Shadow of Night (All Souls Trilogy, #2)(28)

“The men from the village are at the gatehouse,” Pierre announced in the ensuing silence.

“Go and fetch them,” Matthew ordered. He turned his attention to me. “Let me do the talking. Don’t answer their questions unless and until I tell you to do so. Now,” he continued briskly, “we can’t afford to have anything . . . unusual happen tonight as it did when Widow Beaton was here. Are you still dizzy? Do you need to lie down?”

“Curious. I’m curious,” I said, hands clenched. “Don’t worry about my magic or my health. Worry about how many hours it’s going to take you to answer my questions after the minister is gone. And if you try to wiggle out of them with the excuse that ‘it’s not my tale to tell,’ I’ll flatten you.”

“You are perfectly fine, then.” Matthew’s mouth twitched. He dropped a kiss on my forehead. “I love you, ma lionne.”

“You might reserve your professions of love until later and give Auntie a chance to compose herself,” Gallowglass suggested.

“Why does everyone feel compelled to tell me how to manage my own wife?” Matthew shot back. The cracks in his composure were starting to show.

“I really couldn’t say,” Gallowglass replied serenely. “She reminds me a bit of Granny, though. We give Philippe advice morning, noon, and night about how best to control her. Not that he listens.”

The men arranged themselves around the room. The apparent randomness of their positions created a human funnel—wider at the entrance to the room, narrower at the fireside where Matthew and I sat. As George and Kit would be the first to greet the man of God and his companions, Walter whisked away their dice and the manuscript of Doctor Faustus in favor of a copy of Herodotus’s Histories. Though it was not a Bible, Raleigh assured us it would lend proper gravitas to the situation. Kit was still protesting the unfairness of the substitution when footsteps and voices sounded.

Pierre ushered the three men inside. One so strongly resembled the reedy young man who had measured me for shoes that I knew at once he was Joseph Bidwell. He started at the sound of the door closing behind him and looked uneasily over his shoulder. When his bleary eyes faced forward again and he saw the size of the assembly awaiting him, he jumped once more. Walter, who occupied a position of strategic importance in the middle of the room with Hancock and Henry, ignored the nervous shoemaker and cast a look of disdain at a man in a bedraggled religious habit.

“What brings you here on such a night, Mr. Danforth?” Raleigh demanded.

“Sir Walter,” Danforth said with a bow, taking a cap from his head and twisting it between his fingers. He spotted the Earl of Northumberland. “My lord! I did not know you were still amongst us.”

“Is there something you need, ?” Matthew asked pleasantly. He remained seated, legs stretched out in apparent relaxation.

“Ah. Master Roydon.” Danforth made another bow, this one directed at us. He gave me a curious look before fear overtook him and redirected his eyes to his hat. “We have not seen you in church or in town. Bidwell thought you might be indisposed.”

Bidwell shifted on his feet. The leather boots he wore squelched and complained, and the man’s lungs joined in the chorus with wheezes and a barking cough. A wilted ruff constricted his windpipe and quivered every time he tried to draw breath. Its pleated linen was distinctly the worse for wear, and a greasy brown spot near his chin suggested he’d had gravy with supper.

“Yes, I was taken sick in Chester, but it has passed with God’s grace and thanks to my wife’s care.” Matthew reached out and clasped my hand with husbandly devotion. “My physician thought it would be best if my hair were shorn to rid me of the fever, but it was Diana’s insistence on cool baths that made the difference.”

“Wife?” Danforth said faintly. “Widow Beaton did not tell me—”

“I do not share my private affairs with ignorant women,” Matthew said sharply.

Bidwell sneezed. Matthew examined him first with concern, then with a carefully managed look of dawning understanding. I was learning a great deal about my husband this evening, including the fact that he could be a surprisingly good actor.

“Oh. But of course you are here to ask Diana to cure Bidwell.” Matthew made a sound of regret. “There is so much idle gossip. Has the news of my wife’s skill spread already?”

In this period medicinal knowledge was perilously close to a witch’s lore. Was Matthew trying to get me in trouble?

Bidwell wanted to respond, but all he could manage was a gurgle and a shake of his head.

“If you are not here for physic, then you must be here to deliver Diana’s shoes.” Matthew looked at me fondly, then to the minister. “As you have no doubt heard, my wife’s possessions were lost during our journey, Mr. Danforth.” Matthew’s attention returned to the shoemaker, and a shade of reproach crept into his tone. “I know you are a busy man, Bidwell, but I hope you’ve finished the pattens at least. Diana is determined to go to church this week, and the path to the vestry is often flooded. Someone really should see to it.”

Iffley’s chest had been swelling with indignation since Matthew had started speaking. Finally the man could stand it no more.

“Bidwell brought the shoes you paid for, but we are not here to secure your wife’s services or trifle with pattens and puddles!” Iffley drew his cloak around his hips in a gesture that was intended to convey dignity, but the soaked wool only emphasized his resemblance to a drowned rat, with his pointy nose and beady eyes. “Tell her, Mr. Danforth.”