behind them when they entered and left it unbarred when they left. It was a simple, workable system that left Old Nan able to say she had no idea if Beatrice ever had a visitor after she had gone to bed herself.
“There had to have been noise," Nicholas prodded.
Old Nan shrugged. “There's often noises; but there's the storeroom between us so I don't hear them. And if I hear them, I don't heed them. There was nothing particular last night. I knew naught till the poor wight came crawling to my door. Wait here," she added as they reached the top of the stairs. She hobbled forward the few steps to tap at Beatrice's slack-hung door. “Bea-girl, it's me, don't fear. I've Nicholas here to see you."
Beatrice made a muffled protest, but Old Nan opened the door anyway, and gestured Nicholas in, whispering not very low, “She doesn't want to be seen. Her beauty's behind her, I think, and she knows it. But she's going to have to grow used to it. She'll not earn the pence she once did, that's sure."
Old Nan had done what she could, had washed the blood away and even made herb poultices to lay over the worst of the bruises. But what Nicholas could still see was enough to make him wince; and sympathy did not come readily to him for anyone but himself.
“God's teeth, is it you, Beatrice?"
“Nick?" she whimpered through broken lips. If she saw him at all, it was only dimly; both her eyes were swollen shut by purpled flesh that barely let the tears ooze through. She tried to drag the blanket up to hide herself but it caught on the raw wood of the bedstead and, lacking the strength to pull it free, she could only lie there with it clutched to her chest.
“Who did this to you?" he demanded
“Fell," she whispered.
But the bruises on her throat were thumb-shaped, and there were gouges in her wrists and hands where she had been held and fought against the hold.
“You didn't fall. I'm not a fool."
Beatrice moved a hand as if she wished he would hold it, but he could not bring himself any nearer to her. Tears went on seeping from her eyes to run down her ruined cheeks. “Colfoot," she whispered. “Colfoot...“
Nicholas came a furious step forward and grabbed her wrist. She shrieked with pain and he let her loose but leaned over her to ask harshly, “The fat franklin? Why?"
Beatrice was sobbing now, wincing with the pain the movement cost her. “He'd been robbed. He said... Oh, I warned you, Nick!"
Nicholas resisted the desire to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Why did he come back here? Tell me what he said!"
“He was robbed after he left here. He thought it was someone from here. He'd seen you watching him, remembered you and I... that you and I..."
“You greasy whore! You told him who I am?"
Beatrice fought to smother the sobs that wracked her body into worse pain. “He described you. Your clothes. Your face. He was sure it was you. He wanted your name."
“And you told him it was me!" Nicholas was standing over her now, wishing she would stop her useless crying. He grabbed the blanket off her so roughly she screamed. “Shut up! Did you tell him?"
“No! No! Not until..." Tears and despair won over her attempt to talk. She made a helpless gesture at her uncovered body, as bruised as her face.
“You told him!" Nicholas snarled, flung the blanket at her, and stormed out of the room. He rushed down the stairs and shoved past a blunt-faced youth who shouted something after him as he slammed through the alehouse door.
The pardon was too near to let a fat fool of a franklin come in his way to it.
Chapter Ten
Frevisse found that Sister Emma now had more reason for her fussing and complaining of discomfort. She was more fevered, and her wrenching cough was painful to watch. She accepted a hot drink almost quietly and barely complained of its bitter taste.
“But my prayers," she croaked as she handed the
“There had to have been noise," Nicholas prodded.
Old Nan shrugged. “There's often noises; but there's the storeroom between us so I don't hear them. And if I hear them, I don't heed them. There was nothing particular last night. I knew naught till the poor wight came crawling to my door. Wait here," she added as they reached the top of the stairs. She hobbled forward the few steps to tap at Beatrice's slack-hung door. “Bea-girl, it's me, don't fear. I've Nicholas here to see you."
Beatrice made a muffled protest, but Old Nan opened the door anyway, and gestured Nicholas in, whispering not very low, “She doesn't want to be seen. Her beauty's behind her, I think, and she knows it. But she's going to have to grow used to it. She'll not earn the pence she once did, that's sure."
Old Nan had done what she could, had washed the blood away and even made herb poultices to lay over the worst of the bruises. But what Nicholas could still see was enough to make him wince; and sympathy did not come readily to him for anyone but himself.
“God's teeth, is it you, Beatrice?"
“Nick?" she whimpered through broken lips. If she saw him at all, it was only dimly; both her eyes were swollen shut by purpled flesh that barely let the tears ooze through. She tried to drag the blanket up to hide herself but it caught on the raw wood of the bedstead and, lacking the strength to pull it free, she could only lie there with it clutched to her chest.
“Who did this to you?" he demanded
“Fell," she whispered.
But the bruises on her throat were thumb-shaped, and there were gouges in her wrists and hands where she had been held and fought against the hold.
“You didn't fall. I'm not a fool."
Beatrice moved a hand as if she wished he would hold it, but he could not bring himself any nearer to her. Tears went on seeping from her eyes to run down her ruined cheeks. “Colfoot," she whispered. “Colfoot...“
Nicholas came a furious step forward and grabbed her wrist. She shrieked with pain and he let her loose but leaned over her to ask harshly, “The fat franklin? Why?"
Beatrice was sobbing now, wincing with the pain the movement cost her. “He'd been robbed. He said... Oh, I warned you, Nick!"
Nicholas resisted the desire to take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Why did he come back here? Tell me what he said!"
“He was robbed after he left here. He thought it was someone from here. He'd seen you watching him, remembered you and I... that you and I..."
“You greasy whore! You told him who I am?"
Beatrice fought to smother the sobs that wracked her body into worse pain. “He described you. Your clothes. Your face. He was sure it was you. He wanted your name."
“And you told him it was me!" Nicholas was standing over her now, wishing she would stop her useless crying. He grabbed the blanket off her so roughly she screamed. “Shut up! Did you tell him?"
“No! No! Not until..." Tears and despair won over her attempt to talk. She made a helpless gesture at her uncovered body, as bruised as her face.
“You told him!" Nicholas snarled, flung the blanket at her, and stormed out of the room. He rushed down the stairs and shoved past a blunt-faced youth who shouted something after him as he slammed through the alehouse door.
The pardon was too near to let a fat fool of a franklin come in his way to it.
Chapter Ten
Frevisse found that Sister Emma now had more reason for her fussing and complaining of discomfort. She was more fevered, and her wrenching cough was painful to watch. She accepted a hot drink almost quietly and barely complained of its bitter taste.
“But my prayers," she croaked as she handed the
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