Page 11 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Seven

Letting his battle instincts take over, Will hurried Isobel towards the street gate.

It was locked. Well, if the worst came to the worst, he’d heave her on top of the wall, and scramble up after her. They’d land in the gutter on the other side—unpleasant, but it wasn’t too far to drop. Unsheathing his dagger, he tried to prise the door open, and realized the wood around the catch was rotten.

It took but a moment to free the door. Stepping onto the street, he whistled for his mare, Jennet. The hired beast he’d ridden to London had been sent home—a relief, for his own horse had the sturdier back, and was more amenable. The street urchin he’d told to look after her came running up. Feeling in his purse for a coin, Will found a groat and handed it over, then hefted Isobel onto Jennet’s back and mounted behind her.

His injured leg protested at his haste, but there was no time to lose. As he urged the mare into a gallop, he heard the distinctive sound of the opposite gate to the walled garden being unlocked. With any luck, Flinders would search awhile before realizing Isobel was gone, which would give them a head start.

Good. One day, he’d like to put his sword through that villain’s belly but, for now, he must take care of Isobel and put her beyond the reach of Hubert Pike. As he wheeled left onto Gray’s Inn Road, he glanced over his shoulder, but no one had, as yet, emerged through the street gate of the walled garden. If he was lucky, any pursuit would turn towards town, rather than away from it.

As he made another turn, onto Clerkenwell Road, he found the highway filled with laden vegetable carts and packhorses traveling into London. Uncomfortable-looking carriages swayed past with a jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves. If he could put the busy crowd of people between himself and Flinders, all the better. However, to ride on at breakneck pace would attract attention, so he slowed Jennet to a trot and tried to appear as if riding along with a wild-looking woman in his lap were an everyday occurrence.

They’d reached Farringdon now, and the houses were thinning out. Soon, they’d be in open countryside, and no one would look twice at an ardent swain, taking his lady-love for a gallop through the landscape.

Isobel was starting to look around her more, sucking in great breaths of air, her ribs expanding against his hand, where he held her pressed against him. His saddle wasn’t made for two—the only way he could ride with her was to have her on his lap. She must be so uncomfortable, yet she uttered not a word of complaint.

She was wearing a coif today, but her raven-dark hair escaped it and hung over her shoulder. With her elfin chin elevated, and her green eyes fixed on distant views, she looked as if all the gloss of society had been rubbed away from her, leaving an untamed creature, free to experience life in a primal, animal way. The thought disturbed him. It excited him too—how he envied her freedom from the chains of a stifling world.

He took the first road he could find heading north, which he assumed must be in the general direction of Hertford. At this stage, he had no idea where he was going, or what he was going to do. His only thought was to put London behind them, and place as many miles between himself and Hubert Pike as possible. His purse was full with some of the coin contained in the package sent him by Leicester, so he should be able to keep them fed and housed for the foreseeable future—if he could think of anywhere Pike wouldn’t come looking for them.

Isobel shifted and twisted her head to stare at him. She looked anxious, no longer a wayward sprite enjoying the pulse of nature.

“Who are you?”

Lord, no. Had she forgot him already?

“Isobel, ’tis I, Will Cavendish. Orpheus, if you will. You wanted me to help you escape, remember? That’s what we’re doing. You’re safe now. You’re with me.”

Her eyes widened. “The journey back from Hades is never safe. Did the gods not warn you?”

He slackened his fist on the reins and wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. What a fool he was, to confuse her by mentioning Orpheus. The sooner she let go her peculiar fancies and returned to the real world, the better. He must be firm and not encourage her.

“Let us pretend I didn’t say that. I am Will Cavendish, and you are Isobel Marston. That’s all you need to think about at present.”

She pressed her teeth against her lower lip, then nodded. It might have been his imagination, but she seemed to push closer to him then, fitting more tightly into his arms. Then her head drooped and rested against his shoulder.

His heart pounded, even as he felt a new strength flow through his limbs. Whatever the legality of the case, he had her now, and she was his responsibility. He would discharge his duty to Edward by caring for her, restoring her to what she once had been, no matter the cost.

So, what was his next move to be? He dare not go home, lest Pike discover his address. His name was well-known in London—it wouldn’t take anyone long to track him down. At present, he feared he was on the wrong side of the law, having abducted Isobel from the care of her nearest relation, even though it had been at her own request.

What resources did Pike have at his disposal, what influence, which friends in high places? If he raised the hue and cry, the group of well-meaning citizens would scour the main roads out of London first. That put wayside inns out of bounds, so what were he and Isobel to do for rest and refreshment? Jennet would soon tire of carrying two. Perhaps he should have ridden deep into the metropolis, after all.

This was a challenge. In his mind, he was back in the field again, trying to find a billet for his troops, living off the land when their provisions and wages failed to come through. They’d lived on hope and air then, and had survived. But with Isobel, it was a different matter.

Relaxing his speed, he steered off the highway and onto a lesser road. Jennet picked her way around the potholes, but suddenly she lifted her nose to the wind. Will tilted his head and heard it too—the chattering of a brook. God be thanked—the horse could be watered while he and Isobel rested.

Reining in, he lowered the drowsy woman to the ground, then jumped down beside her, gritting his teeth at the pain in his injured thigh.

She followed him meekly about as he led the horse to drink, and knelt to splash some cool water over his face. Her expression was blank, her mind trapped in her own private world. What was she really like? Hot-headed, courageous, and noble like her brother? If she ever regained her full senses, and recovered her personality, would he like her? Not that it should matter. He owed her his loyalty, whether he liked her or not.

There was a costrel attached to his saddle. He drained the remaining drops of Malmsey from it, rinsed and filled it, and brought it for her to drink.

“How do you feel?”

She took a few gulps from the costrel. “Well enough. Only weary and jogged and jostled. It is a long time since I’ve been out for a ride in the country. Edward used to take me often. I wonder who will take me now.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You remember? I wasn’t sure you’d understood—you seemed so distrait. I am sorry.”

Her face betrayed no emotion. “Sometimes, I remember he is gone. But ’tis hard to picture his face, and my memories are so scant, I find it difficult to grieve. When I am myself again, I shall mourn him properly. When my mind has returned—if it ever does.”

Unable to lament her dead brother? How cold-blooded that sounded. Mayhap madness killed off the finer feelings first—mayhap insanity drained the emotions. But what if she weren’t mad? What if the poppy juice they’d been giving her was the cause of her sickness, not the cure? When she came to her full senses again, her suffering would be great indeed.

He would be strong for her when that moment came—he had enough strength for both of them. But for now, practical considerations were of the greatest import.

“Isobel, listen to me. I must find us a place we may rest and refresh ourselves where we can’t be seen. Do you understand?”

She nodded and handed him the costrel.

“Nay, keep it. Sit ye down and stay here with Jennet.” He indicated the mare, and Isobel nodded again. “Speak to no one—I shall be back directly.”

She sat, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rested her chin on her hands, quiet and trusting as a child. But he felt in his gut he couldn’t expect this situation to last for long. A storm would come—he’d seen her start to fall apart without her medicine.

And as he had no intention of ever allowing her near poppy juice again, he knew that storm would break over him.