Page 8 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Five

As his hired mount cantered away, Will tried to put his unsettling encounter with Edward’s sister from his mind. He’d discharged his duty, and proved his loyalty to his dead friend. Now, he must pick up the shattered pieces of his life, put the disastrous Dutch campaign behind him, and find the peace he so desperately sought.

War did terrible things to a man. The wounds went deeper than the flesh. Yet, how could he have remained at home, lazing by the fireside, knowing the Spanish scum who’d killed his younger brother, Simpkin, were advancing relentlessly on the fiercely Protestant Low Countries? England had a duty to her allies, to her fellow Protestants—it was how the world worked these days.

And what better way for a young man—two young men, in fact, as he’d persuaded Edward to accompany him after one cup too many in a tavern—to make their fortunes? What better way to make a name for themselves, to find favor at court under the aegis of the queen’s favorite, the Earl of Leicester, than to accompany the English troops sent to assist the Dutch?

Will sniffed at the air. It wasn’t fresh, exactly, as this was London, but at least it didn’t stink of black powder, unwashed bodies, sickness, and blood. The Dutch campaign had been doomed from the start. Troops were starved of support from Queen Elizabeth, and went unpaid for months, suffering the leadership of a man unable to navigate the choppy waters of Dutch politics. But there was no point bemoaning the miseries he’d experienced—Will was back in England, no one knew where he’d been, his family’s reputation was intact, and he must be grateful for what he had.

His surroundings took on a familiar aspect, the timber-framed houses packed more closely together, leaning drunkenly on their neighbors, jettying over the street like zealous gossips trying to whisper in each other’s ears. He was almost home. He could slide out of his traveling clothes and into a delicious tub, soak his aching limbs, and rub some arnica salve into his damaged thigh.

“Cavendish? Hold there, Cavendish, it is you. Stay a moment.”

Someone had hold of his horse’s bridle. Without thought, Will’s hand flew to the hilt of his sword.

The man released the leather strap. “Whoa, there, sirrah, do you not know me? Thy neighbor, Mathieson. I beg you, kill me not, as I mean you no harm.”

Will’s hand relaxed, and he dismounted carefully, keen to conceal the stiffness in his leg. “Forgive me, Mathieson—my mind was elsewhere.”

“As have you been. I’ve not seen you in a good six months or more—we thought you were dead. Poor Paulina has been weeping her eyelids raw for worry over you.”

Will bowed. “Your daughter is a sweet lady, but there was no need. I’ve been in no danger.”

Mathieson, a grizzled former courtier fallen from grace, was no great friend. Used to the in-fighting that went on around the queen, he was utterly untrustworthy, continually contradicting himself, and forever involved in dubious money-making schemes. These—thus far—Will had managed to avoid.

“I’m glad to hear it.” The man’s eyes scanned Will’s horse, his clothes and saddlebags. “You’ve been traveling, then. I assured Paulina that was all it was, but she swore you’d have told her if you were going away. She was certain some ill had befallen you.”

“No ill.” Will frowned. They shouldn’t be talking like this in the street, especially not about Paulina. He’d never given the woman any reason to worry over him, had done nothing to secure her interest. Now Mathieson was making it sound as if she’d set her cap at him—which was the very last thing he wanted.

“I’m weary, sir, if you’ll forgive me. I’ll just walk my horse along a little way and rouse my servants to heat me some water. Mayhap I’ll call on you upon the morrow when I am more myself.”

Mathieson’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, but I have something for you. A messenger came a few days ago with a packet. A sealed package. I’ve seen the seal before, so he didn’t need to tell me it was from the Earl of Leicester. Of course, I did the neighborly thing and took it in, as we’d no idea when you might return, and we all know servants are not to be trusted. The messenger wasn’t keen to give it up but a shilling persuaded him. I shall not charge you for that.” Mathieson sniffed and looked smug, then added, “Now, why don’t I send a boy to alert your staff you’re on your way, while you come to my house, sup with us, and retrieve your packet?”

Will didn’t like the way the man narrowed his eyes, or the touch of those fingers, digging into his shoulder. A serpent of doubt slid down his spine. Mathieson had that look about him, the subdued excitement of another scheme, a brightness to his eyes like that of a hound on the scent.

“From Leicester, you say? That does surprise me. I wonder what he can have sent me, and why.” It wouldn’t do for Mathieson to know Will was Leicester’s man. He who had once been Queen Elizabeth’s favorite had blackened his own name by taking the title of Governor of the Netherlands against her wishes, and later, he’d executed the Governor of Grave for surrendering to the Spanish. It had been a grim affair, sickening both Will and Edward, but their loyalty to Leicester remained steadfast. What else could they do? They’d been in an impossible situation.

Of course, Leicester’s detractors had made the most of it, whispering lies and deceit into the queen’s ear. Consequently, now was not a good time to be openly supportive of Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. Particularly not in front of scheming neighbors like Mathieson.

But if Will didn’t accept the man’s invitation, he’d never get his packet.

He made a gracious bow. “Most generous, sir. Send a boy if you will. I may not stay long—I’m not dressed for company and, as I said, am weary from riding.”

Mathieson dispatched a messenger, along with Will’s horse for stabling, and opened the heavy oak door that led into his plot. Larger than most on the street, it boasted a cobbled courtyard, an herb garden, and small fishpond. The building itself was a towering three stories high, allowing much-needed access to light and air from the top floor. As the men entered, some doves fluttered noisily up from the yard to perch on the roof of their rickety dovecote.

A young woman, blonde and rosy-cheeked, glanced up from scattering seed. As soon as she saw Will, her eyes lit up, and she hurtled towards him across the cobbles, then bobbed a breathless curtsey.

“Sir William! I cannot believe ’tis you. We had given you up for dead. I asked your housekeeper whenever I saw her but she swore to me she’d heard nothing of the kind.”

She linked her arm with his. “Why so secretive? Why depart without bidding us farewell? I should chastise you, I truly should—should I not, Father? I have quite broken my heart over you.”

Ah, Paulina Mathieson. His memory of her had faded in his time abroad. He’d forgotten how pretty, but not how garrulous she was, nor how inclined to be a nuisance. Most women would have matured in over half a year but she, it seemed, was reluctant to relinquish her girlish behavior.

“I regret you have done so. As you can see, it was needless.” As Paulina bounced him towards the house, he made sure to conceal his limp. The family was too sly, too apt to ask awkward questions.

She hugged his arm tightly. Yes, very pretty, but he knew her rosebud mouth was quick to pout or droop when she failed to get her way. He’d seen her pinch a female servant on more than one occasion, and whenever she walked abroad, her nose was held so high, it surprised him she wasn’t forever stepping in something. As soon as they were within the home, he disentangled himself.

The commodious parlor housed Goody Mathieson, Paulina’s mother, working a square of cutwork embroidery in her lap, and one other person, a gentleman who was leaning against the empty stone fireplace. As Will doffed his hat and handed his cloak to a manservant, the man came forward.