That night, Fyndern sat for a long time in the back attic pondering his change of fortune. Lifting the lantern to look around, he could see three straw mattresses. One was freshly made up, with a plump flock-filled pillow and cleanish sheets; it also felt less damp. This was the one where the dead woman had slept, he reckoned. The pillow still held the scent of a woman’s hair.
He dragged the mattress across to another spot, nearer the hatch; then he sat down and looked into the shadows. There were certain patches of deeper darkness, and he asked himself how he felt about each one. Some felt more ominous than others. Choosing the most threatening space, he arranged the mattress to point with its feet in that direction. Extinguishing the lantern, he lay down, and waited. But before sleep overtook his mind, he told himself: If I hear a sound, wake me. If there is a movement in the air, wake me.
Three hours later, he was awake, lying on his side, the air cold against his face. At first he wondered whether he had actually heard a noise or whether he had simply woken naturally, but then a small scraping sound assured him he had awoken for good reason. The sound came from beyond the foot of his mattress, where he had guessed the danger lay. There was a small knock, and a piece of lead dropped on a wooden shingle. Through the space that opened in the roof, low down, about fifteen feet away from him, he could see the vague lightness of starshine and the hunched shape of someone very slowly and carefully climbing through.
Fyndern lay still, watching as the intruder carefully replaced the covering over the gap. Such was the darkness inside that he could not see the woman, and he only knew from a momentary glimpse of the shadow of her head that her neck was slender and her hair tied back. There was no wind to cover the sounds she made. She carefully placed one foot on the floorboard and then, ten seconds later, the next, feeling the way by touching the beams of the low roof.
Outside, somewhere not far away, a cat screeched. A dog barked three times, and then was silent.
Fyndern heard the woman take another step. He felt powerful, knowing that she was ignorant of his presence while he could hear her and knew where she was. He also could sense her fear. He concentrated on the sound of her breaths, her fingers touching the beams, her feet finding a secure floorboard that would not creak—gently increasing the weight on it until she felt confident enough to move. And he began to suspect that her fear was because she too could sense him. She knew something had changed. However motionless he was, however calm his breathing, she knew she was being followed. She was forcing herself to take these steps—in spite of her instincts telling her to turn back, to flee.
Still he waited as she crept toward him. Not until she was within six feet did he whisper to her.
“Who are you?”
She let out a short, involuntary yelp of alarm, immediately placing a hand across her mouth and stepping onto a floorboard that creaked. A second later she steadied herself, regaining her balance. The voice in the darkness had only asked a question, and it had been young and male: the new stable boy with curly hair. She crouched down, ready to spring away if need be. The darkness hid both of them.
Fyndern listened to her skirts brushing the floor. She had only momentarily panicked. Was she armed with a knife? he wondered. He sensed that she was unarmed. What gave her the confidence to continue to approach him?
Helen Oudry knew the voice was close. Carefully moving her hand in an arc before her, she felt the mattress. She felt the straw as her fingers touched some protruding stalks. She knew that the boy would have heard the sound. But he did not speak.
“Why are you here?” she asked in a quiet voice.
“Mr. Clarenceux said I could sleep here.”
She reached for him and felt the rough wool of a blanket. He said nothing, so she moved her hand, trying to understand his position.
“You ought to go now,” he said, feeling her hand moving over the blanket covering his legs. And as he spoke he heard the tension in his own voice. The whirl of unknown emotions unsteadied him. He could barely speak. It was not the first time he had felt a woman’s hand on his body, but the previous two occasions had been moments of trembling expectation. They had had a direction, and that direction was the lust he could see in the woman’s eyes. Now he could not even see this woman’s face, let alone her eyes. He knew he was betraying Mr. Clarenceux by not raising the alarm. She knew it too. Yet she was lingering, despite being so vulnerable.
How strong is he? she wondered. If he should move now, and press his weight down on her, and shout, Mr. Clarenceux would come running with a sword and a lantern. So would his manservant. She was swimming in the dark deep water of the night where nothing was seen and nothing known, only felt. There were no rules here, only feelings. And feeling now was her only defense.
Barely daring to breathe, she ran her hand up over the blanket to his chest. She felt his hand grip her wrist there, trying to hold it hard.
“Let go,” she said gently. “I will not hurt you.” She heard him swallow and felt the movement of his chest beneath the blanket.
“You should go,” he repeated.
“I will, very soon,” she whispered, running her hand down over the rough hemp he was wearing. She could feel the anxiety and physical excitement in the flinching of his muscles as her hand moved lower, toward his groin. She paused, wondering whether the boy was too young to appreciate what she was doing, but then her hand moved farther and she had no doubt.
“Do it,” he said. “Do it to me.”
Helen realized from his use of the word “it” that this experience was not wholly new to him.
“Do it, or I will shout,” he urged her.
She pulled back the blanket and smelled the sweat, dirt, and musk of his body. She kissed his chest, his stomach, his abdomen, and smiled as his body jolted in a spasm at the touch of her lips on his skin. Very slowly, she moved her face up close to his and shifted her leg across his groin, straddling him, and lifting the hem of her skirts out of the way. “Do not move a muscle,” she commanded, lowering herself onto him.
He reached up and placed a hand on her clothed breast. She clasped his hand there, pressing it to her.
“If I keep quiet, will you stay until dawn?” he whispered.
“Keep quiet,” she replied. “Be silent—completely silent, completely still.”