Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded

by Juliet Landon

  She caught his look of desire before his eyelids drooped. ‘There is something else I need before sleep,’ he said, ‘which any dutiful wife would have thought of, my lady. Is that on your list, too, I wonder?’

  ‘My lord,’ Ginny said, trying to ignore the pettishness, ‘what you have in mind is not on my list of duties any more than preparing your bath is. Nor has it ever been. I thought you had understood that.’

  Jon sighed and looked away, dropping his head between his shoulders. ‘Forgive me, lass,’ he said to the floor between his feet. ‘I am not myself. This business has...’

  ‘Hush, my lord. There will be time to talk after you’ve rested.’

  She went to him as he bathed, and it was then that she saw how the wound he’d received at the joust had opened up again, how inflamed around the edges and obviously causing him great pain. This, his tiredness, and his distress needed instant attention, and she knew of the best people to give it. So in spite of his intention to make love to his wife after the long abstinence, sleep overcame him well before she climbed into the big curtained bed and lay on top of the coverlet, where the air from the river could cool her skin. Early tomorrow, she would pack her own and Etta’s clothes and go with Jon to Lea Magna, and she would send a messenger to Father Spenney at D’Arvall Hall. There was no one who knew more about the treatment of wounds than he, for as well as being the prior, he had also been the apothecary at Sandrock. Before she fell asleep, she decided to send a letter to Lady Anna at Richmond asking for an extended absence. She could not allow Jon to go on his own when they had already been apart for far too long. The effects of their enforced separation were becoming all too evident.

  * * *

  The protests came, but not prolonged enough to make any difference, and perhaps it was Ginny’s reminder of the encroaching plague that finally won him over. They would all be safer at Lea Magna. Taken in two stages for Etta’s sake, the journey was hot and uncomfortable with attempts at conversation more for the child’s entertainment than their own. There was no grumbling or whining from her; everything was an adventure, even when they watched the blacksmith replace a shoe on Ginny’s mare and caught up with a crowd of pilgrims at the inn where they had to sleep five to a room. As Lea Magna appeared through the trees, the relief washed over Ginny like a warm tide. Here was home, at last.

  ‘Home, my lord,’ she said to Jon, reaching out to take his hand. ‘Are you not pleased to be here again? Shall we stay longer this time?’

  Wearily, he turned his head to look at her, his skin sallow, with dark circles beneath the eyes. ‘You’d like that?’ he said. His voice, usually so deeply vibrant, had paled like his skin.

  ‘With you, my lord, yes. The danger has passed. It’s time for us now.’ She thought he would fall from his horse with weakness, but he clutched at the pommel and merely nodded his agreement as they rode through the gatehouse into the courtyard. Men came running and eager hands lifted them down. ‘Tend my lord,’ Ginny commanded. ‘Lift him gently. Carry him to our chamber.... Send for Father Spenney, one of you.’

  ‘He’s already here, my lady,’ someone said.

  * * *

  Even after long absences, the household fell quickly into the routine of care and service honed by years of practice. Etta’s nurses re-established her nursery as if they’d never been away and, ignoring her own fatigue, Ginny soon had the place buzzing like a hive to respond to the invasion they’d had such short notice of. It said much for her mother’s training that she was able to take charge so efficiently, seamlessly transposing her skills from the town house in London to this huge mansion in the Hampshire countryside with all the differences of quantity and the allocation of space. It was then that Ginny was glad she had insisted on accompanying her husband, for now all protests had stopped as he was half-carried to the beautiful panelled chamber they had shared so briefly and put to bed between clean linen sheets.

