Barbara Kyle - [Thornleigh 05]

by Blood Between Queens

  “Have you hurt your foot, sir?” she had asked.

  “What?” He’d stopped, startled to see her in the corridor. “No, I’m fine. Foot fell asleep when I was reading.” He didn’t move, as though waiting for her to carry on down the stairs. “Off you go, now.”

  It sounded like he was hiding something. She went down the staircase, but at the bottom she glanced back at him. He was moving toward the top step, dragging his foot. It made her gasp. It looked horrible.

  She hurried back up to him. “Are you ill, my lord?”

  He heaved an angry sigh. She knew the anger was not for her, but himself. “It comes and goes. Could be this changeable weather. Or more likely too much wine.” He waved her away. “Go on. It’ll pass.”

  She obeyed, but not because she believed him. She saw his humiliation and would not increase it for the world. He had been so kind to her, from the very first day when he had found her hiding in the tithe barn at Yeavering Hall. She had been there since the fire that had burned down the mill, the calamity that had devastated her life. Her father had been in the mill. Terrified by what she’d seen that night, she had hidden in the cavernous stone barn, for how many days she wasn’t sure. Then one morning she awoke in the straw roused by the sound of the huge door creaking open. She blinked in the shaft of sunshine where dust motes danced in the air and saw a man stride in, a man older than her father. He found her. He looked like a dark angel, tall and still, standing over her in his fine black cape and his leather eye patch, his sword agleam. He told her his name was Thornleigh and gave her a sad smile and said, “Don’t be frightened, child.”

  She was halfway down the stairs by the solar when he called softly after her, “Justine.” She turned. He said, “Don’t mention my foot to her ladyship, will you.”

  He was hiding it. That made her more anxious, even as she curtsied and said, “As you wish, sir.” Leaving him, she wondered why Lady Thornleigh, who was devoted to him, had not noticed his malady. Perhaps the thought of her vigorous husband failing had never crossed her mind. After all, Justine herself had never seen him even sick.

  And, indeed, now that they were back in London she had seen no sign of his malady since that episode outside the solar. He was his usual self: active and engaged. The problem must have cleared up, she thought. Thank goodness. She needed him engaged about Will.

  She had chosen the hour carefully, a drowsy afternoon, the quiet broken only by the spattering of a cold spring rain against the windows. The settled hush of normal life lay over the great hall where they had finished dinner, she and Lord and Lady Thornleigh; the chamberlain and steward and their wives who had dined with them as usual had just gone. The maids were clearing away the last of the crockery to the kitchen. Lord Thornleigh was finishing his wine and Lady Thornleigh was dabbing her mouth with a napkin. The fire crackled, and one of the dogs who were stretched out on the hearth, Magnus or Erasmus, snored as he dreamed of rabbits. Justine took a breath, about to broach her news, when the clerk, Curnutt, came in with an armload of documents for Lord Thornleigh to take on his journey north. Justine watched in frustration at this disruption as Lord Thornleigh got up to examine a scroll that Curnutt spread out on the table. Lady Thornleigh, sitting beside him, leaned over to read it silently, too. Justine got to her feet, determined. Yet she hesitated. Should she interrupt?

  “Yes, my dear?” Lady Thornleigh said, looking up at her.

  “This one’s for Lord Scrope,” Lord Thornleigh told Curnutt, rolling up the scroll.

  “What is it, child?” The smile in Lady Thornleigh’s eyes was teasing. “You look like you’re bursting to speak.”

  “And these, my lord?” the clerk asked, setting down a sheaf of papers.

  “I want to marry,” Justine said.

  That made them all look at her.

  Lady Thornleigh seemed amused. “Anyone in particular, or just any individual who can grow a beard?”

  “Will Croft. I want Will.”

  Lady Thornleigh’s smile vanished. It was clear she was completely taken aback. She looked up at her husband. Justine caught the look of alarm that passed between them.

  Lord Thornleigh said brusquely to his clerk, “That’s all for now. I’ll look at these later.”

  Curnutt bobbed a bow of the head to them both, gathered the papers, and padded out.

