mischief at aescham manor

FINAL PART: Will Pernelle and Cavelier discover the truth of the mystery – and of their growing attraction to each other?

Pernelle awoke from a strange dream, in which she had been falling, to find herself laid upon the cold ground with Peter Cavelier’s frowning face leaning over her and a herby smell in her nostrils. She knit her brows over the annoyance in the marshal’s expression. Why would he be vexed with her? Then she remembered.

“I was coming to find you,” she said, the excitement of having a clue to the puzzle they were trying to solve lending an urgent note to her voice.

“Lie still,” Cavelier ordered, and it was then Pernelle realised it was his arm holding her shoulders – but another hand tentatively feeling her head.

Ah, that explains the aroma, she thought as the wrinkled face of Bram, Aescham’s old leech, loomed into view.

“She’ll do, Marshal,” he lisped, displaying gappy teeth as he grinned down at her. “A bump on the back of the skull but no lasting ill. Step less lively in future, little mistress.”

Now it all came flooding back. The wraith-like figure, the sound of a footfall behind her just before she was hit…

Pernelle sat up, touching her hair with exploratory fingers as Cavelier thanked the departing leech.

“Someone struck me,” she muttered. “Aye.” Cavelier’s frown deepened at the sight of Pernelle’s smile. “’Tis no laughing matter, demoiselle!”

“But do you not see?” Pernelle reached for his hand as he made to rise. “We are on the right track, Marshal. Someone was alarmed enough about what I may know about Faucon’s death and the threat to Lady Maude to try to stop me from speaking to you.”

“You should rest,” said Cavelier shortly, “and stay away from this business. ’Tis no longer safe.”

“I am fine,” Pernelle protested.

“You are lucky,” he corrected.

“You may not be so a second time, and with all my other duties, I cannot always be watching out for you.”

“Did I ask you to?”

They glared at each other across the small space separating their bodies. Then abruptly, the heat between them altered to something more dangerous, more deep, that caused Pernelle to swallow. She felt a flush rise in her cheeks then Cavelier drew back.

“We have a body in the larder. And uuntil I have proof that Faucon’s death was aan accident, you will humour me and stay oout of the line of fire.”

Pernelle sighed. “If I tell you what I kknow, I will be safe. I saw someone sstealing around the storage barns, cloaked aand hooded. I thought it was Faucon’s mmaster, Machel, but cannot swear to it. I followed, of course, but the figure vanished, like a Hallow’s wraith. Though I did find this…” She unfolded the fingers from her palm. Cavelier bent to look closer at what she revealed then swore under his breath.

“I recognise this. ’Tis a piece of the fleur-de-lys clasp that our grieving Frenchman uses to fasten his cloak.”

“Precisely,” said Pernelle. “The last time I saw him, he was paying court to Maude and Johanna in the hall. So what was he doing skulking around the storerooms a little later?”

“Are you sure it was Machel?”

She frowned, unconsciously feeling for the bump on her head.

“Nay, but whoever it was, they moved fast and did not want to be seen.”

Cavelier pocketed the piece of clasp. “I will take care of it, and you will rest.”

“No,” said Pernelle, adding as he turned on her, frowning, “I take commands from my lady, not from you, and I have a duty to investigate as she instructed. If you believe us at risk, you can employ that arsenal you carry.” She nodded to the stout cudgel and shining blade slung at his hip.

Clamping his lips on whatever curse he’d been about to utter, Cavelier helped her to her feet.

“As you wish,” he said curtly. “But I will do the talking.”

Pernelle trailed along in his wake as he returned to the now largely empty hall then stalked through the rest of Aescham in search of the Frenchman, who took a suspiciously long time to unearth. He did not look pleased when they eventually caught up with him in the stables, scowling through his neatly clipped beard.

Pernelle lifted her nose to the air; there was a breath of rose scent among the straw-and-dung smell that seemed out of place, and horribly familiar.

“You are suspiciously well hidden tonight, sirrah,” Cavelier challenged.

“I wasn’t in the mood for company,” Machel shot back. “Is that a crime?”

“No, monsieur. But attacking maids of my lady is.”

The Frenchman looked shocked.

Abruptly, the HEAT between them ALTERED to something more DEEP

“What is this you accuse me of?”

“You deny you were in the hayloft earlier?” When Machel nodded, Cavelier held out his palm. “Then how do you explain this found there?”

Seeing part of his distinctive brooch, Machel gulped. “All right, I was there.” “Then why lie about it?”

“Because he’s protecting someone,” Pernelle put in. “A woman, is it not, monsieur? And one whom you should not perhaps have been liaising with.”

“Aye, demoiselle,” Machel nodded. “C’est vrai.”

Cavelier looked thrown for a moment then cleared his throat.

“I will respect your discretion,” he said gruffly, “for now, at least.”

Machel bowed his thanks, with an extra nod and smile for the young maid.

At a sign from him, Pernelle followed Cavelier from the stables.

“How did you know he’d had such a liaison?” he demanded as soon as they were outside.

She met his knitted brows with a smile.

“The scent of rose petals dancing in the air. Not one generally favoured by stallions.”

“Clever,” muttered Cavelier, unable to prevent a smile tipping the corners of his mouth. He was about to say something else when a shout went up from the gatehouse.

For a heartbeat he froze, then sprang into action, demanding of his guards why they called and upon hearing, “Your rat has been flushed out and on the run,” made to give chase.

A second later, he stopped dead and turned to order Pernelle, “Go to Lady Maude and remain in her company until I say it is safe. Agreed?”

He waited only until she nodded before speeding away.

Pernelle was not particularly good at masking emotions, but she did her best as she sat with Lady Maude and Johanna and pretended to listen to one of the hired minstrels play his harp. She had an awful feeling in her stomach that had naught to do with last night’s upset.

She had neglected to tell Cavelier that she recognised that rose scent. But the only reason she could think of why

Machel would feel he had to lie about Maude’s presence in the stables was one she did not want to believe.

Maude loved her husband; she was counting the hours until his return. Surely she wouldn’t jeopardise that relationship with this Machel, however charming he might be?

The wine she’d been sipping now threatened to stick in her throat as another thought struck her. What if Machel was concealing Maude’s presence because they were talking treason? Nay! Pernelle refused to believe her lady capable of such betrayal. And besides, she lived a retired life when Sir John was from home, thus could be of little use to any spy seeking information to benefit King Henry’s enemies. And why the planting of the rat? She was still grappling with these thoughts when Cavelier came to report on events. He bowed to all before directing his