Velvet Bond

by Catherine Archer

  Velvet Bond

  Catherine Archer

  This book is dedicated to my children, Catherine, Stephen and Rosanna, for all their love and support, with

  special thanks to my Kate for all her editorial assistance.

  And to my sister, Elizabeth, who cleans when she’s angry and gave me the inspiration for this character.

  I must also add a note of thanks to Don D’Auria. Thanks.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth Clayburn sat on the stone window seat, her slender back supported by her brother’s broad one. Despite the velvet cushion beneath her, she was less than comfortable. Sighing, she wished herself in her own comfortable house for the third time in as many minutes. But she had promised to stay at Stephen’s side until Lady Helen turned her attentions elsewhere, and that she would do. No matter how much she disliked coming up to Windsor Castle.

  It wasn’t Elizabeth’s usual custom to involve herself in Stephen’s affairs, but Lady Helen was proving especially difficult to discourage, and Stephen had come near to begging for Elizabeth’s help. He hoped that if he was never alone with his former mistress, she would soon give up and move on to greener pastures. Not even Helen was brazen enough to confront him about his obviously cooled interest before his very sister.

  Restlessly Elizabeth’s gaze roamed the crowded ante-chamber as she toyed with one of the braided gold tassels that held back the heavy red brocade drapes. The three tall windows let in sufficient light to illuminate the high, wide room, but she saw little that pleased her.

  Despite the perpetual chill given off by stone walls, the air was overwarm, due to the presence of so many people. The high-ceilinged chamber bore no furniture or adornments save the rich curtains, and needed none. Men and women alike displayed their best finery in the forms of colorful cotehardies, tunics and hose. Many of the older men wore a long-skirted cote over the body-hugging tunic called a pourpoint, but the younger or more daring favored the shorter version that was much frowned on by the church. The women wore their cotes slashed at the sides to show off tight-fitting tunics of samite, sendal, and damask. Linen wimples fluttered about cheeks that had been delicately tinted with cosmetics. Jewelry and fur trim were seen in abundance as their wearers moved about, seeing and being seen. And they waited, some patiently, some not so patiently, for a moment to present their case to their sovereign.

  Elizabeth looked down with a start as the would-be troubadour at her feet struck a chord on the lute that rested across his knee. She had nearly forgotten Percy.

  Eyes of the palest blue gazed up at her with abject adoration as he sang,

  “Oh lips of deepest scarlet hue

  And eyes that sparkle like the dew”

  “Sweet Jesu, Beth,” her brother Stephen turned to mutter in her ear. “This one is more dreadful than the last.”

  “Shh, brother mine,” she whispered, attempting to prevent him hurting poor Percy’s delicate pride.

  This was to no avail, for Sir Percy Hustace had indeed heard Stephen’s comment. He dropped the lute, which broke a string as it struck the floor. Percy groaned, casting a wounded look toward the other knight.

  Rot Stephen, Elizabeth thought. She was of no mind to listen to them quarrel.

  When Stephen only stared at Percy with amused contempt, the blue-eyed knight turned from him in disdain. Percy moved forward on his knees to take Elizabeth’s slender hand in his. “My lady, do you find my song displeasing?”

  As Elizabeth gazed down upon the young man, truth and pity warred inside her. Pity won. “Not at all, Sir Percy. 'Tis most clear you have worked long upon the words and melody. I am flattered by your efforts.”

  This time triumph lit Percy’s pale eyes when he looked to Stephen.

  Elizabeth heard her brother click his tongue in disgust. She frowned at him, her sapphire eyes flashing. “If you do not behave yourself, I shall go home and leave you to face Lady Helen alone.”

  Stephen sat bolt upright. “Now, Beth. I was but jesting with Percy. He should not be so sensitive.” Stephen turned toward the other knight so that Elizabeth could no longer see his face, but she knew her brother well, and the expression he was directing at Percy would be unpleasant, to be sure. But she said nothing. Percy could be quite tiresome, with his whining ways. And he did cut a foolish figure in his mode of dress. Every fashion of the day was ridiculously exaggerated. His pourpoint was short to the point of indecency, the gold cotehardie he wore over it sporting tippets that trailed well past his knees, and the points of his shoes extended at least twice the length of his foot. If it weren’t for the fact that much of his foolishness was by way of trying to impress her, Elizabeth would have been less inclined to be patient with him herself.

  She smiled decisively. “We will forget the matter.”

  Stephen looked about them to see if anyone else had taken note of Percy’s stupidity. As a trusted messenger to King Edward III, Stephen had a certain dignity to uphold.

  Few of the other sumptuously dressed occupants of the antechamber paid them even cursory attention. The antics of Elizabeth’s most recent admirer were of little interest to them. Sir Percy was new to Edward’s court, and like countless others before him had instantly become enamored with Stephen’s sister. And Stephen could hardly fault Percy for that. Elizabeth was indeed beautiful, with her deep blue eyes, creamy skin and luxurious black hair.