  Father Spenney stood beside her as the bloodied bandages were removed, partly stuck to the suppurating wound. ‘What in heaven’s name is this all about?’ he said, washing his hands in the basin. ‘Why did he not have it stitched? How long ago was it? Who tended him? The king’s doctor? That old fool.’ Answers to his questions were easy enough to supply, but to the question of why a man as fit and resilient as Lord Jon should still be suffering from a wound inflicted four months ago, the answer was more obscure. Some time later, stirring a whitish potion to help Jon to sleep, he shared his theory with Ginny. Speaking softly, he said, ‘I’ve seen it before. The body, although seemingly strong, is unable to fight the ill humours that invade it when the mind is out of tune. Oh, don’t look alarmed, Ginny. I don’t mean to say he’s deranged. Not at all. But for all his size and energy, it’s his mind that will cry enough first, and delay the body in its mending. You did well to bring him back home. He needs time to come to terms with what’s happened.’

  So do I, she would like to have said, but the kindly monk was more used to dealing with men’s minds and bodies than women’s, and she was taking good care to conceal the fact that she would have appreciated a similar concern. ‘So you knew about Cromwell?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, everyone knows by now, Ginny,’ he whispered. ‘News like that sweeps through the country like wildfire. Most men rejoiced, but your husband admired him not for his ruthlessness, but for his sheer brilliance and loyalty to the king. They all must have known what would happen after the latest marriage fiasco, and it must have hit Lord Jon very hard, being so close to the man.’

  ‘But surely it isn’t that alone, is it?’

  ‘Probably not, Ginny. We’ll talk tomorrow, when he wakes. I’ve done what I can to start the wound healing. The stitches will help. But a lot has happened to him and now he needs to sleep.’

  Ginny could hardly disagree about the need for Jon to talk, for it was that same lack of communication that had come between them from the beginning. Having started marriage on the wrong foot, only explanations could provide the complete trust that was essential to them both, after the interference, one way or another, of almost everyone they were close to.

  She was both surprised and pleased to find that Ben had come with Father Spenney to Lea Magna, and to hear that he was learning the arts of the physician, initially as his uncle’s assistant. This, he told her proudly, after a few years at the University of Oxford, would fit him for a place in the world where physicians were always sure of employment. In the darkening chamber where Lord Jon slept like a child, she and Ben held a low-voiced conversation by the open window beyond which bats skimmed the apricot sky and the gardens were awash with pink and mauve. It was then that Ginny noticed for the first time how the low light caught the smooth planes of his nose and chin and how, in some indefinite way, he resembled her brother Paul, who in turn resembled his father more than Elion, Maeve and herself. Those three had always had Lady Agnes’s looks. She dismissed it at once as a trick of the light. Neither of them noticed Father Spenney’s discreet presence in the doorway, nor the frown of concern on his forehead as he turned away.

  * * *

  That night, Ginny had slept alone, restless with the heat and the strange sounds from the nearby woodland. At first light she rose and went to Jon, where she found him already awake and deep in whispered conversation with Father Spenney. The talking stopped abruptly as she entered. ‘Looking better, my lord,’ Ginny said, kissing his forehead. ‘Are you pleased with your patient, Father?’ The furtive glances between the two men, the uncomfortable silence, warned her that all was not well. Sitting on the bed beside Jon’s feet, she prepared herself for bad news. ‘Now tell me what’s wrong, if you please. The wound is infected?’

  ‘The wound is healing nicely, my lady,’ said Father Spenney. ‘Our patient is making an excellent recovery already. Nothing’s wrong.’

  She would have expected Jon to confirm this, but he preferred to examine his gold signet ring.
‘Something is,’ she insisted. ‘May I not know what it is? I’m sure it can be put right.’

  Father Spenney seated himself on a joined stool and she knew then that he would explain the matter, even if Jon didn’t. He spoke, however, to his patient. ‘This is for you to say, my lord. But my advice would be—’

  ‘Yes Father,’ Jon said, ‘I know what your advice would be. What concerns me is how to tell my beloved wife without upsetting her. She’s been upset so many times these past few months, and for the life of me I cannot—’

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ Ginny said. ‘What is it? Obviously something I ought to know. Is it Etta? My mother? Is it Paul? Just tell me.’

  ‘Ginny, sweetheart. None of that, thank God, but nothing we can do anything about now. You remember how you and Ben were sitting over there by the window last night, in the last of the light?’

  ‘It’s Ben! What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Nothing, love. Only, you see, I was not asleep, as you thought.’

