Page 12 of Lord of Mistrust

Robert was contemplating Madam Mystery’s delightful features and wondering if she was as innocent as she looked when she was suddenly gifted to him by a rut in the road. Her hazel eyes flashed open, her cheeks reddened, and her chest heaved in a way he found deliciously arousing.

Reluctantly, he helped her back onto her pack of clothing, then realized the wagon was no longer moving. Worse still, it had tilted over to one side.

Jesu! He needed no delays when he had an urgent dispatch for Walsingham. Surely, all his patience and trouble could not have been in vain?

He’d picked up the document late last night, having waited until he was confident of being unobserved. Learning from his bribed network of street urchins that this first wagon heading out of Southampton would be early, he’d decided not to risk sleep, lest he miss it.

He’d known it wouldn’t make a comfortable journey but had eschewed the idea of traveling by horse or litter. The latter two modes of transport would make him vulnerable to enemies, for if any traitors knew of the dispatch, they’d watch the roads and intercept it. At least on a country cart, he’d have the company of his fellow passengers. The muscled bulk of the carter himself would be invaluable against any attackers. It was a long way from Southampton’s port to London, and he needed to be alert for every single mile.

He’d deliberately dressed down for the journey, donning the unostentatious attire of a country yeoman. His doublet was of cheap, homespun wool but just like his others, it boasted a hidden pocket. This he patted, to reassure himself that the oilskin-wrapped dispatch was still there.

He felt the cart shift and realized its driver had leaped down. There was more to this halt than just going through a rut, then—something was amiss. Forcing a smile, he glanced at his fair companion. “I’ll jump down, too, and see what’s wrong. Mayhap I can help.”

But as he sprang down from the wagon’s tail, he was nearly bowled over by another passenger, clearly bent on the same purpose. As he fought for balance, the fellow pulled him upright and assumed a contrite expression.

“Apologies, sir—I wasn’t looking. No harm done, I hope?”

Robert eyed the stringy little fellow with distaste. The man reminded him of a rat, skulking and predatory. Or even a weasel, with beady eyes and a rapid, darting way of moving.

Pulling his doublet back straight, Robert replied, “I accept your apology. A mere accident.” Thinking no more of it, he hastened off to join the carter, who was peering under the vehicle. The weaselly man stepped past him to hold and calm the lead horse.

The carter straightened and glanced at Robert. “The axle’s got a crack in it after that pothole. I reckon I can splint it up soundly enough to get us to the next village where the cartwright can do a proper job on it. But I’d like to get a bit of the weight off, and lift the cart up so I can get under there.”

“Of course. We’ll help howsoever we can.” Robert returned to the tail of the cart and relayed the news. But he didn’t give the passengers time to fret or complain. Instead, he immediately began giving orders and assigning tasks. Madam Mystery assisted the remaining passengers down and helped disembark their luggage, while he and the weaselly man rolled the alum barrels to the wagon’s rear. The carter, exhibiting the strength of an ox, hefted them to the ground, then stood a large barrel upright beside the vehicle.

“We need the height. If we can lever up the corner, we can prop the cart on the barrel while I make a repair.”

It was a hot day for such work, but Robert couldn’t remove his doublet because of the dispatch. He’d just have to take a dip in the nearest stream to cool himself as soon as he had the chance. As he bent his back to a hefty pole to lever the cart up, he kept an eye on his traveling chest. It contained a knife, drugs, poison, and a brace of dags, the smallest firearms he could find. Not very reliable, but an essential part of any spy’s arsenal these days. They were worth a pretty penny, too, so it wouldn’t do to lose them.

Eventually, the job was done, and he took himself off to the shade of an oak to get his breath and wipe the sweat from his brow.

And overhear, as it turned out, an entertaining conversation between the egg-woman and Madam Mystery, who were strolling about together on the verge behind him. He heard the older woman introduce herself as Goodwife Ramsay and held his breath. Was he finally going to discover the identity of his enigmatic damsel?

“Chloe Emmerson—pleased to meet you. I hope this won’t delay us long.”

“Chloe Emmerson.” Robert tested out the name. It was one he didn’t know, and it might not be her real name, of course, but it was a beginning.

“My Hal will be sore if I don’t get back by nightfall. He doesn’t fare well by himself.”

“Nightfall?” Mistress Emmerson sounded shocked. No matter. He’d ensure she was safe. There was bound to be an inn nearby with rooms available where he could watch over her. Indeed, if he was right about their current location, the White Hart was only a few miles farther on.

“You’re worried about that young fellow taking advantage.” Goody Ramsay’s voice had a conspiratorial edge.

“He’s not my young man,” Mistress Emmerson responded crisply. “I barely know him.”

“I can tell that, wench. But he’d like to know you better, methinks. I know his kind—charming on the surface but a hot-blooded rogue beneath. Ah, the way he looked at you as you slept! You seem a proper gentlewoman, and I’d not want to see you fall prey to a handsome devil like that. If you’re not on your guard, he’ll be in your bed before you can say ninepence.”

The loud sound of hammering drowned out the next exchange between the two women, and by the time it had stopped, they were out of earshot. Silently, Robert congratulated himself on his skill at espionage—neither of the women had had any idea of his presence. Although he didn’t care for Goody Ramsay’s opinion of him.

The carter called out that his vehicle could be reloaded again. Scrambling to his feet, Robert ran his tongue over his dry lips. He, for one, would be grateful for a stop at the White Hart, before he died of thirst.

No one would be going anywhere until the precious cargo of dye fixative was loaded back on the wagon. It would be a hot job—dare he take off his doublet and work in shirt sleeves? He could tuck the dispatch into the top of his upper hose and keep it in place with his belt.

He patted his hidden pocket.

There was nothing there.

Chapter Ten