Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  Catherine did not display the happiness usually found in a bride. Her face was submissive and she submitted to the ministerings with a quiet dignity as she sat at the toilette table. With her lips set in a thin line, she was holding a hand mirror in one hand, gazing at her reflection, while the other idly stroked the silken ears of her small pet spaniel in her lap.

  Eleanor was sentimental about marriage and felt sympathy for her stepsister, which she didn’t do very often, for Catherine was a prickly female. She was to marry Sir Henry Wheeler, a merchant of considerable wealth and influence in the city, which suited Frederick Atwood’s ambitious bent.

  Gilded with a fairness and cold serenity, Catherine seemed without any flaw or imperfection. Accepting that any hope of a union between her and the handsome Lord Marston was futile, she had dutifully and without complaint agreed to marry Sir Henry Wheeler with a dignity that had made Eleanor want to cry, but deep within Catherine lay a part of her that had loved Lord William Marston, and maybe still did.

  Having tried and failed to convince Catherine that Sir William was a traitor and a rebel, and that even if he should appear after so long a time he would refuse to consider his suit for his daughter’s hand, out of greed and self-satisfaction Frederic had entered into the agreement with Sir Henry Wheeler. But whereas Sir Henry was already enamoured of the fair Catherine and assured theirs would be a happy marriage despite her acerbic tongue, to Frederick it was a business arrangement.

  ‘You look lovely, Catherine,’ Eleanor said, shooing the two tiring maids away as she secured the French hood decorated with jewels to the bride’s head. Her gown was of richly embroidered ivory satin with a standing collar and hanging sleeves. ‘Sir Henry will be quite dazzled by your beauty.’ Glancing at the mirror, she noticed Catherine’s frown. ‘I hope you haven’t developed an aversion to the gentleman?’

  ‘No, of course I haven’t,’ Catherine replied, her tone waspish as she irritatingly shoved the spaniel from her knee. ‘Henry may not be as young or as handsome as…’ she faltered, biting her lower lip ‘…but he is not unattractive. He is kind and attentive and to my liking. Father holds him in high regard, and I am convinced of his sincerity to me.’

  ‘But you continue to think of that other,’ Eleanor dared to say quietly, glancing round to make sure they were alone. Though the memory of William Marston was still strong in Catherine’s heart and mind, she had long since begun to accept that he had gone and was not coming back. ‘It is three years since he fled—to the Americas, your father said—and never a word to you. The man is not worthy of your thoughts. Now you have a good life before you—away from Fryston Hall. You must put him from your mind.’

  ‘You are right, Eleanor, and that is what I intend to do. I will be a good wife to Henry, but William was so handsome—so gallant.’ Catherine’s eyes softened and misted over with remembrance. ‘He was rich—although not as rich as Henry, and he was tall—taller than any man I have seen.’

  ‘And a traitor,’ Eleanor reminded her coldly, ‘if what your father told you is to be believed—and, as you know, he is never wrong.’ Her voice was heavily laden with sarcasm.

  Catherine’s kohl-ringed eyes meeting her stepsister’s in the mirror were narrowed and suddenly dagger sharp. ‘Why you insist on thinking ill of William, Eleanor, when nothing was ever proven, amazes me. William was guilty of association with the conspirators and that is all. There were those at Court envious of his success and determined to destroy his reputation and prestige with Queen Mary. Thus she was led to suspect his guilt in trying to prevent her marriage to Philip. If he had not fled the country—’

  ‘After betraying my father and fellow conspirators. Do not forget that it was Lord Marston who divulged my own father’s involvement in the plot.’

  ‘That is circumspection, Eleanor, but if he had not gone away—’

  ‘Run away more like,’ Eleanor retorted scornfully.

  Catherine shot her an annoying look. ‘Think what you like. You are entitled to your opinion, but I suppose if William had stayed then he, too, would have been apprehended and probably executed. But why did he go so far—and without a word to me?’

  ‘I don’t know, Catherine.’

  Eleanor had heard many things about the dashing Lord Marston, yet none of them endeared him to her. When life at Court had palled he’d escaped abroad and sought fame as a soldier, winning the esteem of a brilliant man of war. Honours came easily, for he possessed all the qualities that favoured a young man of spirit and adventure.

