BARCLAY
has been an avid reader since she was very young; her mother claims Suzanne could read and recite “The Night Before Christmas” on her first birthday! Not surprisingly, history was her favorite subject in school and historical novels are her number-one reading choice. The house she shares with her husband and their two dogs is set on fifty-five acres of New York State’s wine-growing region. When she’s not writing, the author makes fine furniture and carpets in miniature.
Derry, England September 4, 1386
“Mistress? There’s soldiers come into the shop asking for ye,” Peter whispered from the door of the workroom.
Emmeline started, scattering the costly saffron threads she’d been transferring to a parchment packet for a customer. “Did they say what they wanted?”
Her apprentice shook his head so violently blond hair whipped across his fear-filled eyes. “Th-they s-said they had to tell ye something.”
Something bad. “Did they mention Cedric?”
“Nay, ’twas ye they asked for, not yer sire.”
“I see.” Drat. Six months ago she’d nearly lost the shop paying up his gambling debts, and he’d promised…Emmeline sighed. She’d learned early that Cedric le Trompour’s promises were seldom more than a puff of breath. And that usually stinking with sour ale. What had the old reprobate done now? And how much was it going to cost her to extricate him?
Through the open doorway that separated the shop from the back room where she stored the more costly herbs and made creams from her mother’s recipes, Emmeline glimpsed the three men who’d invaded her establishment. Two were obviously soldiers, hard-faced men in dark livery with watchful eyes and huge swords.
The third stranger was a rumpled little man who prowled the shop’s interior, poking a pudgy finger into the bunches of dried herbs with the air of complete absorption. His face” was round and wrinkled as the old-fashioned brown gown he wore. A rim of frizzy gray hair lapped at the edges of his bald pate like moss on a shiny rock. He didn’t look like the sort of man who’d demand she sell the apothecary shop she’d inherited from her mother just to satisfy a drunken old fool’s gaming debts.
Emmeline drew in a steadying breath. “I’ll see what they want. Please finish packaging this saffron for Dame Wentworth, Peter, and mind no more than three threads per packet.”
“Mistress…” Peter caught at the sleeve of her gown, his thin fingers stark against the brown wool. “Let me go with ye. If there’s trouble, I can help.”
Despite her trepidation, Emmeline smiled. Though he was only three and ten, Peter was a good lad and likely to make a fine apothecary. Providing she didn’t lose the shop before his training was completed. “I’ll be fine.”
“I beg ye leave the door open,” he whispered as she left the workroom. “If they threaten ye, I’ll come running.” And he would, too. They were closer than apprentice and mistress, more like the only family either of them had. Peter was an orphan, and Emmeline nearly so. Her mother had died a year ago after a long illness, and her father…well, Cedric had been dead to Emmeline ever since she’d found out what he was.
More to salve Peter’s pride than out of any actual fear, Emmeline left the door ajar and stepped into the store. The soldiers tensed; the little man looked up. His eyes were brown, large and sleepy-looking in the gentle folds of his face. He resembled an old hound roused from his warm spot by the fire.
That comfortable comparison gave her the courage to answer his sad little smile with a tentative one of her own. “May I help you?” she inquired past the lump in her throat.
“Mistress Emmeline Spencer?” he inquired, bowing from the hips, for his belly precluded anything else. “I am Sir Thomas Burton, come up from London to speak with you on a matter of some—” his fleshy features tightened —some delicacy.”
“London”. Emmeline’s heart sank. Whatever trouble Cedric had gotten into would be expensive. “What has he done?”
“Who?”
“My…father,” she admitted. “Cedric le Trompour.”
“Le Trompour is your father?” Sir Thomas pursed his lips. “I had not realized he had chil…oh.” A flush stained his jowls as he made the obvious leap.
“My sister and I are Cedric’s natural daughters.” A prettied-up way of saying they were bastards.
Sir Thomas coughed. “Then Alford is your grandfather.” At her nod, his frown deepened. “I wished I had known. I’d have taken my news to Cedric, or to Old Alford.”
“Grandfather disowned Cedric years ago and won’t give you a farthing to repay his debts.” She, however, was more vulnerable. Though he’d failed to wed her mother, Cedric was her father, and could dispose of her as he wished. Thus far, she’d managed to forestall any marriage plans by keeping him in coin.
“I am no usurer come to collect my due.” His gray brows knit together. “I hate to presume on your hospitality, but is there a place where we might speak in private?”
“In private?” Belatedly Emmeline looked out the large window that faced Market Street. Bunches of dried herbs, rosemary, thyme and mint hung from the open shutters. The wide sill formed a counter on which sat baskets of pepper, black and white, both ready to be weighed up for sale. Most days she had a modest flow of customers. Today the opening was crammed with people absently fingering the merchandise while staring at the unfolding drama.
Emmeline felt the color rise in her face. No matter how hard she worked to erase the stains of her own past and the continuing stigma of Cedric’s debauchery, she was ever the object of the town’s pity, scorn and ridicule.
“My men could give your apprentice a hand in closing the shop,” Sir Thomas suggested.
Oh, it must be very bad. Emmeline’s fists clenched a little tighter in the folds of her gown as she called, “Peter.”
The boy popped out of the storeroom like a rock launched from a catapult. Brandishing the large pestle she used to crush peppercorns, he flew at Sir Thomas.
“Peter!” Emmeline grabbed her protector by the arm before the blow landed. “Please, do not hold this against him.”
“On the contrary. I find his defense of his mistress quite a tribute in this day of deceit, murder and betrayal,” Sir Thomas said so forcefully Emmeline wondered who or what he was.
She found out soon enough. Leaving Peter to deal with the flood of customers—under the watchful eye of the two soldiers—she led the way up the stairs to the small solar.
“Er, can I offer you wine?” Emmeline asked, not at all used to entertaining men. Cedric’s perfidy had made her ’distrust men, and she avoided them as much as possible, except for Toby, who’d been with the family forever, and Peter, who was just a lad.
“Tis most kind,”