  “I’m sorry to surprise you,” Justine said, eager to dispel their obvious concern. “I know it must seem sudden.”

  “It’s not that,” Lord Thornleigh said.

  They both looked at her with faces so grave, Justine felt a prickle of apprehension. The awful thought struck that they had some other man in mind for her. “I am not free,” she said, making it a clear warning. “I love him.”

  Lady Thornleigh blinked in dismay. “And does he return your feelings?”

  “He does,” her husband murmured.

  She shot him a look. “You knew of this?”

  “Suspected.”

  “Good gracious,” she said, a mere whisper. They both regarded Justine again in a way that made her very nervous.

  “If you were planning a match for me elsewhere, I am sorry to disappoint you. But Will is . . . well, he’s wonderful. And we have an understanding. I want to marry him. Please, won’t you give us your blessing?”

  Lord Thornleigh’s grave face softened. “There is no other match in hand. Again, it’s not that.”

  Thank heaven! “Then what? I will do anything to please and obey you, my lord, my lady. Except give up Will. Please understand. I have given him my promise. And my heart.”

  A gentle smile crept over Lord Thornleigh’s features. “So I see.”

  His wife, though, was not smiling. “Justine, I have only one question. Does Will know who you are?”

  Ah, now this problem she was prepared for. “No,” she said. “Nor do I see why he ever should. He believes what we have told everyone, that I am your distant relation. That’s that.”

  “And when he asks you about your parents? Will you spin some tale?”

  “I’ll say we lived in the north. They died. That should satisfy him.”

  “Lived where?”

  “York,” she invented on the spot.

  “How did they die?”

  “In a shipwreck.”

  “Where were they sailing to?”

  “Portugal.”

  “Why?”

  “A wedding.”

  “Of your Portuguese relations?”

  She hesitated, realizing how foolish it sounded.

  “You see.” Lady Thornleigh shook her head. “Lies will not do. Your must tell Will who you really are.”

  “Tell him . . . ?” The shame roiled up like sickness, a bitterness in her mouth. “About my father?”

  “Yes.”

  They waited for her to answer. She could not. The thought of Will knowing she was the daughter of a traitor made her feel ill. In the silence, rain spattered the windows.

  Lord Thornleigh said, as though wanting to ease her pain, “I am happy for you, Justine. Will’s a fine young man. And a clever lawyer. As Cecil’s protégé he has a promising future ahead of him.”

  She could have thrown her arms around his neck. “Then you approve!”

  “I do. That’s not the question here. Her ladyship is right. You have to tell him the truth.”

  “But why?” It came out like a child wailing, which humiliated her, sharpening her dismay at what they were asking of her.

  “Because of who he is,” Lady Thornleigh said. “If it were any other man you might consider keeping your secret. But not Will. Not the son of Geoffrey Croft.”

  “Why not?” His father was dead, she knew. What was so special about him? What were they hiding? “Tell me,” she demanded.

  Again, they exchanged a dark look of complicity. Lady Thornleigh said, “Because our families . . .” She faltered. “Our two houses, Grenville and Thornleigh. There was once much hatred between us. And bloodshed.”

  Justine gaped at
her. “Do you mean . . . a feud?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? How? What happened?”

  Lady Thornleigh held up her hands. “I have done my best for years to forget it. I don’t want to dredge up details. What’s past is past.”

  Anger shot up in Justine. Why had they never told her this?

  “The point is that Will, I feel sure, has not forgotten,” Lady Thornleigh continued. “The violence between our families led to . . .” Again, she faltered.

  Lord Thornleigh said, “It was how he lost his father.”

  Justine felt a clutch of panic, as though Will stood on heaving earth, reaching out to her but slipping away. “But . . . that was years ago. I was a child. And he is not the kind to hold a grudge.”

  “No, he has a generous spirit,” Lord Thornleigh agreed. “But his love of the law makes him see things in black and white, right and wrong. And one wrong that has marked him is that your family, the house of Grenville, destroyed his family.”

  “I’m not a Grenville. Not in my heart. I’m one of you. Will knows that. He will want to marry me.”

