Page 50 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Eight

August was nearly done, and the current burst of sunny weather after several days of downpours made a welcome change. Having ordered the refurnishing of Marston House to her satisfaction, Isobel had decided to allow herself a moment’s ease in the garden.

She’d thrown herself, heart and soul, into the task of making the house once again the family home she remembered. This labor occupied her for much of the day, and it was only at night that she found herself prey to gloomy thoughts. Most of these were centered around Sir William Cavendish, of course, whom she’d not seen since that last dismal encounter. Well, she’d wished him gone and he’d obliged. So why was she still plagued by the feeling there was unfinished business between them?

Sunlight warmed her face as she made her way between the high, headless stalks of lavender, her skirts brushing through them and releasing their remaining scent. She loved the smell, so fresh, so enticing—and she’d harvested the drying flowerheads eagerly, although they’d been left on the stem far too long. A robin loudly proclaimed its presence from the branches of the walnut tree, not yet singing the mournful song that always presaged the change from summer to autumn. Thankfully.

For a rare moment, Isobel was free of her shadow. She’d kept Manners on, at Will’s insistence—via letter, as he’d not troubled to come and speak with her himself. Her muscle-bound guardian hung on her heels like a loyal dog following its master, although he tried to be subtle about it. Currently, he was supervising the carpenter drafted in to replace a rotten window frame which had been letting in the rain.

Isobel slowed as she approached the flowerbed where she’d ripped out the opium poppies. She must have still been a little out of her mind then—no English gentlewoman would behave so precipitously. The area had been dug over by her new gardener now and replanted with straggling blue and white periwinkle, which she knew, once established, would challenge anything else to grow amongst its spreading roots. Everyone in the household had been ordered to rip out any poppy seedlings they saw and cast them on the midden.

She halted beneath the espaliered pear tree, her mind’s eye full of an image of the dust-covered Will as he’d landed in front of her on that fateful day back in July. He truly had been like the hero Orpheus of old, braving everything to rescue his wife Eurydice from the dreaded realm of Hades.

How must Orpheus have felt, when Eurydice was wrenched away from the land of the living? Much as Isobel felt now, mayhap, thinking of Will. Her heart swelled, and the view before her shattered as tears pierced her eyes. Her inability to fall out of love with Will was tearing her apart and, even in his absence, showed no signs of abating.

Stifling a sob, she turned away from the tree. It had been a mistake to come into this corner of the garden—it held too many memories. She was about to return to the house when a movement caught her eye. Surely, the latch was lifting on the wooden door Will had used when rescuing her?

Shading her eyes, she watched as the metal shaft moved silently upwards. Had Will come to surprise her? Forgetting all her resolutions about giving him no encouragement, she surged forward to welcome him.

And found herself staring at the blade of a dagger.

Her cousin’s hand was steady as a rock, his face filled with evil intent. What she could see of his face at least—he had a grimy cloth covering both his nose and mouth, but there was no doubt it was Hubert Pike. As her lips parted to scream, cold steel nicked her neck, and she froze.

The corners of his eyes lifted mockingly. “Such a shame no one ever got around to fixing this lock after your precious Cavendish forced it. You have less wit than you thought, don’t you, Isobel?”

She couldn’t move a muscle. Part of her wanted to rage at him, to feel her nails rip into his vile flesh. Would he stab her then, or cut her throat and dispatch her quickly and quietly? For he’d gain nothing by it—her will was already drawn up, her money to be donated to the parish for the relief of the poor, particularly the widows and children of soldiers and sailors. He’d hate that—if he managed to find it out before he faced the noose.

He yanked at her elbow and pulled her against him. She could feel the point of the dagger pressing against her ribs, even through the layers of canvas and whalebone that supported her tightly-fitting bodice. Knowing Manners would soon be back, would see the open door and come after her, she feigned a swoon, playing for time.

Her captor was having none of it. He jabbed his weapon more firmly against her midriff. “No tricks, Coz. I’m in no mood for your games.”

In the street outside stood an ugly covered cart. Flinders issued from behind it—also masked and brandishing a long, white stick—and helped Hubert lift her in. When she wedged a foot against the wooden sides of the cart, someone from within punched it aside, jarring her ankle and knocking her shoe into the gutter.

As she collapsed in an ungainly heap on the floor of the conveyance, she saw another unwelcome face. Goodwife Avice Quill, her so-called nurse. She, too, wore a partial mask and held a long, white stick at her side. When Isobel tried to struggle up, Avice gave her a resounding blow on the side of the head with the stick.

“There’ll be plenty more where that came from.” She could just make out Hubert’s voice above the ringing in her ears. “You’ve been leading us a merry dance, my fine young lady, and you’re going to start paying for it now.”

Isobel braced herself for another blow, but Hubert crawled up next to her, his knife blade back at her throat. The dingy cart rocked, and she thought they were about to set off, but the next noise that hit her ears was the sound of a hammer on wood. The cart dipped again as someone climbed into the front of it.

“Have you nailed it firm and proper to the gate?” Hubert’s voice was muffled by the cloth over his face.

“Aye.” Flinders’ voice. It trailed fear along Isobel’s spine. “It won’t blow away unless we have a gale. No one will be going in or out of Marston House for a goodly while.”

Still groggy from the blow to her head, she struggled to understand what was going on, and how best she could escape. There was something else about this cart that was making her feel ill—an ungodly stench, like nothing she’d ever smelled before.

The vehicle lurched off, and she caught sight of Hubert sheathing his knife. But before she could take advantage and try to escape, he had fastened a hand in her hair and dragged her head backwards. Eyes stinging with pain, she stared up at the sagging canvas overhead, wondering if it was the last thing she would ever see. Then her head was jerked still further back, and a cup pressed against her unwilling lips. Terrified, she coughed and spat to stop the familiar-tasting potion burning its way down her throat. To no avail.

They were giving her more of it than they ever had before. Was this what they planned then—to poison her? As her senses started to close down, she wondered why Hubert hadn’t simply stabbed her in the garden, if murder was what was on his mind. Suddenly the agonizing grip in her hair was gone, and she slumped forward.

Waves of nausea and confusion swirled through her brain so she could hardly focus, but she struggled against the power of the poppy juice, the lure of unconsciousness. She was being wrapped in something, like a caterpillar in silk, fastening her arms to her body, trapping and immobilizing her legs. Then she was lying on the floor of the cart, and the appalling smell filled her nostrils.

She was dimly aware that Avice and Hubert had moved away, leaving her in the company of a host of grey shapes, bundled as she was, but with their heads covered, each laid atop the other, like animal carcasses in a butcher’s wagon.

The awful realization hit her, just before unconsciousness. The white-painted sticks held by Flinders and Avice were those wielded by the Searchers, people who notified the authorities of the presence of plague.

She’d been loaded onto the death cart.