Page 23 of Lord of Mistrust

“The Whirlpool? Is that a tavern name? I can’t believe it’s a genuine whirlpool—one tends not to associate such phenomena with the leafy lanes of Hampshire. Where is this place?”

“Near the river somewhere. Close to a crossroads. I’m unsure—the fellow was mumbling a bit by then.”

Robert suppressed a grimace. “Persuasion” was not a task in which he wished to be involved. He stood and gazed at a framed map on the wall, but could see naught that resembled a whirlpool. “We’ll have to rely on local knowledge.”

There was no time to waste. As soon as the conspirators discovered one of their number was missing, they’d either flee or descend on the White Hart in search of their comrade.

Robert patted his hidden pocket, comforted by the feel of his dispatch. His mission was now twofold—first, he had to get the damned thing to Walsingham while it still held any value for the queen’s spymaster. Second, he had to track down the network of conspirators to which their prisoner belonged.

“Where are you keeping our friend?”

Tilshead spat an apple pip into the hearth. “In a barn just north of Newbury. He’s well-guarded. What’s our next move to be?”

Robert ran a finger around the inside of his collar. He was more than eager to get out of the stuffy parlor and head off on a fast horse in pursuit of his country’s enemies. It was no longer just a case of patriotism—the matter had now become personal. Not only had the weasel bested him, but he’d done so in front of an audience. And had the audacity to then turn his weapon on Chloe. Ignoble gutter-spawn!

“I warrant Walsingham would advise us to separate and go in search of this whirlpool place, then report back here. Did the fellow reveal anything else?”

“Nay. He fell into a faint. But he’ll have revived by the time we return to him. He may even be ready to give us the location of their hideout.”

“Very well. Whiteley, you go west and make inquiries. I’ll go north. Tilshead, you can take the villages to the east. I’ll question the landlord here before I make my search, then meet you back at the inn around three of the clock. We can then determine our next move. If we’ve learned nothing more, I’ll have to leave our captive in your capable hands and continue my journey to London, as I have my urgent dispatch to deliver. Godspeed.”

The other men emptied their cups, bowed, and left the room. Robert rose and headed to the stables, to seek out whichever nag looked to be the fastest and the fittest. He was just about to call for a groom when a shout from behind sent him spinning around, his sword ready in his hand.

A bedraggled figure was dragging itself through the archway of the inn, one bloodied hand clutching the timberwork for support.

Sim was there in an instant, bearing the injured man up. Robert sheathed his blade and hurried over. The unfortunate fellow’s face was covered in blood, his skin ashen and grey. Robert took the man’s other arm and helped him into the inn.

It was the driver of the horse-drawn litter—the very one that had conveyed Chloe out of this yard not half an hour since. But where was its passenger?

Goodwife Hazelthwaite hurried in with a crock of water and began sponging the rider’s face. The man’s eyes focused on Robert as he struggled to find the breath to speak.

“I was attacked on the road, just up past Gallows Corner.”

Robert felt nauseous. His voice was little more than a growl as he demanded, “Your passenger. The young lady. Where is she?”

“They took her, sir,” was the devastating reply. “But they told me to give you this.”

The man pulled a folded piece of paper from his shirt and handed it to Robert.

With a shock, Robert recognized it. It was Chloe’s precious letter, the one from Sir Mortimer to her mother. The pox-ridden scum who’d taken Chloe had scrawled something on the back of it.

“Mallory,” he read. “If you wish to see your wife again, return our friend, unharmed, to the new church on Ralston Hill. Come alone. Bring your dispatch. Be here by five of the clock. If you’re tardy, we shall feel obliged to kill her.”

Robert’s hand was no longer steady. Rage swamped him.

He would find Chloe, whatever the cost to himself. And if those demons had harmed her in any way, he’d cut them to pieces and feed them to the fishes, no matter what useful information they might have to divulge. Walsingham would be furious, but that was of little consequence now. He must get Chloe back, or die in the attempt.

His hand shook as he refolded the note and tucked it away, resisting the urge to rip it into a thousand pieces. Fixing his eyes once more on the pitiful spectacle of the wounded driver, he knew a fury that he could hardly conceal.

He nodded to the man. “You’ve acquitted yourself nobly and well. I can see you did what you could to defend your passenger. Despite your injuries, you’ve delivered this message to me as fast as you could. Rest now, in the assurance that your blow on the head shall be paid for in kind, with interest.”

Once the litter driver had been removed upstairs to be nursed by Goody Hazelthwaite, Robert was at liberty to plan his strategy. It was no easy thing to accomplish—he could hardly think for the fury that boiled inside him. How dare any man attack the innocent Chloe! The thought that she might be dead froze his blood.

He strode to the door and sucked in several deep breaths, then turned to face the landlord. “I need to find Mistress Emmerson’s abductors immediately—if I wait until the appointed hour for the exchange, she could be beyond our help. Can you think of anywhere around here that might be called ‘The Whirlpool’?”

The man scratched at his beard. “Could be something to do with water. There are no waterfalls around here—the ground doesn’t rise high enough. The watermills have to use dams to get enough power.”

“I’faith! You may have the solution, sir. A mill wheel whirls, does it not? And the mill pond is a manner of pool.” If the men he was tracking were foreign, they might not know the English words associated with mills. It was worth a try.