  ‘Jon, our talk was innocent, I swear it. Ask Ben, if you will. There has never been anything but friendship between us. Ever.’

  ‘Ginny,’ said Father Spenney, ‘your husband knows that, but what you and I know is that Ben’s feelings for you have always been more than friendly.’ He raised a hand to prevent her cry of protest. ‘Just listen to me awhile. Your husband saw what I could not, that Ben and your brother Paul look so alike that it’s hard for anyone to believe that they’re not related.’

  She had seen it, too, last night, for the first time.

  ‘It happens, Ginny,’ Jon said quietly, reaching out for her hand. ‘These things happen. Men away at court, wives left alone, arranged marriages, the need for love as well as duty.’

  Ginny shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to spell it out for me. You’re telling me that Ben and Paul may be related, but how? Surely that would involve Father... Oh!’ Both young men had Sir Walter’s looks. She had noticed that, too. ‘Oh, no! That’s quite impossible. Sir Walter has always been uncompromising when it comes to infidelity. Except in the king’s case, of course.’

  ‘Unfortunately, infidelity is common enough even in those who swear they’re against it, Ginny. Your father suffered the same temptations as most other men, as I know only too well, and this happened when he was young and vulnerable.’

  ‘This happened? What did?’

  ‘Ginny,’ Jon said, ‘I looked across to the window and thought it was Paul you were talking to until I saw the habit. That’s why I spoke to Father Spenney about it. They’re both your father’s sons, but not your mother’s. Sweetheart, don’t judge him too harshly.’

  ‘Harshly? The hypocrite! What a damned hypocrite!’

  ‘He’s just a man like the rest of us,’ said Father Spenney. ‘His marriage to your mother was arranged in exchange for property, as is so often the case, and then men look outside marriage for love. Unfortunately, your father found it in the wrong place, in St Clare’s Priory. The prioress was one of his tenants.’

  ‘The prioress?’ she whispered. ‘Did...did my mother know?’

  ‘Yes, she knew. She loves him, you see.’

  Ginny freed her hands to cover her face and she spoke through her fingers. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘about this woman. St Clare’s Priory was closed down four years ago by Cromwell’s men. So where is she now?’ Unable to mask the accusing tone, she saw the shadow of pain pass over Father Spenney’s lined face. St. Clare’s had been closed down, they said, for lax behaviour by the nuns. That was the excuse they needed, used often and unjustly, but not in this case.

  ‘She was my sister, Ginny. She died four years after the birth of Ben.’

  ‘So Ben...is my brother?’

  ‘Half-brother. He came to me at Sandrock at that time. And now perhaps you’ll begin to understand why Sir Walter was so keen to buy Sandrock when we were closed down, too. He wanted to pass it on to Ben as the inheritance he would not otherwise be entitled to. Younger sons traditionally do rather badly when their fathers die, don’t they? And illegitimate sons can be ignored, unless their fathers make provision for them.’

  Ginny dropped her hands despairingly and looked up at the rafters with a sigh. When she spoke, it was as if she was speaking to herself. ‘Unbelievable! So Father used me to make sure of getting Sandrock for Ben. He couldn’t simply rely on his own merit. He had to drag me into it, too, just to remind the king of his services. That’s beyond hypocritical, Father. That’s immoral. He didn’t spare a thought for my feelings, did he? He actually bullied me into being the king’s mistress when he believed he might be allowed to buy Sandrock anyway.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s true. And I think it was partly for my sister’s sake, too.’

  ‘She must have meant a great deal to him.’

  ‘She did. She was a wonderful woman, but not the right material for holy orders, even though she was elected prioress.’

  ‘So how long had the affair been going on? Years? Paul is older than Ben.’

  ‘Your sister Maeve was only four when Paul was born. Elion was two. They were too young to be surprised when Paul appeared from nowhere. Your father asked Lady Agnes to accept him as her own and she agreed.’

  ‘As she would. She agrees to everything Father wants, but he had no right to ask that of her.’

