Hostage to Fortune
Page 23
‘Not over the hair this time,’ she instructed, and kept the dark veil of hair up from the back of her neck. He approached softly, and did as she commanded, watching the warm water run down over her paleness. He set the pitchers on a bench, then he leant forward and placed a kiss on the nape of her neck. She jumped, and gave a squeal of surprise.
‘Clean enough to kiss now?’ he murmured, thickly, repeating the deed, but with his arm sliding about her waist. She did not flinch.
‘Yes, my lord.’ He heard no unwillingness in her voice.
She turned within his hold, offering her lips, and more, and the thought passed through her mind, briefly, that it was the very first time she had ever offered herself, craved what would follow. De Malfleur had only ever hurt and repelled her, FitzPayne had been a duty, but here and now desire burned as fiercely in her as in he who would claim her. She shivered, and Hugh, thinking her cold, reached for the blanket that lay upon the bench, draping it about her. He lifted her in his arms, and her hand caressed his cheek as he carried her to his bed.
‘And you … will be an … obedient wife?’ he whispered, half teasingly, between kisses.
‘Very. Obedient to your … every … wish.’
‘Oh good … because …’
Sometimes, words were superfluous.
William de Beauchamp arrived next day, accompanied not only by Serjeant Catchpoll, and Walkelin, but also by Father Samson and his remaining brethren. Having fortified themselves at the priory and collected Brother Bernard, Father Samson was keen to be about his archbishop’s business, with a determination that Father Prior found inspiring if somewhat excessive. Catchpoll also presented the lady with the clothing she had left at the castle, which brought an added colour to her cheek, and a glance at Hugh Bradecote.
Sheriff and serjeant found an undersheriff whose face could barely stop breaking into a grin, and a lady whose eyes dwelt with such fondness upon him that the sheriff later told Catchpoll he felt they should have all just gone home and left them to it. What surprised him though was that at the conclusion of the wedding feast, the newly espoused pair were to set off the next morning, once again bound for Polesworth. It had caused a minor rift the previous evening, during the course of a meal that Christina seemed to enjoy nearly as much as her private hour with her lord beforehand, but not quite. She had explained, as gently as she could, that her vow still stood, whatever her lord said about her trials more than compensating for not attaining her goal, which he did, vociferously.
‘Brother Augustine, may he be at peace, told me I would be blessed, said … nice things, but I still feel the only sure way is to do what I promised. Please, my love.’
He frowned.
‘You are my wife. You must obey me now.’
She laid her hand upon his.
‘I am truly your wife, and wish to obey, which is why I beg that you will not forbid this.’
He paused, looked at her. It was difficult to deny her, who had denied him nothing.
‘You may go, but,’ he kissed her fingers, ‘only if I can accompany you this time, and you wear the good thick cloak.’
Her eyes danced.
‘Not just the cloak though, my lord.’
‘No, not just the cloak.’
Despite the hasty nature of the arrangements, the manor kitchens provided a good feast, and an ample supply of mulled ale, wine and mead. The lord Sheriff got pleasantly drunk, and told several stories that made the Benedictines look austere, but faced with remaining until they could bed down in the hall, or joining the manor peasants about a fire in the yard, they chose warmth and comfort, and after their recent poor fare, might have been considered to have taken more in meat than would usually be accounted appropriate. Only Father Samson turned dishes away.
However exalted a guest, William de Beauchamp loudly and leeringly declared he would not take his right to sleep in the solar, since he feared he would be kept awake all night, and not by the infant. The lady Bradecote blushed, and had thankfully withdrawn before his comments became so ribald that even her lord turned pink of cheek. When Hugh left the table it was to a murmured blessing from the clerics, and loud cheering and table banging from his secular guests. He shut the door on the end of the celebrations, and leant back against it for a moment, before he went to draw back the curtain of the lord’s bed. The light of his candle made her skin creamy. She lay waiting for him, smiling, for she knew this, at last, was a man whom she would always welcome.
‘My lady Bradecote.’ The words were formal, but his face belied them.
‘My lord.’ She sat up, the coverlet falling to her waist, and held out her arms to welcome him. ‘Come to bed.’
With a head not so hungover as would make the short ride to Worcester unmanageable, William de Beauchamp prepared for his departure next morning, with Serjeant Catchpoll, Walkelin, and the escort of men-at-arms he had insisted the Benedictines take with them as far as the shire boundary.
‘After that they are someone else’s worry,’ he had told Catchpoll.
The undersheriff’s decision to escort his wife to Polesworth meant that the men-at-arms need not be sent, for Bradecote’s own men would do as well, and as sheriff he could still claim that they were under his protection via his subordinate. The two groups parted at the manor gates, the sheriff and his men to turn right, and the monks and newly-weds turning to the left. Catchpoll watched Hugh Bradecote and his lady ride away side by side.
‘I’m glad he didn’t break,’ commented the lord Sheriff. ‘He’s actually the best undersheriff I have had.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’ Catchpoll agreed, treating the troubles of the last week as the snow, which was starting to melt and would soon be forgotten. He paused. ‘I wonder, my lord, was it fair to lumber them with that sombre-faced monk and his “happy” band, who will no doubt sigh and denounce impurity every time they so much as touch fingers?’
‘Fair? No. Practical? Yes.’ As the Bradecotes and the Benedictines turned the corner and passed from view, they heard Hugh Bradecote’s laugh. ‘And I think the Benedictines will find it the most unfair, for our undersheriff and his lady will bill and coo like doves in spring, and hardly notice their presence. Now, let us get home to Worcester. I have some men I am looking forward to hanging.’
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About the Author
SARAH HAWKSWOOD describes herself as a ‘wordsmith’ who is only really happy when writing. She read Modern History at Oxford and first published a non-fiction book on the Royal Marines in the First World War before moving on to mediaeval mysteries set in Worcestershire.
bradecoteandcatchpoll.com
By Sarah Hawkswood
Servant of Death
Ordeal by Fire
Marked to Die
Hostage to Fortune
Vale of Tears
Faithful unto Death
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
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London W1F 8AN
allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
This ebook edition published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby in 2019.
Copyright © 2019 by SARAH HAWKSWOOD
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those
clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–0–7490–2483–3