  She was his only sister, and had been dreadfully spoiled by her three brothers, including Peter, who was four years her junior. But Stephen knew it hadn’t harmed her. She had a kind and generous nature. She was undeniably patient with each new suitor until he finally gave up after realizing he would get no more than kindness from her. Stephen knew she should be married at twenty, but none had ever stirred her heart, and her brothers were loath to force her into an alliance she did not want.

  If he felt that Percy was of any real threat to Elizabeth’s happiness or virtue, Stephen would readily take him out and throttle him. But he was not, and Stephen could easily afford to be magnanimous with the lackwit. As long as he didn’t become too irritating. So he would do as his sister asked and say no more.

  He allowed his gaze to wander freely about the room, then froze.

  Elizabeth felt Stephen stiffen beside her as he drew in a sharp breath. Following the direction of his apprehensive gaze, she spied Lady Helen Denfield.

  Lady Helen was an acknowledged beauty, and deservedly so. At thirty-two, she managed to look as though she had not seen a day past seventeen years. There was a fawnlike delicacy about her as she came toward them across the bare stone floor. To heighten the image of youth, she wore her golden-brown hair loose down her back in a shimmering curtain, with only a sheer veil to cover it. Her soft brown eyes viewed the world around her with an expression of wonder, and she smiled timidly at whoever she passed.

  Elizabeth studied this performance with amusement, having to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud. For the pose of timidity was just that, a pose. Lady Helen could be more truly likened to the fox than to the fawn.

  Peeking over at Stephen to gauge his reaction, Elizabeth found her handsome brother tensed as if to do battle. He ran an agitated hand through his dark auburn hair, his forest-green eyes wary. For three days now she had accompanied Stephen when he came to the castle to await a po
ssible summons. It was his duty as one of King Edward’s messengers to make himself available. But that put him into contact with the one he most hoped to avoid, his mistress until very recently, Lady Helen Denfield. The affair had ended the moment he found out that the fair widow had nothing short of marriage on her mind.

  Lady Denfield stopped before them.

  As if sensing some threat to his goddess, Percy leapt up to stand at Elizabeth’s shoulder. It was a clear but unnecessary demonstration of his devotion.

  “Lady Elizabeth.” Helen nodded, without looking at her. The woman’s attention was completely centered on her prey. Though she tried to hide the feral gleam in her eyes as they rested upon Stephen, it was all too obvious.

  “Lord Clayburn.” The greeting sounded like nothing so much as an endearment.

  Stephen ran a large hand over his muscular thighs in their dark green hose. “Lady Denfield.”

  Helen’s eyes followed the path of his hand hungrily.

  Watching the proceedings with interest, Elizabeth was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud.

  How amusing that Stephen should be working so desperately to extricate himself from the affair that a fortnight ago had been his greatest pleasure, Elizabeth thought. Widowed for a year, Helen Denfield had been ripe for the picking. But it was Stephen who would end by being the harvest, did she have her way.

  Elizabeth could see that Lady Helen had no intention of remaining a widow for long, and Stephen had clearly been chosen as the honored bridegroom. As she had been unable to produce an heir during her fifteen-year marriage to Lord Denfield, Helen’s husband’s lands and money had passed to a distant cousin, and she was nearly destitute, living on her meager dower funds. When Stephen began to pursue her, she had put all her not inconsiderable charms to luring him to the bait.

  Not only was Elizabeth’s brother a fine specimen of a man, he also had a large income left to him by their mother. And, to add cream to the strawberries, he had, according to court gossip, brought Helen to fulfillment for the first time.

  If truth be told, Elizabeth had no personal experience in carnal matters, but she did know that the court ladies set much store by prowess in the bedchamber. To Elizabeth, it seemed they made a great deal about naught. She had met no man who stirred even the least bit of feeling in her. And from what she had heard, she wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was beyond her how one could allow oneself to be made such a fool of over copulating.

  Helen’s gaze took on a desperate expression as she watched Stephen.

  Elizabeth could not imagine prostrating herself the way Helen was now, no matter how much pleasure a man could bring. She nearly succumbed to sympathy for the other woman. Stephen was always one to pursue a female with everything in him. Then, once he had succeeded in his quest, he lost interest, especially when the idea of marriage was broached.

  If Lady Helen had been wiser, she would have allowed Stephen to go on thinking he was the aggressor.

  Elizabeth understood this much about her brother.

  But Stephen was of her blood, and she owed her allegiance to him first. So thinking, Elizabeth hardened her heart and reminded herself that Helen had her own agenda as far as Stephen was concerned. The fact that she had fallen in love with him was incidental.

