Premonition took on a dread shape; what had been only specter solidified. Nick's voice, softly urgent, continued to reach her across the gray wasteland of knowledge, telling her that she must not lose courage, that he had friends aplenty who would work in his cause, that in these friends they must both trust, because, once lodged in the Tower, Nick could not act on his own behalf; until the charges were made clear when he was impeached, he could formulate no detense.
An imperative knock came at- the bedchamber door. Nick kissed her-a short, hard tarewell-and released her hands, pulling the quilt around her shoulders. "Do not lose courage, sweetheart. In that you must not fail me," he said, the deep green eyes holding hers. "And you must trust Richard. He will look after you."
"My lord?" The door opened, and Nick turned to face the lieutenant.
"I am ready." He reached for his cloak.
"I must ask you to surrender your sword, my lord," the lieutenant said in wooden accents.
Nick's hesitation was barely perceptible; then, an enigmatic smile playing over his lips, he drew forth his sword, presenting it with a bow, hilt first, to his guard. At the door, he looked over his shoulder to where Polly still knelt, wrapped in the quilt. He could feel the coldness of her hands in his, the stark terror that rendered her motionless, and he could not bear to abandon her in such a plight. He took a step back to the bed. The lieutenant laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Nick, with a violent curse, flung the hand away. The lieutenant drew his sword, and Polly in that instant returned to her senses.
She tumbled off the bed, clutching the quilt, the life again glowing in her eyes as her blood began to flow hot and fast. "I will not lose courage, love," she said, her voice strong. Tripping over the quilt in her haste, she ran toward him. "You must not think of me. You require all your thoughts and energies for yourself." She turned to the lieutenant, her
chin lifting as she looked him in the eye, her voice icily scornful. "Put up your sword, sir. It is not meet to draw it against an unarmed man and a woman."
Nicholas relaxed. "Bravo, sweetheart," he approved softly. "You will do as I bid you?"
"Aye," she said strongly. "Fear naught for me." Ignoring the guard, who, having sheathed his sword, was now shifting his booted feet impatiently, she reached up to kiss Nick. "I will see you back soon, my love."
He left then; it was not a farewell to be prolonged, for all that in the bleak recesses of his soul he knew that it could be the last.
Polly flew to the parlor window, looking down into the dark street, where a closed, unmarked carriage awaited. The escort and his prisoner climbed in, the troop mounted their horses, and the sinister procession set of in the direction of the Tower, from whence so many never returned. For one dreadful minute she saw the scaffold on Tower Hill, the executioner with his ax, heard the crowds laughing and jeering, come to see the sport; Nick, his hair tied back, shirt collar loosened, laying his bared neck upon the block. That paralyzing terror threatened again. This was not a world where one could rely on justice. Justice was an instrument of putty to be bent and shaped by those who possessed the power. George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, possessed that power.
The terror receded, a cold, clear purpose taking its place. She would consult with Richard first, because that was what Nick had bidden her do. But if De Winter would not agree to support her when she did what she knew had to be done, then would she play the game alone.
She dressed rapidly, then hastened down the stairs. The Bensons appeared from the back of the house as she laid her hand upon the latch. "Where've they taken my lord?" quavered Goodman Benson, his face waxen in the light of the candle that wavered in his shaking hand.
"To the Tower," Polly said shortly. "Ye've no need for fear. 'Tis no great matter, and will be soon sorted."
"But he was ta'en in our house," moaned the goodwife, dabbing her lips with her handkerchief, her nightcap askew on the thin gray curls. " Tis us they'll come fer next."
"You talk foolery," Polly snapped, understanding their fear but having little time for it. "Ye'll not be traduced. Why should the Duke of Buckingham concern himself with the likes of you?"
Indeed, neither of the Bensons could think of a single reason, and some of the anxiety faded from the faces still raised, half in appeal, half in anger, toward their lodger without whom this dread happening would not have occurred.
Polly could not stay for further discussion. She left them by the stairs, going out herself into the cold and the gray gloom of a winter dawn. Richard lived in a fine house in St. Martin's Lane. It took her no more than ten minutes before she was hammering on the great knocker, caring not if she woke the dead.
The bolts scraped back, and a sleepy footboy stood, indignant, in the doorway, rubbing his hands in the icy air. j "What business d'ye have at this hour?"
"Business with my Lord De Winter," Polly announced briskly, pushing past him into the hall. "Pray tell him at once that Mistress Wyat desires speech with him."
The footboy looked as if he was about to take issue with this peremptory and outrageous demand, but Richard, alerted by Polly's vigorous knocking, appeared on the stairs, a warm furred nightgown drawn close about him against the early morning chill.
"Why, Polly! What's amiss, child?" Quickly, he came down to the hall. "No, you shall tell me in my parlor. Lad, kindle the fire, then bring hot milk to the parlor!" He snapped his fingers at the bemused boy, who scampered off in obedience. "You are chilled to the bone. Have you walked from Drury Lane?"
"Aye," Polly said, a hint of impatience in her voice. "There is not time for fires and hot milk, sir-"
"There is ample time for both, child," Richard inter-
rupted calmly. "You will learn as you grow older that very little cannot wait upon hot milk and a fire."
"But they have taken Nick!" Polly cried.
"Yes, it was to be expected. But wait until we are private to tell me the manner of it."
Polly yielded. She had not the strength to batter against the wall of De Winter's calm impassivity. "You expected it?" She allowed him to lead her into the small, booklined parlor at the back of the house, where a fire now blazed in the hearth.
"Aye, but we miscalculated. We had thought to discover what lay behind Nick's fall into disfavor, and thus hoped to circumvent it." Richard tapped his fingers on the carved wooden mantel, staring down into the fire. "He is imprisoned in the Tower?"
"Yes." Polly sat wearily on a leather-covered stool beside the fire. "They took him but a half hour since. He said-" She broke ofF as the door opened to admit the lad with a steaming pitcher and two mugs, which he set on the table.
"That be all, m'lord?"
"For the moment," Richard said, strolling over to the table. He poured hot milk into one of the mugs, then added brandy from the decanter. "Drink this, Polly. 'Twill put the heart back in you."
She took the drink, warming her chilled hands on the mug, then, between grateful sips, told the tale, carefully repeating Nick's words.
"So we must lay this at Buckingham's door," Richard mused when she had finished. "Why?"
He looked shrewdly at Polly, sitting upon the stool, hands still clasped around the mug, a strange expression on her set face. "Ye've some light to shed on this, Polly?"
"I think so," she said.
"How so?" He waited, curious to hear what this exquisite creature could have to say. She had shown herself quickwitted in the past, possessed of an eye and an ear for the important, the ability to select from a mass of information and impressions that which was salient.