  “Good,” Lady Thornleigh said warmly. “Then tell him the truth. Make it right, my dear. You cannot go into this marriage based on a lie.”

  “We are with you, Justine,” Lord Thornleigh said. “The past died with your father. Tell the truth and claim the future. You and Will.”

  Lies. They spun like cinders in Justine’s head. Shaken, she had come to the long gallery on the third floor to be alone, to think. It was the family’s quiet place for games of chess, backgammon, or cards, or a quiet stroll on a rainy day, or an intimate chat. No one was here except two maids strewing herbs on top of freshly laid floor rushes. They bobbed quick curtsies when they saw her, barely pausing as they continued to scatter lavender and rosemary sprigs from the basket each girl balanced on her hip. Concentrating, they backed up with slow steps, moving away from her down the long room. The perfume of the lavender scented the damp air.

  Yes, she had obediently told Lord and Lady Thornleigh, I will tell Will. I promise. She had lied. She would not tell Will that she had been born a Grenville. The very name made her shiver. She would not tell him—not now, not after they were married, not ever. It horrified her to think what he might have done if she had confessed it to him that night of the fireworks, confessed in all innocence, before she’d known about the feud, the bloodshed. “It was how he lost his father.” The truth would have killed his love. He would never have proposed. It was impossible even to consider telling him now. To tell him would be to lose him.

  She had stopped, waiting for the maids to leave, and looked down at the lavender by her foot to hide the anger that coursed through her again. She had lied to her guardians, but so had they. Was it not a lie to keep the past violence between the two families a secret from her? They should have told her. Should have warned her. Should not have kept her in ignorance like a stupid child. Well, she would not let her chance at happiness with Will be snatched from her. She was not responsible for bad things other people had done.

  She saw no obstacle to keeping her secret. The Thornleighs would not speak of it themselves and would believe what she would tell them in a day or two: that she had told Will the truth and it had made no difference to him. They would gladly let the matter rest there and consent to the marriage, for they had no wish to make it known that they had misled everyone about Justine, about her tainted blood. As for Frances, Justine’s aunt, she would not speak up either. Frances had cut all ties to her Grenville kin when she had married Adam Thornleigh. She wanted no stain from her brother’s treason.

  I can get away with it, Justine thought, her hope crushing any doubt. And why shouldn’t I? Everyone will be happier this way.

  But there was another lie, one lodged deep in her breast like a stone. Eight years ago it had buried itself there. It had burrowed so deep and lay so still, she had given it less and less thought as the months and years passed and eventually had all but forgotten it. Now it shifted, jarred by Lord Thornleigh’s words. “The past died with your father.”

  Restless, she went to the window, crushing the lavender under her shoe. She hugged herself as she looked down on Bishopsgate Street where the rain made a muck of mud and horse dung on the cobbles. Merchants, clerks, and servants moved briskly as they came and went from the Merchant Taylors’ Hall across the street, their shoulders hunched under the downpour. Pack mules plodded, their drovers stoic in the rain. Farmers’ carts clattered.

  She had lied from that very first day when Lord Thornleigh had found her hiding in the stone tithe barn at Yeavering Hall. Lied by what she had not told him—not told anyone—about what she’d seen the night of the fire. She could smell the smoke, remembering. Smoke so acrid it had woken her in her bed at Yeavering Hall, coughing. Servants, woken by it, too, were dashing about in nightdress.

  “It’s the mill! It’s up in flames!”

  “The master’s there!”

  Father! she thought in panic. The household folk rushed down to the river, men and women alike, to see to the blaze. Justine crossed the courtyard in her bare feet, no one stopping her, the last servants dashing past her toward the riverside mill. She could see, over the courtyard wall, the orange glow of the flames, and black smoke billowing against the moon. Cinders, spiraling up . . .

