Richard Stafford had slain William.
How could this be? Were they not both fighting for the Crown?
One answer worked its insidious path into her thoughts. One answer only, as Richard’s words as he had left her dropped clearly into her mind.
I will come to you. I would that it were possible for us to be together. That I could find a way to make it so.
Was that it? She had accused him of allowing her to be sold into a cruel marriage. She had made it abundantly clear that she was unhappy, had she not? Could Richard have acted on that? Could he have taken the opportunity of chaos on the battlefield to bring about William’s death and so rescue her and perhaps redeem himself in her eyes? To leave her free for marriage to himself? Surely not. Surely not! And yet…it could be so. The pieces fit together far too well to be carelessly discarded.
And if so, then she was as guilty as Richard.
She turned away from Ned’s concerned gaze so that he should not see her shocked agony. That the hand of the murderer should be the hand of the man whom she loved more than life itself. And that she, too, had had a hand to the sword hilt.
Oh, God! Let it not be so!
Inner conflict swept through her. The terrible relief that she was free forever of William Somerton. The delectable chance, a bright shining possibility that she could now win her heart’s desire and be united with Richard. But had Richard acted on her own promptings? Guilt pricked her skin, a greasy shame. She was implicated in that deed. And Richard. A forsworn murderer, without honor. If Richard Stafford had released her from her marriage in such a manner, he had damned forever any future they might have together. She had accused him of betraying their love. Now, between them, had they not destroyed any possibility of its ultimate fulfillment? For how could love stand up against guilt and shame and murder?
Ned left Great Houghton, reluctant to abandon his sister in her wretchedness but with a need to reassure his own family at Mears Ashby of his safety. Besides, there was nothing other he could do for her. As for the rest, the wicked and unbelievable treachery that had all but destroyed the Lancastrian army, well!—he would tell her of that when her grief was not so sharp.
Beatrice went about the necessary arrangements for the burial in the village church, all in a paralysis of grief and despair. Her actions were automatic as her thoughts swung wildly from severe doubt to a terrible certainty. When she had the opportunity, she took the little swan to her chamber, cleaned the mud from its feathers. One foot had been twisted, perhaps struck by a horse’s hoof as it lay half-buried, giving the little figure a whimsical quality along with the grave dignity of its golden crown. She closed her fingers over it, holding it against her breast and at last allowed the tears to fall.
She loved him. She loved Richard Stafford and would love him until the day of her death, but could never condone this terrible deed. How could the man she loved have done something so completely dishonorable? To deliberately make her a widow so that he could marry her. How could he ever believe that a relationship between them, built on the foundations of William Somerton’s blood, might bring them happiness and fulfillment?
There was no peace for her, only hurt and wretchedness and bitter tears.
Chapter Four
William Somerton was buried with due formality in the church of St. Michael and All Angels beside generations of Somertons. His two sons and their families came to witness the occasion without undue grief. Sir William had not made himself loved by his family. Not least, Beatrice was forced to admit as she intercepted sidelong glances, by his taking a young bride. Because William’s will had left her a wealthy widow. She had expected—because she knew the terms of her marriage as negotiated between William and her father—to retain full rights over her original dower. But William’s settlement on her in his will could not but astound her. Overnight, with William’s death, she had become a woman of more than considerable wealth and property. The house at Great Houghton, all its land and all the household goods were hers to hold for her lifetime. Yet her good fortune left her numb. It was Richard Stafford’s dark features that brought the gleam of tears to her eyes as William’s body was lowered into the vault.
Eventually the Somertons went home, leaving her alone at Great Houghton. She walked the silent rooms. Refused to accept the kind invitation to join Ned, his wife, Alice, and her own mother at Mears Ashby. She was the first to acknowledge that she was not good company.
In the following days the pattern of Beatrice’s life remained as in William’s lifetime. But her thoughts were wayward. They sometimes strayed to Lord Richard Stafford. Often were with him. Almost every moment of every day! She covered her eyes with her hands as she rose again from her restless bed. Sometimes she was swamped with an impossible love for the man. Sometimes with an uncontrollable fury that his actions—and her own ungoverned words—should have put their love so entirely out of reach.
Did she even know that he had escaped alive from the bloody aftermath of the battle? He could be dead, lost to her for all time. Her fury dissipated as mist in summer sun at the prospect of never seeing him again and pain swept through her whole body, keen as a January wind. She threw down the tapestry at which she had been unenthusiastically stitching and stalked the chamber.
This was no good! If he was alive he had blood on his hands. An unforgivable, unpardonable crime. The sparkle of temper returned to her eyes as her feet tapped along the oak boards of the floor. She drove herself about her work with an enormous energy that only flagged when she went to her bed. Then the anguish returned and, although she would have denied it to anyone foolish enough to inquire about her state of health, she could not restrain the tears. The soft skin beneath her eyes became imprinted with violet shadows, the only testimony to her anxieties that she could not prevent. It seemed to her that there was no end to her hopelessness.
Until one afternoon
“A gentleman to see you, my lady.” It was Lawson, her steward, who stood at the door of her solar, who had set himself to keep a fatherly eye on his young mistress.
