Free Silken Threads by Patricia Ryan Page A

hurt when I
move.”
    “Try not to move too much. Hugh’s bringing a
cart to take you to St. Bartholemew’s, so you’ll be able to
lie
—
”
    “A cart !”
    “Aye. ‘Twas either that or a litter, and I
gather he thought a cart would be easier to obtain.”
    “I’m not bouncing through the streets of
London in a cart, like some murdering churl on his way to Tyburn
Hill to be hanged.”
    “You can’t very well sit astride a
horse.”
    “I damn well...pardon me, mistress. I most
certainly can. And will.”
    “You’re an exasperating man, serjant.”
    He nodded, smiling. “Point taken. But I’m
not getting in any cart.”
    “You may discuss the matter with Hugh when
he gets here.” As she turned to leave, her gaze lit on the jake,
which he’d tucked under the bed. “Does that need emptying?”
    “Nay. I...went out and used the privy a
little while a
—
”
    “ Again? After what happened last
night?”
    “I was careful.”
    “How did you support yourself? That sledge
is still by the back door.”
    “There’s a broom over there.” He nodded
toward the corner. “I used that.”
    She shook her head, outrage turning her
brown eyes to gold. “Exasperating and maddeningly stubborn.”
    “So I’ve been told. Don’t worry, mistress.”
His voice grew subdued. “You haven’t that much longer to put up
with me.”
    She met his gaze squarely for the first time
that morning, her expression pensive, perhaps even a little
melancholy.
    “God’s tooth!” came a man’s furious roar
from outside. “You haven’t got him saddled yet? I told you I
was late! What have you been doing out here?”
    Looking out the little rear window, Graeham
saw Rolf le Fever in his stable yard, dressing down a hulking,
redheaded fellow who was buckling a saddle onto the back of a black
horse. Graeham didn’t know which was gaudier, le Fever’s
multicolored tunic or the absurd saddle, which had been plated with
hammered silver and studded with gems; the bridles appeared to be
gilded, and rows of tiny gold bells hung from the breast strap.
    “Beg pardon, Master Rolf, but
—
”
    “You should bloody well beg my pardon! Get
him saddled up so I can get out of here!”
    “That’s the master of the new Mercers’
Guild,” said Mistress Joanna. “Rolf le Fever.”
    Graeham turned to find her peering out the
window with her arms crossed, watching le Fever’s little
performance as if it were a street play.
    “Is that so?” he said.
    She nodded. “He lives right behind me, so I
get to listen in on his fits of pique several times a day, whether
I care to or not. Luckily for me, he spends most mornings at the
silk traders’ market hall, so the hours between terce and nones are
generally quite peaceful.”
    “That must be where he’s off to now.”
    “Nay, he walks to the market hall. It’s
right around the corner on Newgate Street.”
    After draping the seat of the saddle with a
quilted brown satin baudré that hung nearly to the ground,
the red-haired brute assisted his master in mounting.
    “Who’s the other fellow?” Graeham asked.
    “His manservant, the poor, long-suffering
Byram.”
    Graeham looked at her sharply. “Byram?”
    “Aye.”
    The manservant watched le Fever ride off and
retreated into the house. “That fellow’s name is Byram? Are you
certain?”
    “He’s been serving le Fever for the entire
six years I’ve been living here. I think I know his name.” Her
brows drew together. “Why?”
    “Nothing, just...” Are you Byram? Graeham had asked the bald-headed cur who’d lured him into the
alley. That’s right... “Is it possible there are two Byrams
working for le Fever?”
    She cocked her head as if she hadn’t heard
him right. “Two Byrams.”
    “Aye...I know it sounds daft.”
    “It is daft. Le Fever’s only got the
one fellow over there. There’s a maidservant and a kitchen wench,
but just the one man. Why would you think there’d be another
Byram?”
    Graeham shrugged. This woman