The Judas Blade by John Pilkington Read Free Book Online

furniture was a chair, piled with what looked like bedding. Turning the coverlet back, she got up quickly … too quickly. Her legs wobbled, and with a thud she sat down on bare floorboards. And there she stayed, leaning back against the bed, until the door opened.
    ‘Is anything wrong, mistress?’
    Feeling rather foolish, Betsy looked up to see someone walk in. The figure went to the window and pulled back the curtains, revealing herself as the young maidservant who had admitted her to the house. ‘I heard a noise,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’
    ‘I don’t believe so.’ Betsy managed a smile. ‘I’m just a little weak … would you mind helping me?’
    The servant came forward and took her arm. Putting her other hand on the bed, Betsy heaved herself to her feet and stood, somewhat shakily.
    ‘My thanks.’ She eyed the girl. ‘Was it you who washed me?’
    The other nodded. ‘You were insensible. I had to cut your clothes off before I could soap you. I burned them – they were fit for naught else.’
    ‘Again, thanks.’ Betsy glanced at the chair, which she now saw was heaped with women’s clothing. ‘Are those for me?’
    ‘Yes, mistress. It’s only fripperers’ ware, but clean.’ Moving to the pile, the girl took a petticoat and held it up to the light. ‘If you rummage, you’ll find garments to suit … there are shoes here too.’ She looked round. ‘You’ll be hungry – there’s a herring pie in the kitchen.’
    As if in answer, Betsy’s stomach rumbled like thunder. ‘That sounds splendid.’ She glanced out of the window and saw that she was on the first floor of the house. From below, street noises rose.
    ‘Wrestler … did he carry me up here?’ she asked.
    ‘Mr Crabb’s downstairs, with Mr Lee,’ the girl replied, nodding. ‘Mr Lee has let you rest, but I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer. It’s past two of the clock – you’ve slept for over seven hours.’ With a shy smile she started for the door, whereupon Betsy stayed her.
    ‘Who is Mr Lee?’
    ‘He’s our master. An important man.’
    ‘And your name?’
    ‘It’s Eleanor,’ came the reply.
    Betsy gazed at her absently. Only now were yesterday’s events coming into sharper focus. She put a hand to her lip, and found it was swollen.
    ‘I cleaned the dry blood from your mouth,’ Eleanor told her. ‘I’ve some witch-hazel downstairs, will help it heal.’
    ‘You’re a treasure, Eleanor,’ Betsy said, much to the girl’s embarrassment. ‘I’ll dress and come down to the kitchen. Then I suppose I had better go to Mr Lee.’
    ‘Indeed you must,’ the girl said. ‘And I’d choose a different garb from the one you had. Mr Lee’s very proper.’
    With that she hurried out. Thoughtfully, Betsy moved to the chair and began to pick through the clothes.
     
    The Important Man’s real name was not Lee, of course; she had already suspected that. When she found out who he was, however, she was surprised and impressed.
    ‘Lord Caradoc speaks highly of you, mistress,’ he said, peering down at her; he was a tall man. ‘Yet it remains for me to judge whether you’ve earned the trust placed in you – do you follow?’
    Stiffly, Betsy signalled assent. She had rested, been washed clean, dressed herself in clean clothes and eaten a good meal; things she had longed for inside the King’s Bench. Yet now, seated in this candlelit room with the windows shuttered, she was ill-at-ease. The well-dressed, imposing man in the black periwig, who had received her somewhat coolly, was one reason: the other was the presence of Peter Crabb, sitting in the corner. He no longer played the dim-witted bruiser Betsy had known in the prison. Now he was regarding her keenly, which made her uncomfortable.
    ‘Ask me what you will, sir,’ she said, meeting Mr Lee’s eye. His accent was unfamiliar, though she knew it hailed from the far north. ‘For I’ve much to tell …’ But she broke off when he held up a