“Who is it, Lawson?” She looked up from the tapestry, which was once more in evidence for want of anything better to do with her mind. “Do I know him?”
“Yes, my lady. He visited here with Lord Grey de Ruthin. It is Lord Richard Stafford.”
“Lord Richard…” She sat, her hands suddenly frozen on the stitchery. That he should come here to her…
“Yes, my lady, Lord Richard,” Lawson replied after a little while, receiving no further orders. He prompted her. “Do I show him up? To the solar?”
“No! Not here!” Her fierce response amazed him, as did her denial. “I cannot see him.” Too private. Too intimate.
“Shall I perhaps tell Lord Richard that you are indisposed, my lady?”
“Yes—no, rather. I will see him.”
“So shall I show him to this room?” What a strange mood the lady was in today.
“No. The Great Hall. I shall come down immediately.”
“Do you require some refreshment there, my lady? Lord Richard looks to have traveled some distance.”
“No. We do not.” She stood, braced her shoulders beneath the velvet cloth of her gown. Was it at all possible to mend the rift between them? It seemed to stretch black and dangerous at her feet.
“Very well, my lady.” Lawson left, shaking his head.
Leaving Beatrice to conduct a silent conversation, a conversation between her heart and her mind, which achieved nothing but further heartache as it gave obvious victory to neither side.
He is here. He is alive. Her heart leaped with joy. I can see him, touch him. Shiver at the sound of his voice. The touch of his fingers on mine when he greets me. He is not dead in spite of all my fears.
But he killed your lord! Her logical mind frowned its disdain at the obvious delight.
I have no proof that his hand wielded the sword. A foolish clutching at straws.
What more proof do you need than that you already
have? That Ned saw him do it? Her mind was relentless.
So I will ask him—and I will ask him why?—and I know that he will answer me. Her heart sighed within her, with hope that all could so simply be put right between them.
Perhaps you know why! Her mind destroyed her hope with sly insistency.
Be silent! she snapped silently and descended to the Great Hall with measured steps as if the visit were of a casual acquaintance who had merely come to pass the time of day. And she promised herself that she would remain calm and composed. Listen to what Lord Richard Stafford had to say. Refuse to judge him before he could stand in his own defence.
There he stood by the windows, where they had held their last conversation, looking down into the garden as he waited for her. She could not see his expression. He lifted his head at her entry, sensing her presence. Smiled, his dark brows lifting in pleasure at seeing her, warmth spreading across his face to dispel the cool austerity, rendering him instantly more approachable. The stern lines between mouth and nose softened, his somber eyes reflected glints of sunlight. Tall and straight, he stood before her and she could not deny her reaction to him. The blood throbbed in her body, to her very fingertips. It would be so easy to walk across the distance between them, to touch his face, to allow him to take her into the safety of his arms where the death, the destruction and loss of war would hold no sway. Where the guilt and the blame could be scoured away in the heat of passion. She was free now to allow such desired intimacy between them… For one moment Beatrice almost acted on that impulse. Ah, no. She must not forget. She stopped just inside the door, the whole expanse of the room still between them.
Beatrice! It struck him immediately that he could not read her expression with any certainty, with any accuracy. Yet here, as he knew well, was a young woman whose emotions were wont to shine in her eyes, in the curve of her lips, evident to all who saw her. In the proud manner in which she carried her head. But now… He had lived for this moment through the long days of grief and loss to his family since the battle, determined to mend her shattered trust in him. Yet there was no welcome here for him. No smile, no warmth. Nothing but a cool appraisal, almost a condemnation. She made no move toward him but stood, severe in her black gown an air of deliberate withdrawal wrapped around her. When she still did not approach, he took a step toward her but something made him preserve the distance. A faint line dug between his brows. Something was amiss here, something responsible for quenching the light in her eyes. Did she know of his own involvement in William’s death, that her lord had died at his hands. Not for the first time since that appalling event, an insidious finger of guilt slithered down his spine.
Beatrice was the first to speak, emotions carefully masked.
“Lord Richard. You survived the battle.”
“Yes. I was fortunate to escape Warwick’s massacre.” How formal she was. How reserved.
Richard’s voice vibrated along her nerve endings. Deep and masculine. How often she had longed to hear those firm tones that shivered along her skin. She set her teeth against the ripple of pleasure and faced the truth.
“My husband did not survive. He was not fortunate at all.”
“I know.” Richard chose his words carefully and with difficulty. “I have come here to… I had to come. To explain—to beg your forgiveness.” Sighed. “I am sorry that you have been made to suffer, Beatrice.”
Her lips parted to reply. Before she could, he made the admission that confirmed all her mind’s gleeful arguments and drenched her in grief and guilt.
“I need to tell you, Beatrice—Somerton died at my hands.”
So easy to say. So destructive in its repercussions. Now Beatrice approached, but not near enough that she could touch him. That would be her undoing.
“I know,” she told him. “Ned saw the attack, he saw you and the Stafford banners. He told me of it. And he brought me this—he found it in the mud near William’s body.” She held out her palm where the little swan winked innocently in the light.