  ‘She took Paul in from birth and he became part of your family. It’s not unknown, Ginny.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Then when Ben came along, Sir Walter would have brought him home, too, but Lady Agnes was expecting you at the time and the pretence could not have been maintained. She was upset. She refused.’

  ‘That must have been the first and only time. And no wonder.’

  ‘So my sister kept the child with her, as two other nuns had also done and, when she died, Ben came to me at Sandrock. He was four. We took young children occasionally, if their parents could help us with the fees, which your father did, most generously.’

  ‘So Paul and Ben never shared a home. That’s why they’re so different.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, considering their upbringing. Lady Agnes tended to overindulge Paul to compensate him for his illegitimacy and the loss of his natural mother. I do believe she felt sorry for my sister, in some way. That kind of compassion is a rare thing, Ginny. She is a good woman, your mother.’

  ‘Is that what you’d call it? I’d say she was weak to spoil Paul so.’

  ‘As I said, she loves your father. That’s what women do when they love. Your father took advantage of that, but as long as Paul was there with them, he was reminded of his own weakness, and perhaps that’s why he found it difficult to approve of anything Paul did. He saw so much of himself in Paul, you see, and he didn’t like what he saw. He never saw very much of Ben.’

  ‘You noticed it, too?’

  ‘Whenever I was there, it was glaringly obvious. It made me sad for my sister, but Ben had four years of her love. I do not break any confidences in telling you this, Ginny. I was never your mother’s confessor, or your father’s, not even recently as chaplain at D’Arvall Hall. I tell you these things as uncle to your father’s two sons, that’s all, and because your husband and I believe you have a right to know the truth.’

  ‘Shall you tell Ben what you’ve told me?’

  ‘Yes, he must be given the facts, too. Every man has a right to know who his parents are. He must also be told not to worship you as he does.’

  ‘Oh!’ Again, Ginny’s hands covered her face, but this time it was to conceal the awful contortions of grief. If only Jon had worshipped her instead.

  Jon leaned forwards to pull her gently into his arms, rocking her like a child to the soft sound of his endearments, while the prior moved away to comfort his own grief in the presence of his nephew. ‘Dear heart,’ Jon whispered int
o her hair. ‘Dearest love, don’t weep. This cannot affect our love. It happened long ago. We have something your parents never had. Hush, love. Let it go now.’

  Chapter Ten

  The weeping abated. ‘This is not like you, little wildcat,’ Jon said with concern. ‘I’d have expected anger. Some very un-Christian words, at least. You knew this kind of thing happened, my love.’

  ‘Not in my family, it doesn’t,’ she croaked.

  ‘Beloved, it happens, one way or another, in most families.’

  Carefully she drew herself away and took one of his hands upon her knee to examine it. ‘Your nails need trimming. And your hair...tch!’ Her change of subject was not entirely successful.

  ‘Thank you, wife. And you look as achingly lovely as a summer morning. And I’m getting up.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re staying put. You need rest.’

  ‘That’s not what I need.’ His hand left hers to smooth the underside of her breasts, unconfined by boned bodice and stiffened fabric.

  Ginny caught at his hand before it could explore further. Her breasts were tender and swollen, and she knew he would be able to tell that she was with child, even at this early stage. She had rehearsed, more than once, how she would tell him, how his face would light up, and how he might at last begin to share with her the love he’d borne his first wife. Now, after hearing of her father’s treachery, her emotions were raw and confused, and she was no longer sure how Jon would react to yet another change of circumstances when she would be obliged to leave court. What had he just said about leaving wives at home? About temptations. Could she bear it? Against all her efforts to control them, the tears gathered again and dripped off the long sweep of her lashes onto Jon’s hand.

  ‘Ginny...my dearest, darling girl! Whatever is it? Have these revelations shocked you so much? Oh, my love, tell me.’ Taking hold of both her shoulders, Jon turned her to face him.

  ‘You...you called me...beloved,’ she whispered, choking on the words. ‘You said we had love. I may have misheard, but you see, I love you, Jon. I always have. And I’ve so longed to hear you say...’