  She could not fault Catherine for her loyalty and her rejection of the evidence her father had produced of Lord Marston’s involvement in the conspiracy that had been responsible for sending her own father to the block, but after the despicable manner in which he had denounced her father and fellow conspirators and cast Catherine from his life, she was not persuaded that he was deserving of such devotion.

  ‘Nevertheless, he was lucky to escape with his head intact,’ Eleanor remarked, not without bitterness, as she felt the pain of memory. ‘The same cannot be said of my father, who confessed his guilt. He could not accept the Catholic, Spanish Philip as Queen Mary’s husband. He remained a true Protestant to the end.’

  Seeing Eleanor’s pained and sad expression, Catherine turned and looked at her. ‘Along with many more, Eleanor. At that time England was a tense country of continual suspicion and pretend friendships. The violence and uncertainty of Mary’s reign influenced many lives—even my father’s, in a way, and it made me see him for the kind of man he is.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  A bitterness entered Catherine’s eyes. ‘That he is a coward at heart and he can change his coat in a moment. He has always been of the Protestant faith, but if it came to recanting that faith in exchange for his life, then I have no doubt that he would do so—unlike the brave ecclesiastics who were tried and condemned and burned in those horrible fires at Smithfield.

  ‘I remember Father called them fools. It made me ashamed. And I shall never forget that it ended disastrously for you too, Eleanor, and your mother—but, contrary to what you were told, I will never believe William had any part in it.’

  ‘Perhaps we will never know the truth of it. Being just fifteen years old at the time, I never did fully understand what was happening. But I did know that the brutal manner of his execution, of being separated from him, broke my mother’s heart.’

  ‘I knew she was unhappy married to my father,’ Catherine conceded half-heartedly, dabbing rose water on the exposed flesh above the stiffened bodice of her bridal gown. ‘He—is not always considerate to those around him.’

  ‘No—no, he is not.’ Eleanor had never made any attempt to hide from Catherine how much she despised her father; she wondered how Catherine would react were she to tell her he was an evil old lecher who wanted her in his bed.

  Guests—over three hundred people from the city and far and wide, had arrived at Fryston Hall for the wedding feast. It was a lavish affair, intended to impress, with no expense spared, the well-laden tables in the brightly lit banqueting hall demonstrating Frederick Atwood’s wealth.

  The nuptials spoken, after a short prayer was said thanking God for the food, there followed a prolonged banquet of countless dishes: mutton and venison, capons, larks and duckling, and boars’ heads on beds of apples. The pièce de résistance was a peacock royal—a bird that had been carefully skinned, cooked and then placed back inside its feathered skin.

  This was followed by desserts of every size, description and flavour, from preserved fruits, jellies, tarts and cakes. Eleanor’s favourite were the impressive-looking sweets made from marchpane—a mixture of ground almonds, sugar and rose water. They were brightly coloured, using vegetable dyes and then shaped into models of ships, fruits, flowers and anything else that took Cook’s fancy.

  Even Frederick Atwood had to admit that the three cooks at Fryston Hall had surpassed themselves. Jack, who was in charge of the roasting and the boiling of meat, Mrs
Grimshaw, whose speciality was making rich, spicy sauces to go with the meat, and Bessie, the pastry cook, who made pies and baked bread in the big brick ovens in the pantry.

  Wine flowed with abandon. Festive entertainment followed to impress his daughter’s new in-laws—jesters, acrobats and jugglers cavorting for the guests—while harassed servants rushed to and fro. Every room of the rambling fourteenth-century manor house, from the great hall to the kitchens, was covered with cavorting revellers.

  To the left of Eleanor’s stepfather was his nephew and heir, Sir Richard Grey, lounging in his chair with a lazy indolence. His clothes were ostentatiously rich—a blaze of purple-and-scarlet velvet, satin and lace embellished with silver thread. With gold and jewelled rings on his fingers and a huge ruby at his throat, his whole person exuded pride and prosperity—false prosperity, since most of what he had came from his uncle.

  Tall and sinewy, he was a fancy, good-looking fair-haired popinjay, a slippery character, stuffed full of himself and his own importance. In fact, he would have been an impressive figure but for his disagreeably cunning expression. Eleanor had no particular liking for him and always avoided him when he was at Fryston Hall.