Now he understood her reserve. “Beatrice… What can I say to you? I had no choice. I wish it had happened any other way.”
“No choice?” Her voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. “That is what I do not understand. You were both supporters of Lancaster, both engaged in defence of our king against those who would capture and depose him. How could this have happened?—that you should be responsible for William’s death?”
Richard drew in a breath as he watched her stricken face. So she does not know what William had done. Do I tell her? That her lord committed treason against the king?
But her next words brought him up short.
“I do not understand but I would like to. Richard—will you tell me this?” Her hands gripped convulsively around the ivory swan and her voice was controlled against the threat of tears. “Can you reassure me, in all honesty, that you did not strike William down to release me from this marriage and so leave me free to marry you? Can you swear that you never considered that your sword would grant me that freedom?”
He felt the blood drain from his face. She had hit on the one nub of this disaster, as an arrow direct to its target, that had destroyed all his peace of mind in recent days. In that moment as he stood facing Beatrice, the words drying on his lips, the debacle at Northampton came back to him with vivid clarity. William facing him on the battlefield, instantly recognizable by the Somerton livery, the fierce fighting around them, the need to keep King Henry safe from Yorkist clutches. Somerton coming at him with sword and dagger. His own automatic response when faced with death.
And the thought that had flashed through his mind as he raised his sword, that his next action could release Beatrice from her despicable marriage. His sword had parried Somerton’s lethal lunge, beat aside another deadly blow, and then his dagger had driven into the man’s body, between his ribs. Somerton had fallen, dead at his feet.
Yes, he had thought about it. What man would not? But to take a life to fulfill his own personal desires? It would be an action both unjustifiable and contemptible. He would not do it. Yet still the deed lay heavy on his heart.
Richard returned to the present to hear Beatrice repeat the question, a desperate plea in her voice. She had noted his hesitation and it confirmed all her worst fears.
“Richard. Tell me, I beg of you, that you were not aware that your action that day would free me from a husband I despised.”
And being a man of honor he could not lie to her but his lips were stiff with it, his muscles and sinews braced.
“Beatrice… I cannot deny it—I knew what I was doing. I could not draw back from my engagement with William Somerton but, no—I was not unaware.”
Eyes wide, her face paled in the dimness of the room. “Oh, Richard. What have you done?”
“Only what was necessary to do on the field of battle.”
“To murder my husband to achieve our happiness together?”
“My own happiness was not my motivation in raising my sword against Sir William.” Do I tell her? Do I excuse my own actions by casting the blame on Somerton? Destroy any lingering respect she might hold for him, her memory of his being true to the Lancastrian cause, in the name of my own desires?
And again he could not do it. All the tenets of chivalry in which he had been raised demanded that he should not. What happened on the battlefield should stay there. When he saw Beatrice hold out her hands to him in hopeless anguish and entreaty, his heart broke for her.
“Tell me something that can give me hope,” she begged.
“I cannot change what happened on that battlefield. Or that Somerton is dead.”
Tears now streamed unhindered down her cheeks. Her heart was torn apart with helpless grief. “Then how can I come to you in a new marriage, set free by the murder of my husband, when you are responsible for that death?” In utter despair, she covered her face. “If only some other hand had done it.”
“But it was my hand.” His bitter words reflected his
thoughts. “I killed Somerton, and that fact can never be altered.”
“My lady.” Lawson stood in the doorway, had been there for some little time, unashamedly listening, aware of the needs of hospitality, despite his mistress’s uncharacteristic refusal. He carried ale and goblets and a platter of little mutton pies. “I thought I should bring refreshment for Lord Richard.”
“No, Lawson.” She turned her back so that her steward should not see her distress. “Lord Richard will not be staying.”
“Very well, my lady.” Lawson turned and left, but his mind was working furiously. He had heard Lord Richard’s reply and came to a halt in the passageway. To consider. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating with claim and denial, beyond bearing. So Lord Richard Stafford had cut down Sir William in cold blood, had he!
Lawson abandoned the ale and pasties on the nearest cupboard and hurried across the courtyard to the stables to speak with Rickerby. Perhaps it was the duty of the Somerton retainers take revenge in the name of their dead lord. To gain justice and reparation for his death.
Unaware, the two in the Great Hall made an end to it, their words and actions painfully compromised, as a butterfly caught and held in the sticky binding of a spider’s web.
“You must leave me, Richard. It does no good for you to remain here.” She grasped at pride and raised her head, mindless of the tracks of tears on her cheeks.
“If that is your wish, lady.” Every movement harshly governed, he accepted the cost of his actions.
“It must be. I am afraid.” She dare not speak of love. Dare not contemplate that she was shutting him out of her life forever.
“Of what?” Drawn to her distress, wanting only to give comfort in his arms, because it was all he could offer, he moved close.
“Of my own sin. That the blame for William’s death is as much mine as yours. That you acted because I had accused you of doing nothing to stop the marriage. That if I had been by your side at that one moment of decision on the battlefield, I might have encouraged you to make that lethal blow.” She saw his intent, stepped back. “Don’t touch me, I beg of you. It will destroy me.”
Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride Page 21
