“Why would Clayborne want to kill the Viscountess?” Amalie scorned. Though she did put some effort into an examination of the theory that the ambassador was behind it, in order to secure the Queen for his prince.
While this speculation was taking place, I was able to take Amalie’s hand beneath the fur that we shared, and now and again stroked her thigh, causing her to take a little intake of breath. But I dared not risk that intake of breath too often, not under the sharp eyes of the two gossips, nor take any other liberties.
Howsoever, judging by the gleam in her eye, I believe that at least one of the maids became very fond of me during that ride, though I did not put this surmise to the test.
As we rode we encountered more and more of the pursuers, all returning to the lodge. Though none of these had blown their horses in an over-hasty pursuit, they had all concluded they stood no chance of catching the assassin, and turned around in time to enjoy supper at the lodge. One of these was the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross, who gave me a baleful look as he saw me enjoying my wine in the company of the marchioness.
Last of all was the dispirited troop of Yeoman Archers, who had pursued longer than the others. The lieutenant had been sent on to warn the capital’s gate guards, just in case the fugitive had spent part of the day hiding and rode in after nightfall, but the rest were riding their weary way back to the lodge, to report their failure to Queen Berlauda.
Even though the carriage maintained a good pace when the road was clear, still we followed the storm, and the road was full of mud and muck and fallen limbs, some of which were so heavy that the footmen and I could barely shift them. This meant delays, and shadows were growing long by the time we passed Shornside’s royal castle.
“We will probably not make Selford before nightfall,” I said. “Your ladyship might want to look for an inn.”
“Oh! That will not be necessary.” She gave me a look from out of those long eyes. “We have a country house not far from here, and I’ve sent word ahead, and will sleep and sup there. The steward will find a bed for you somewhere, if you are not bent on galloping for the capital tonight.” And, as her hand grazed along my thigh as she spoke her invitation, I overcame feigned reluctance and accepted.
The fugitive would still be there tomorrow, I decided. Assuming he was there at all.
The promised bed was on the same floor as Amalie’s chambers, and was very comfortable, not that I spent a lot of time in it. For as soon as the house grew quiet, I stole down the hall to quietly knock on Amalie’s door, and the two of us spent a delightful night galloping beneath the grand canopy of her bed, though I confess myself distracted by the thought that Orlanda might appear shrieking, a knife in either hand to stab us to death.
But no goddess appeared, unless it was one of pleasure and laughter. When I finally fell asleep, I slept so well that, in the morning, I was hard put to scramble back to my room before the servant came up to bring me my shaving water.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I asked Master Crowninshield about the sword-hilted dagger with the Broughton badge, and he remembered it quite well. He had made the dagger himself, and it had been on display in his shop. A customer had walked in from the street and bought it on condition that the plain steel pommel be replaced by one with the Broughton blazon. Crowninshield customarily worked with a cameo-carver on such commissions, and both were paid extra for carving and mounting the jasper swiftly.
Crowninshield was told that dagger was a gift for Broughton’s son. He was hardly to be blamed for not knowing that no such son existed.
“Who commissioned the dagger?” I asked, and was surprised to hear that it was a lady. I asked for a description.
Crowninshield’s lengthy description, given with many digressions over four or five minutes, amounted to the lady being generally lady-shaped, and having a face similar in large degree to that of a lady. Her accent was either that of Bonille, or of south Fornland, neither of which resembled one another. I made a note to myself that, should I ever be qualified as a lawyer, never to call Crowninshield as a witness.
“Not a grand lady, mind,” he added. “But respectable. May be a servant, but a superior sort of servant. A housekeeper, or a governess.”
In order to protect myself from any housekeepers and governesses and their murder plots, I bought a sword-hilted dagger of my very own, and thrust it into my belt behind, under my cloak, where I could draw it easily with the right hand. I then thanked Master Crowinshield and made my way to Saddlers Row, where I failed to find any shop signs displaying a sparrow, warbler, or any small bird. This sent me farther up the row to the Honorable Companie of Loriners and Saddlers, where a helpful apprentice showed me the book of marks used by members of the guild, and found the bird mark straightaway.
“That would be the shop of Dagobert Finch, sir,” he said.
“Where would I find it?”
“Across the river, in Mossthorpe.”
So I retraced my steps across the great bridge to the House of Finch in Mossthorpe. It was near enough to Blackwell’s theater that I must have passed beneath the sign more than once, but I hadn’t noted it at the time.
The shop was rich with the scent of leather and prime neatsfoot oil, and saddles hung beneath the roof beams like carcases at my father’s butchery. Master Saddler Finch was a short, peppery man with a bristly mustache. “I sell a great many saddles, younker,” said he.
“This would have been sold to a gentleman about my height,” I said. “Wore a beard when I met him yesterday. He rides a liver chestnut.”
I saw from a sudden gleam in Finch’s eye that he recognized my description, but then his look grew cautious. “Why do you want to know?”
“I owe him money,” said I. “We were both at the hunt at Kingsmere two days ago, and we wagered on one of the gentlemen fighting a stag with a sword, and I lost. Yet in the excitement of the betting, I failed to get the gentleman’s name.”
“Yet it is unusual for a man to pursue another, and all to willingly give money away.”
“I can afford it,” I said. “I won my other bets.” And, to demonstrate my prosperity, I passed a couple of crowns across the table.
“Sir Hector Burgoyne,” said Finch. “A military gentleman, yes? He will be glad of your money. He commissioned the saddle over a year ago, but I only gave it to him last month when he finally paid the balance on his account.”
“Know you where he lives?”
“Nay, younker. But he keeps his courser at Mundy’s on the main road, and they will probably know.”
So off I went to Mundy’s livery stable, and one of the grooms, once I had given him his vail, was able to direct me to Burgoyne’s garret in Selford, in the stew called Ramscallion Lane. Wearing my hood over my head as a disguise, I found the building without trouble, a half-timbered structure sagging over the street, with ancient thatch hanging over the eaves like untidy bangs. It hardly seemed the sort of place for a knight to lodge unless he was desperate for money—desperate enough to commit murder, I supposed.