having been informed that Mary had been seen arm in arm with another man in the next shire, information that had resulted in him lying through his teeth to the informer. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had not slept with a woman for six months that had resulted in him desiring Beth Llewellyn? If so, it had to stop!
Beth wasted no time hurrying away. She wondered what would be Sir Gawain’s reaction if she told him that it was her mother, Marian, who had first put the idea in her head to don a disguise if need be to gather interesting little snippets of news. It was Beth’s mother who had also encouraged her to jot down her thoughts and feelings about this and that. She had been a great admirer of the mystic, Dame Julian of Norwich, who was believed to have been the first woman to have written a book in the English language.
Sadly her mother had died four years ago when Beth was sixteen. If Marian had been alive today, then she would have insisted on her husband allowing their daughter to play an even greater part in running the business. Her father, on the other hand, was determined to marry her off to a man who would be his partner in the business, whilst she would be expected to keep house for them. It was why she had stubbornly refused to marry!
The thought infuriated her as she made her way into the next field, where thousands of tents of lesser splendour were pitched. Both Henry VIII and Francis I had determined to outshine the other, with tents, horses and costumes displaying accoutrements and jewels amidst much expensive fabric woven with silk-and-gold thread. The most elaborate arrangements had been made for the two monarchs and their queens, Katherine of Aragon and the pregnant Claude of Brittany. No doubt King Henry was wishing that it was his Katherine who was expecting a child, as he was desperate for a legitimate healthy son, according to rumour.
She hurried between the tents and, as she approached her father’s tent, thought she caught sight of a whisk of a red skirt as it vanished behind the next tent. No doubt it belonged to one of those loose women she had seen disappearing into the gloom the other night. Cautiously she drew back the flap of her father’s tent, praying that he was still talking business with his old friend in Calais.
Her prayer went unanswered.
Lying on the ground was her father with the jewelled hilt of a dagger sticking out of his back. Her heart began to pound in her chest and she felt sick as she fell on her knees beside his body. Her first instinct was to remove the dagger and see if he was breathing. But as she reached for it, there came a sound behind her. She whirled round, fearing that the murderer had returned, and saw Sir Gawain standing in the tent-opening.
For a moment she could not speak and then she cried, ‘Help me!’
Scowling, he took her by the shoulders, hoisted her to her feet and set her aside. Then, gritting his teeth, he hunkered down beside the body and searched for a pulse before looking up at her. ‘I am sorry, Mistress Llewellyn, but your father is dead.’
‘But—but he can’t be dead,’ she stammered, scarcely able to believe his words nor her own eyes.
‘Did you catch sight of anyone lurking outside as you approached?’ asked Gawain.
‘I—I thought I caught a glimpse of a woman’s scarlet skirts, but I cannot believe my father would have been—’ She fumbled for a camp stool and sat down. ‘Who could have done this?’ she asked in a bewildered voice.
Gawain remembered Master Llewellyn mentioning someone who might have wanted his son dead, but had refused to name names. Could he have confronted this person with his suspicions here in this tent and met his end at that villain’s hand? ‘Do you recognise this dagger at all?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
Beth stared at the elaborately decorated weapon and shuddered. ‘No, but I would wager that it is not the instrument of a hireling.’
Gawain agreed, frowning as he took a cloth from a pouch at his waist and wiped the blade. He wrapped the dagger in the cloth and placed it on the small table nearby. ‘Whoever did this must have been in a hurry to leave such a distinctive weapon behind. Perhaps he heard you approaching and made his escape via the back of the tent.’
Beth glanced at the canvas wall that divided the living area from the sleeping quarters. She opened her mouth to speak, but already Gawain had walked over to the dividing canvas wall and stepped through the opening. She hurried after him.
He was kneeling by the billowing outer wall of the tent; at the sound of her entry, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘The murderer most likely did make their escape this way. See how the bedding has been pushed aside and there are scuff marks on the ground and a couple of tent pegs have come loose. Perhaps the woman you caught sight of might have seen who it was and would recognise him again.’
Beth took a shaky breath. ‘Should we try to find her?’
‘Aye. Where are your servants?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You need someone with you.’
‘They were given leave to see the sights and were to return this evening.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat and added in a husky voice. ‘Jane and Sam have been with our family for years and this will be a terrible shock to them.’
Gawain rasped his unshaven jaw with a finger and his dark lashes hooded his eyes as his gaze washed over her and the froth of feminine garments sprawled on her bedding. ‘Perhaps someone tending a cooking fire nearby might have noticed whoever entered this tent. You will stay here and change your garments whilst I see if I can discover if that is so.’
She moistened her lips. ‘What if the murderer returns for the weapon?’
Gawain hesitated, then said reassuringly, ‘I will keep this tent in my sight, so I will see if anyone approaches it.’
She thanked him.
He brushed past her and vanished from her sight. For a moment she considered running after him, not wanting to be alone. Then she tilted her chin, knowing she must depend on herself for so many things from now on. With her father dead, she would now inherit his business. Even so it made sense to obey Sir Gawain’s order and change her clothing. Swiftly she stripped and donned a cream-coloured high-necked chemise, stockings, garters and a long-sleeved dark blue gown that fastened at the waist to reveal the underskirt of the chemise. The front of the gown was cut to an arch over her bosom and the neckline was fashionably square. She searched for the shoes with buckles that her father had insisted on having made for her in London before they came away. He had never bothered much about her appearance and she guessed that he had only done so recently because he was determined that she should attract a suitor. Well, his plan would come to naught. She would not marry, but run his business herself and make her mother proud of her. God grant that she was in heaven and able to look down on her. Father, too, now, she added forlornly.
Who could have killed him and why? She wiped her face with a drying cloth and then, with a shiver of apprehension and praying that Sir Gawain was keeping his promise, hastily coiled her braids beneath her headdress, the front of which was shaped like the gable of a house. Then from a box, inlaid with different kinds of woods, she took the simple cross of amethyst on a silver chain that had belonged to her mother and placed it about her neck. She smoothed down the conical-shaped skirts of her gown before picking up a blanket and leaving the sleeping quarters.
She gazed down at her father and then kissed his cheek. With trembling fingers she covered him with the blanket and then shot to her feet at the sound of footsteps outside. She gazed towards the tent opening with a racing heart and then sagged with relief as the flap lifted and Sir Gawain ducked his dark head and entered the tent.
‘Thank God, it is you! Did you discover anything?’ she asked.
