London - Edward Rutherfurd [141]
So the two men, who in their own crisis had quite forgotten Osric’s family concerns, gathered round laughing and hugged the little fellow.
There was no moon that night, and a thin pall of cloud blown by a rising wind from the west was now hiding even the stars. As the boat slipped up the dark river, the only light came from a small fire that had started somewhere on the city’s western hill.
Softly the boat bumped into the mud by the entrance to the Tower drain.
Osric was alone. His response to the Dane’s message that morning had been simple. Since Barnikel was being watched, he had better stay in his house. “I can manage alone,” he said.
Carefully, therefore, he tied the boat up to a stake and then worked away to loosen the grille. Before very long, he had wriggled into the drain. Cautiously, disturbing only the rats, he crept up the dark tunnel towards the black and cavernous womb of the London Tower. Hoisting himself up with a rope, he reached the grille above, unlocked it, and made his way through the cellar.
Hilda sat in her chair. In her hands was a piece of embroidery, but she was finding it hard to concentrate. Henri had come home early that morning, but apart from a polite enquiry after her father, they had spoken little. All day she had waited in suspense. Now she tried to embroider while Henri played chess with his youngest son and occasionally glanced at her in his cool, detached way.
The evening was quiet. Some way off, by the West Cheap, a fire had started at dusk and had spread to several houses. Such things were common in London, however, and she had thought no more about it.
But her heart did jump when, two hours after dusk, Ralph arrived to pay them a visit.
By now, all London had heard of his exploits in the East Cheap that morning, but although Henri looked amused and Hilda anxious, nobody said anything. Indeed, by now the surly fellow seemed not so much angry as thoughtful. Nodding to them all and taking a pitcher of wine, he sat on a bench opposite Henri and gazed morosely into the fire for some time before speaking. When, at last, he did, Hilda felt herself go cold. “I have a problem, Henri,” he said.
“What is that?”
Ralph took a draught of wine, then looked up slowly. “A spy,” he said quietly. “Close to me.” Hilda felt her hand tremble. “You see,” he went on, “I nearly made a big catch today. Arms. I’m sure they were there.”
“Perhaps you just made a mistake.”
“It’s possible,” Ralph admitted. “But I have an instinct, you see. I think the conspirators were tipped off.”
“By whom?”
Ralph was quiet for a moment. “By someone who knew my plans.” He looked straight at Hilda. “Who do you think could have done it?”
Hilda knew that she had gone very pale. She rested her hands in her lap and stared back at him. Did he know, or was this an innocent question? Was it a bluff to catch her out? But why should he suspect her? Her mind raced over the possibilities. “I’ve no idea, Ralph,” she said. But despite herself, it seemed to Hilda that her voice had shaken.
They were both looking at her now, Ralph and Henri. She longed to get up and leave them, but dared not do so. Who knew how long the agony might have continued, had it not been for an unexpected interruption.
It was Gertha. Her face was flushed from her evening walk and she was beaming with pleasure to see them all. Oblivious to the tension in the room, she went straight to Ralph, kissed him, laughed loudly as he blushed awkwardly, then took the talisman he wore into her large hands and cradled it for a moment.
“The fire out there is growing big,” she remarked, and Hilda prayed that this would change the conversation. But her prayer was not answered.
Turning to Ralph, Gertha remarked: “So you did not arrest the red-beard?”
Ralph grunted. “Something happened.”
“You will catch him. Won’t he, Hilda? He is so clever.”
Once again, Hilda realized that they were all looking at her. She stared at the German girl numbly. Was this some horrible trap? Had Gertha already told Ralph