  Outside the storm that had been threatening all day finally broke, whipping itself into a frenzy. Returning from the garde-robe, Eleanor shuddered. It was hardly the sort of night to be abroad, but when she looked at her stepfather sitting smug and confident and saw how he was watching her through hooded lids, she felt that anything was better than staying at Fryston Hall one more night. Come what may, she would leave just as soon as the bridal couple had been put to bed.

  Swathed in a tight-waisted gown of garnet silk, the chemise and Spanish farthingale making the skirts stand out and fall in a shimmering cascade to her feet, and her square-toed matching velvet shoes, she looked dramatic and arresting. Eleanor knew that she looked no less beautiful than the bride as she danced at the wedding feast with a buoyancy that belied the rising tension inside her as the hour for her departure approached.

  The music swelled as people took to the floor for a courante, a pantomimic dance suggesting courtship. It was quite fast in tempo and who better for Eleanor to dance it with than Martin Taverner, a bright, intelligent young man who had been seated next to Sir Richard Grey throughout the evening. Martin was no stranger to her and he was extremely nimble on his feet. He also had a tendency to stutter, which many of his friends found annoying but which didn’t bother Eleanor.

  ‘Are you having a pleasant evening, Martin?’ she asked, bestowing on him a dazzling smile as he led her out on to the floor, thinking how fine he looked in a sky-blue jerkin and matching cap and a light grey doublet with slashed sleeves.

  ‘Immensely, and l-looking forward to d-dancing with the fairest lady in the r-room.’

  She laughed lightly, enjoying the sound of the music. ‘Your flattery is misplaced, Martin. I think you spend too much time writing poems. Surely the bride is the fairest lady here tonight.’

  ‘Mistress C-Catherine is very lovely, I g-grant you,’ he replied, ‘b-but you outshine them all, Eleanor.’

  With a shock of bright blond curls and bright blue eyes, Martin was good looking, slight and fine boned; in fact, some would call his boyish features pretty and effeminate. He was for ever scratching away with his quill writing poetry, which Eleanor always found both interesting and entertaining in content.

  Nobody could understand all the things she liked about Martin—the way he listened to her and was all consideration and gentleness. He was always amiable towards her and considered her his friend—it was a friendship both his father and her Aunt Matilda would like to nurture and steer towards marriage. Affected by the spectacle of her mother’s sufferings before her death, Eleanor always avoided the issue through a personal wish to remain single for as long as possible, but she knew she would have to consider the matter when her aunt returned from France.

  As she danced her eyes were caught by Sir Richard, who was lounging indolently in his chair, watching them with his peculiar intentness—in particular Martin—over the rim of his goblet until his scrutiny made Eleanor feel uncomfortable and intensely irritated. She saw his hand reach out and surreptitiously caress the rump of a young page, whilst keeping his gaze on Martin with every indication of interest.

  The young page flinched and glanced at Sir Richard, startled, but Sir Richard seemed totally unaware of him as he continued to stare at Martin. Curiously troubled by the act, Eleanor frowned as she watched the page scurry away out of reach.

  ‘None of the men can keep their eyes off you,’ Catherine remarked pettishly during a lull in the dancing as they listened to Harry, the fool, strumming his lute and baring his soul in a troubadour’s song.

  Catherine hadn’t been too disturbed until lately by her stepsister’s popularity with the opposite sex as she had grown to young womanhood, but now, as she had observed the fresh-skinned, laughing dancing girl pirouetting with first this adoring partner, and then that, her amber eyes shining like lustrous candles and her honey-gold hair, which she wore loose beneath her hood as if to flaunt her youth and maiden-hood, bouncing down her slender spine, a surge of jealousy chilled her blood.

  ‘You are old enough to marry, Eleanor. I suspect Father will be looking to one of them for a husband before the winter’s out.’

  Hearing the barb that curled behind Catherine’s words, though her tone was pleasant enough, while sipping spiced wine from a pewter cup, Eleanor put it down and looked at her squarely. ‘Your father and Aunt Matilda both. When the time comes it will be a convenient arrangement—like yours to Henry, and I hope I will be given a say over my own marriage partner.’

