‘Go,’ he instructed Thomas. He let go his grip, his mind struggling to remain clear. ‘Take your sword. Leave without me if you must. King Edward’s message must be delivered, without me if necessary.’
He tried to keep his eyes open as Thomas left the room, but he found it impossible. Unable to fight the demands of his body, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The embers of the fire glowed a dull red and gave off little heat. It did not seem possible it would be fierce enough to heat the poker to the required temperature to seal the wound. Though she really could not spare the wood, Lucy added a little kindling along with a handful of old rush stalks from the floor to wake the flames a little. She buried the poker deep, causing sparks to fly on to the floor. She stamped them out urgently before they caused the rushes to catch, letting the floor bear the brunt of her anxiety.
Lucy put two knives on the countertop, thinking they might be useful. She slid on to the stool beside the hearth and closed her eyes, her legs feeling hollow as straw as she imagined the additional pain the poker would cause when the iron tip seared Sir Roger’s flesh. The sooner she returned with the poker, the sooner the deed would be done and the men would be on their way.
She knew it was a comforting lie. Even assuming Thomas was not home to stay, the injured man would not be going anywhere until morning. He must be close to reaching the limits of endurance now and a wave of sympathy rippled through Lucy. Leaving aside his continual innuendo, she decided on balance she would rather he lived than leave her with his corpse and an agitated brother.
She pushed herself from the stool and began to hunt in the cupboard beneath the counter for the bottle of eye-wateringly strong spirit her father had kept for when the canker in his gut ached him beyond endurance. She also found a clay pot of powdered pain-killing draught that she had bought from the surgeon in Mattonfield.
Bought! Her nose wrinkled at the description of the transaction. No money had exchanged hands, but she had paid for it dearly, indeed. Mixed together, the brew always sent her father into a deep sleep in which he would experience much less pain and from which Lucy could gain an afternoon of peace from his continual censure of her for producing a baseborn child. Sir Roger would no doubt benefit from the same remedy and Lucy would appreciate the silence.
She had her head beneath the counter, feeling her way in the near blackness when three loud thumps on the door made her jump in alarm and she banged her temple sharply on the edge of the counter. Dazed, she sat on the floor and was hidden from view when Thomas appeared from the floor above.
‘Where are you, Lucy?’ he muttered, his voice low and urgent, and laden with anxiety. He raised his sword before him. ‘Show yourself quickly.’
His voice was unexpectedly vicious. Whatever he had done in four years had given him a tough attitude, but Lucy could see the desperation in his eyes. She raised a hand to her forehead, which felt tender from the bump. She stood and placed the bottle on top of the counter alongside her two knives.
‘I was finding...’ she began, but Thomas silenced her with a hiss and a wave of his hand. He held his finger to his lips. Lucy gestured at the bottle and he relaxed his stance. The beating on the door started again. Lucy started towards it, but Thomas stepped in front of her, seizing her upper arm.
‘They must not come in,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Keep silent. Perhaps they’ll go of their own accord.’
‘Who are they?’ Lucy whispered, her blood chilling at his words. ‘Why are they looking for you?’
Thomas looked shiftily from side to side.
‘I have done everything you asked,’ Lucy reminded him. She folded her arms and gave him the look she used on Robbie when she caught him pulling the kitchen cat’s tail. ‘You appear here with no explanation or warning and throw me into something I don’t understand. Why has my home been invaded?’
‘It’s my home, too,’ Thomas muttered.
Lucy placed her hands on her hips and glared. ‘A home I’ve been keeping while you were off doing goodness knows what!’ A thought occurred to her. ‘Is this to do with your Northern Company?’
‘No!’ Thomas protested. He bowed his head. ‘We were staying with a nobleman not far from here. It was Sir Roger’s fault. He offended our host.’
‘What did he do? Tell me or I will call out right now.’
‘He seduced Lord Harpur’s daughter,’ Thomas admitted with an odd expression on his face.
Lucy folded her arms tighter as surprise coursed through her. To hear that hated name from Thomas’s lips! He couldn’t know her connection to the nobleman.
At the same time, her worries eased a little. They were not thieves evading capture. They had not murdered or committed treason, or any of the other crimes she had been imagining. From the little she had seen of Sir Roger’s behaviour towards a woman, a seduction did not seem unsurprising and the tale had the ring of truth to it. Sir Roger was guilty of doing what any nobleman assumed was his right, but to trespass against John Harpur, then take refuge in Lucy’s house was a cruel twist of fate. It struck her as far too funny and made her want to laugh: a deep eruption bubbling beneath her brittle surface that would most likely never cease if she allowed it to the surface.
The thumping on the door stopped abruptly. Perhaps the men had assumed the inn was deserted and gone. Lucy was uncertain whether or not to be relieved. She felt a pang of sympathy for cold, pinch-faced Katherine Harpur who would no doubt be suffering her father’s cruel temper. She was mildly surprised that Sir Roger had found the mouse-like woman worth risking his neck over. The kiss he had pressed on Lucy—unwelcome though it had been—felt oddly diminished by the knowledge.
Nevertheless, she felt a delicious sense of spite that Lord Harpur had been shamed in such a way. If Katherine had been left with a child, would she, too, be cast out to starve?
She smiled at Thomas and reached for the bottle.
‘Let’s take this back to your friend. I think they’re gone, but I promise I won’t open the door. Lord Harpur is no friend to me.’
‘Why?’
Thomas looked puzzled at her abrupt, and what must seem confusing, change of attitude, but she had no intention of revealing the reason behind it. That was her secret alone.
‘That is no concern of yours.’
Thomas was not completely dull-witted; perhaps he would work the reason out for himself. Eventually.
Thomas lowered his sword. They were halfway to the stairs when a thump louder than before thundered around the room. The previous noises had sounded like fists on wood, but this had a more sinister tone. There was a second thump and the door hinges creaked, light bursting round the frame. Lord Harpur’s men had found the means to try to force entry and the old door would not withstand them for long. She glared at Thomas in desperation.
‘They’ll break in. I can’t refuse to answer it.’
Thomas glanced from the door to the stairs. He crossed the room, drawing his sword once more, and slipped into the shadows, crouching at the end of the counter where the door would conceal him once open. Lucy ran her hands through her hair, tangling it and pulling some of the fine, brown strands forward across her cheek. She unlaced the front of her kirtle and pulled at the neck, easing it low until more of her linen shift could be seen than was decent. She eased the neck of her shift down, too, dragging the cloth to one side. She rubbed her eyes to redden them. Taking a deep breath, she crossed to the door.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, pressing her hands on the wood and putting her lips close to the gap at the side of the frame. The door thumped once more, sending tremors running through her palms and up into her arms. She