  Later, the servants came straggling back, dazed and exhausted from trying to put out the flames. “The master,” she heard a footman hoarsely tell a lame kitchen girl who had stayed behind. “Burned alive, he was!” The next day the house was in disorder, the servants at loose ends, many looking at Justine in pity. Then the Queen’s men, over a dozen on horseback, thundered into the courtyard, and the servants’ talk turned to terrified whisperings. “Treason!” they breathed to one another in fear. “The master plotted against the Queen!” Frightened, Justine ran to the tithe barn to hide. She heard them calling her name, looking for her, but after a couple of days the calling stopped as if they’d given up. She had the stream behind the barn for water, and at nights she crept into the kitchen, took bread and dried apples, then scurried back to her hiding place. She watched the house for days. Some servants fled. The ones who stayed seemed stupefied. Cinders from the mill still drifted over the courtyard.

  Hiding was the only way she could deal with her fear at what she had seen when she’d stood barefoot in her nightdress as the household had swarmed down to the mill. All alone in the courtyard, she had heard coughing. She looked around. No one. Down at the mill people were shouting, but around her it was quiet. She heard the coughing again. It came from behind the stable door. The courtyard was dark in the shadow of the great house, but moonlight struck the stable door. Justine went toward it, the cobbles cold on her feet. The door flew open and she lurched back as a horseman bolted out. He swerved to miss her with a jerk of the reins. The horse reared in alarm. Justine gasped at the sight of the man. His clothes were tatters, black with soot. His eyes were white as eggshells, his hair a wild thicket matted with cinders. His mouth opened, a red slash, as he coughed.

  She almost fell to her knees in shock. “Father!”

  “Hush!”

  “They think you’re in the mill! Dead!”

  “Come here.” His voice was dry, sharp. “Justine, come!”

  She inched closer. The horse’s flesh quivered. Her father’s breeches reeked of smoke. “Tell no one you saw me,” he said. “You hear me? For my sake, and for yours.” He reached down and grabbed the throat of her nightdress. She flinched at his blackened fingers, his frantic grip. “If you tell, they will kill me. And hurt you. Understand? Tell no one.”

  He tossed at her feet a leather pouch the size of her hand. It clinked as it hit the ground. “Gold,” he said in a voice strangled by fury and regret. “It’s all I can give you.”

  He galloped off into the night.

  She stood a long time gazing after him at the blackness before she picked up the pouch. She never saw her father again. And never told a soul. />
  3

  The Exile’s Return

  Sir Christopher Grenville, at forty-three, had left his youth behind and for eight years had lived a bitter life abroad, but he was neither too old nor too hardened to appreciate a pretty woman. He was watching her across the market square. Though a servant, and dressed in plain gray, she was a beauty. Christopher’s hope was high that she had what he wanted. Information.

  Leaning against the wall of the alehouse, he kept his eye on her despite the streams of people eddying between them in this bustling heart of the village of Wooler. Beyond the village was the barren moorland of Northumberland, its population sparse, but people came from miles around for the weekly market. Christopher felt a pang at the sights that had once been so familiar—the farmers plodding on donkeys and on foot; the farmwives carrying baskets of onions, radishes, beans, and wheels of cheeses for sale; the customers haggling, strolling, gossiping. One old crone had a pole yoked across her shoulders with a goose hanging upside down at each end, trussed and squawking. A couple of boys chased an escaping calf. A churchwarden patrolled the crowd, alert for thievery or lewdness. Whiffs of burning charcoal and pork fat drifted from a brazier where a man was cooking bite-sized morsels of the crisped meat and selling them impaled on sticks. It had been eight years, yet Christopher could swear that nothing in the village had changed. What a bittersweet feeling to be home, and far more bitter than sweet. Once, all these common folk would have bowed to him as he passed, the lord of the manor, and scurried to win his favor. Now they looked at him dully, as though he were one of them. He was home, but still in exile.

  The beauty he was watching stood talking to a traveling draper at his cart festooned with gaudy scarves. The cart’s awning was draped with ribbons, and its open end formed a counter for bolts of broadcloth, worsted, cambric, fustian, dimity, poplin, and taffeta. The girl was dreamily fingering a ribbon of emerald silk as long as her sleeve that fluttered from the awning. Then, businesslike, she set to inspecting a bolt of garnet-red sarcenet. She had good taste, Christopher thought with approval.