  How smug and confident Eleanor sounded, Catherine thought with annoyance. ‘How childish you are, Eleanor, to think you are strong enough to stand against my father. When he finds you a husband, the marriage will go ahead whatever your whims and fancies, so you’d best resign yourself to it.’

  ‘My feelings must be regarded—I shall insist on it, and before any marriage is contracted, my aunt will have to be consulted.’

  ‘Say what you like,’ Catherine uttered with an inward snigger, ‘but my father will not be overruled.’

  Despite her harsh words it was a source of irritation that Catherine was forced to admire her stepsister’s striking looks and the proud set of her face, which was a defiant gesture and not in the least childish.

  When the dancing was about to resume, no one heard the sound of clattering hooves from the courtyard in front of the house. A few moments later the door was flung open to admit two newcomers, travel stained from riding far.

  One of the men paused to carefully assess his surroundings. Ignoring the servant who approached to enquire his business, with his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword and his sodden cloak swept back over his broad shoulders, he climbed the cantilevered shallow staircase to the great hall followed by his companion. The music and loud laughter streamed forth, drowning out the sound his close-fitting leather thigh boots made on the wooden stairs.

  In the entrance to the hall he paused and calmly surveyed the scene. It was lively and colourful, packed tight as any barrel of herrings, with liveried servants bearing great platters of steaming food. Hundreds of candles flared and wavered and smoked. Lords and ladies slouched or sprawled at tables littered with food and flagons and goblets of wine and spilled ale. Wolfhounds and deerhounds scavenged beneath the tables, while minstrels in the gallery strummed their guitars and played their lutes, trying to make themselves heard above the din of voices.

  The man’s hard gaze swept the throng, coming to rest on Frederick Atwood. He was seated at the long table on the raised dais—an elevated position for the lord of the manor and his family.

  Frederick halted his conversation with the lady next to him as he caught sight of the black-garbed figure striding purposefully towards the dais. Their eyes met. Frederick rose, grim faced.

  ‘Marston!’

  His voice came out as a his
s, but its mere sound attracted attention, and then an ominous silence swept over the hall as the musicians ceased to play and every eye became riveted on the newcomer in fuddled disbelief. The very name scalded Eleanor’s being with hot indignation. Tall and powerfully built, this intruder, who looked as if he could claim the ground on which he walked on, emanated a wrath so forceful that every man and woman shrank in their seats.

  William Marston, a man whose features were chiselled to perfection, had once been one of the most audacious, imperious gentlemen of the Court. The ladies and general public had adored him, and he had taken a charter of their hearts to the Americas, which was never cancelled. He had been a great courtier of the realm, a great swordsman. Dressed in sombre black, his wide-brimmed hat dripping water on to the floor, he was a shock to the beholder.

  Frederick thrust his chair back so violently that it scraped harshly on the floorboards. He started up, his hands supported on the table. There was an expression of outrage on his face, his colour choleric. ‘So you are back.’

  ‘As you see, Atwood. Back to wreak vengeance on those who conspired against me—and others, men who were not as fortunate as I.’

  The deep timbre of his voice reverberated around the hall.

  ‘How the devil did you get in? Had I foreknowledge of your visit, you would have found my doors barred.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult gaining entrance—your watchmen were not at their posts—but worry not,’ William said drily, ‘I’m not staying. I find being in this house distasteful to say the least. This is an unappealing but necessary visit. I wanted you to be the first to know I have returned to England from foreign parts.’

  ‘But this is an outrage—to come bursting into my house without invitation,’ Frederick declared forcefully, his long, thin face suffused an angry crimson.

  The air between them was filled with tension, hostility and hatred.

  William’s gaze passed along the rows of diners and came to rest on an empty chair, where it dwelt for a moment and then shifted to the swaying tapestry behind the chair, before coming back to Atwood. ‘Your nephew, Sir Richard Grey, is absent, I see.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘Perhaps he saw me coming and crept away to hide his cowardly carcass,’ he drawled, a razor-edge of sarcasm in his voice. ‘Not that it matters. I’m in no hurry. If my suspicions about him are proven, I’ll catch up with him in my own time.’