, young, lovely, and innocent. Perhaps ’tis not me that would be struck, yet these I love.”
“By who?” Justin demanded.
At last the cowled man looked him full in the face.
“You tell me—that she lives? The daughter? What proof have I? She ran that day, and all that I could do for her was to refrain from catching her! Even then I dared not speak, for all were so enraged on behalf of the king. I did not know what I had seen myself, and before the time came that I pondered the incident clearly, a man had come to me.”
“What man? Deauveau—William Deauveau?”
He shook his head. “Nay, the son. Raoul. He carried on his hands the old man’s blood. And he told me he knew well the place where my mother lived, and that were he to die himself, the order was already set and paid that my sister should be taken—her throat cut.”
He paused, lifting the ale to his lips once again, as if he could not wet them enough.
He stared about the table bleakly. “Even were it not for the threat, there seemed little I could do. You understand, it was like a magician’s trick—done so fast. The sword was not there—then it was.
And then the old duke died, and all were outraged, seeking his daughter, ready to slay her upon the spot. ”
“There is nothing to fear!” Clinton told him heatedly. “The king himself is eager that the girl be cleared; that she seize Deauveau Place from those who hold it!”
John Robbins stared at them distrustfully. “What is this thing to you, then? How do I know there is reason to risk those I love? What tells you that the daughter lives, and what assurance have I that the king is on your side?”
“Chatham,” Justin said softly. “My brother is the Earl of North Lambria—”
“Charles’s great champion . . .” Robbins murmured.
“Aye, the same. Even now he lurks as a servant on the Deauveau estate, keeping watch upon the duke’s daughter, because she is his wife. We are Chathams, and I swear to you that we carry great weight—”
“Chathams!”
It was a female voice that interrupted him from behind. In great dismay Justin turned, already wary of the voice. He stiffened, like one preparing for battle.
“Lady Anne,” he muttered.
“Aye, and so wondrously surprised to see you!”
Crooning, she moved around to join them; her appearance was too much for John Robbins. He bolted, knocking everyone from his path.
“Oh, be damned!” Justin roared, jumping to his feet to give chase. He was but vaguely aware that Anne was unconcerned at all the activity, and she sat in the very spot from which he had departed.