  At that moment, Elizabeth noted that a hush had fallen over the room. She looked up, surprised to find everyone watching the entrance to the chamber. It was unusual for anyone to cause a stir among this lot, who had seen some of the most important men in the world come and go on a regular basis, and she wondered idly who had arrived.

  At that moment, the crowd parted, and Elizabeth saw him.

  The man was tall and wore his acorn-brown tunic, pourpoint and dark hose casually, seeming completely unconcerned with the way the fabrics hugged his wide shoulders and muscular legs. He had made no effort to garb himself impressively, and thus stood apart like a wolf among lapdogs. Dark brown hair brushed his shoulders, and his equally dark eyes surveyed the splendor before him with indifference. Even as he shifted restlessly, first running a darkly tanned hand through his hair, then clenching that same hand at his side, he moved with an animal sort of grace. He made her think of a dark forest in moonlight, and his expression had a strange haunted quality, as if he were used to being alert for hidden danger.

  The man seemed unaware of the stir he was causing. It was as though his mind were on other matters of greater importance than what he saw before him. He turned to the equally broad-shouldered blond man at his side, who was also dressed in subtle forest shades.

  They seemed of like taste, but Elizabeth hardly noticed the lighter-haired of the two. It was the other one who drew her, though she couldn’t have explained it if given a thousand chances, and so she didn’t try.

  There was something wild about him, wild as the wind is during a storm, wild like the beating of her heart. An oddly pleasant shiver ran down her spine.

  Who was he, and why had she never seen him before?

  Without even thinking, Elizabeth rose and moved toward him. A narrow path parted for her, as if those in her way seemed to sense her need to get closer to this man, to speak with him.

  Elizabeth stopped before him, her gaze taking in the strong features of his face, straight nose, hard, chiseled jaw and high cheekbones. In the pit of her stomach, something fluttered, like a butterfly emerging from its protective sheath.

  He glanced down at her with eyes as dark as burnt umber, then away, dismissing Elizabeth as he scanned the room behind her.

  Piqued, Elizabeth simply stood there, a knot of irritation replacing the excitement in her belly. Never in all her life had any male looked through her that way.

  The man smiled as his gaze came to light on someone behind her. “Clayburn,” he said. Elizabeth closed her eyes, unable to halt the tingling along the back of her neck that hearing his voice brought. The sound was rich, like rough fingers in brown velvet. Then she realized that he had spoken her own surname, and she turned to see her brother standing there just as Stephen answered him.

  “Warwicke. How do you?” Stephen was nodding, his smile one of welcome.

  The man shrugged. “I could be better. You know how I hate coming to court.”

  “Aye,” Stephen agreed. “So what could have brought you to Windsor?”

  Elizabeth could only stare at her brother. He talked as if he and this incredible man were long acquainted. And never had he so much as mentioned the friendship to her. Of course, she did know that Stephen met many people in his duties as the king’s messenger. But he might have at least thought to speak about this one.

  The brown-eyed man looked around them with a frown. “I would rather not speak of the matter in the midst of so many. It is somewhat private.”

  “I understand,” Stephen said. “Do you need to get in to see the king?” He nodded toward the closed door at the other end of the chamber. “I may be able to help you there.”

  “My thanks,” the other man answered, “but King Edward has arranged this audience himself. Methinks he will see me as soon as he learns I am here.”

  Stephen only nodded.

  Elizabeth had had quite enough of this. She wanted to be introduced to this man Stephen had called Warwicke, and she meant to see that she was. “Stephen,” she said with a smile for her brother, “you do not behave very well. Where are your manners? You must introduce me.”

  Both men looked down at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there.

  Stephen hastened to do as she asked. “Lord Raynor Warwicke, let me present my sister, Lady Elizabeth.”

  Her heart fluttered in her breast as his deep brown eyes settled upon her. “Lady Elizabeth.” This time there was a faint hint of recognition in them, but his gaze did not linger as most men’s were wont to do.

  “My lord Warwicke,” she replied.

  But he had already turned back to Stephen. “Mayhap you could help me by finding a cleric who could tell the king I am here?”

  “Of a surety,” Stephen re
plied, and they moved off through the throng.

  Elizabeth stood there in surprise. Then she looked down at herself, wondering if she might find the answer to Lord Warwicke’s rudeness in her mode of dress. But she could find no fault with the scarlet gown. The sides were slashed wide to show off the black tunic beneath, which fitted her narrow waist and gently curving breast and hips most becomingly. The sleeves of the tunic were fashionably wide and embroidered with a pattern of musical instruments in gold and scarlet threads. She ran her hand over her gold veil and found it to be securely in place.

  No, it was not her attire that had caused Warwicke to look through her as if she had no more substance than the contents of an empty cup.

  In her twenty years upon this earth, never had she been so summarily dismissed. He had completely failed to acknowledge her. Even her brother seemed to have forgotten her presence. And after she had come to the castle to help him.