‘Is it not wonderful that my lady is here ahead of time, Bess?’ Again, that puzzling hint of relief.
‘Indeed,’ the girl agreed sweetly, nervously tucking a wisp of nutbrown hair beneath her coif. ‘Yes, indeed, we are so pleased to welcome you, my lady.’
Why? Had they a dragon this Lady Haute was supposed to tame? Had she sprung from the cauldron of her father’s unpredictable governance into an equally dangerous fire?
‘Bess is – Ah, Limerick.’ A snowy-haired man in a long houppelande, which lapped about his old-style pointed shoes, came in to greet her. He too was smiling. Worse and worse, thought Heloise.
‘Lady Haute, may I present his grace of Buckingham’s steward, Sir Thomas Limerick.’ Bess caught his eye. ‘Oh, and this demoiselle is Lord Edward’s nursemaid.’
A little dragon? Heloise took a deep breath. ‘Your porter mentioned that Lord Stafford is here,’ she ventured, wondering if she had found the right key to the gate. The statement could be construed as polite conversation if nothing else. There was a rapid exchange of glances between her hosts.
‘Mulled wine, Bess,’ Sir William exclaimed. ‘Now, Lady Haute, Bess says there has been a brood of mice in the chamber set aside for you, but we have put a mouser in there for the past two days. Toss him out if you have an aversion to the fellow.’ A human or four-pawed mouser, she wondered, warming to Sir William’s affability.
Over wafers and between sips of comforting wine that seeped down to warm her icy toes, Heloise began to edge the door of knowledge open. Her hosts were at pains to praise the Duke of Buckingham’s eldest son to her, but as their comments became more fulsome, she began to deduce that the Lord Edward also had horns and a spiked tail. In short, Lady Haute was to turn him into an angel. No wonder the duchess and the other children had sought refuge at their grandam’s. And where was the child’s father and the rest of the household?
The steward enlightened her: ‘His grace of Buckingham is at Thornbury with others of his retinue, but we expect him back this week.’ Thornbury! That was in Somerset, hard by the Bristol Channel. Dear God, all this while Rushden had been but a few days’ ride from Bramley. Dionysia had it wrong. Her quarry had not been on his way to Wales at all, and incredibly she had arrived ahead of him. Well, she must make the best of her advantage. Kind St Jude, the saint of hopeless causes, was lending a generous hand in her affairs. Two dragons! If she did her best, maybe she might make some allies before she faced Rushden’s anger.
*
Castles were full of information if one knew where to uncover it and Bess, anxious to please the lady appointed over her, was a pantry of tidbits and morsels. As they traversed the hall and climbed the staircase that led to the nursery and bedchambers, Heloise learned that the duchess suffered from megrims, was easily worn out by her children and exchanged letters with her royal sister twice a month, and it was the queen who had graciously recommended Lady Haute. The duke and duchess rarely kept each other company now that they had produced four children. His grace hunted a great deal with his friends. Friends? Oh yes. Unfortunately Bess showed excessive interest in one of his grace’s knightly companions, but it was not Rushden, and Heloise decided wisely not to squeeze any gossip out of her since no respectable married noblewoman should display interest in unattached noblemen unless she knew her own new status. Was Lady Haute a married woman or a widow past mourning?
She tiptoed her way through conversation at supper with anecdotes of her recent travels, deftly diverted Sir William from a discussion of hostelries on the London to Canterbury road and finally excused herself, duplicitous but unscathed. She did not like lying to these people. They would feel betrayed once Rushden unmasked her deceit, but perhaps there was a way to prevent that happening; if the little dragon liked her and she built up a treasury of good will before Rushden’s return, miracles were possible.
*
The young Welsh mouser that bounded out of one of the chambers partitioned off from the nursery was sleek, gelded and white-stockinged. The rest of him was shining black except for a slash of white between his ears and down his nose. At least he was welcoming, but where was the other little beast in her charge?
Bess pointed to the other door and lifted a finger to her lips.
‘I thought you had enow for the day to weary you, my lady. I would not be in a hurry to meet that one if I were you. That’s the garderobe there behind the arras, when you need it, and I have set clean water for washing in your bedchamber. If you have aught for cleaning or pressing, I will send them out to a washer woman in the morning.’
Heloise thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and began a dutiful inspection of her new realm. Inside the aumbry was a wooden fort, a baby cannon, painted boards for table games and a box of foot soldiers. In the other corner, she lifted the lid of the brightly painted wooden chest to discover a little sword and buckler, a tiny longbow, a crick ball and a gaudy top.
‘Very tidy, Bess,’ she said pleasantly, pausing to run her fingers over a hobby horse’s leather mane. Traveller! Tomorrow she would send Martin back to Bronllys to ensure the horse was properly cared for and let Margery’s men return home.
‘You should see it on a rainy day. Not an inch of floor to be seen and everything hurly-burly. And this is only my lord’s nursery. My little ladies have their own quarters close by her grace’s bedchamber, but if they are all playing here together, as sometimes happens, it is bedlam. And here is Benet, Lord Stafford’s manservant. Make your bow, Benet.’ A shambling, moon-faced fellow came out from the nursery, bowed awkwardly and took his leave again at a nod from Bess. ‘Do not be afeared of his squinty-eyes, my lady. A mill short of a grindstone, that one, but stout-hearted.’
As they enjoyed wafers and hyppocras together before the fire, it was hard not to answer the questions that the younger woman snowballed at her in honest curiosity. Heloise sidestepped them as best she could by asking her own, and was relieved to hear that Bess slept on a truckle bed beside the child. Thank goodness! It promised a rare privacy and would avoid the sleepy confidences that came from sharing a bed. Benet slept in the child’s chamber too. He might be simple, Bess assured her, but he was loyal as a dog, and would willingly fetch the water for the child’s bath and perform all the menial tasks.
Heloise’s narrow chamber contained a truckle bed. Along the opposite wall, a clean towel hung from a wooden rail above a small cup board. Upon it she found a pewter ewer, a jug of water, a jarful of pumice powder and herbs for sweetening the breath. She hung her gown up on a wallpeg, said her prayers and crept gratefully between the sheets, nestling her soles against the wrapped, heated brick, unable to believe her good fortune so far. Perhaps it was her destiny to come to Brecknock to look after the duke’s son. She hoped that was why Miles Rushden had been catapulted into her life. If she did her best, maybe she might make some allies before she faced his dark anger.
Mercy Jesu! She stifled a scream as a creature landed on the bed beside her, but it was not a rat. A confident purr coaxed her hand out from the blanket to tickle the short, soft fur at the base of his pointed ears.
‘You are supposed to be under the bed catching … things … not up here with me,’ she pointed out, as the feline’s volume increased beneath her fingertips. ‘This is not wise, master cat. You and my hair do not go together. People will gossip.’ Like most males, even gelded ones, he took no notice and burrowed beneath the coverlet. Oh well, thought Heloise, I had rather sleep with you than Sir Miles Rushden. ‘Since you are Welsh, I shall baptise you Dafydd in the morning and if there are any mice around, they shall stand your godfathers.’
Thinking about Miles Rushden robbed her of sleep, but by early morning she had her weapons primed and ready; she would make a success of handling the child and then she would have the artillery to battle her husband. At dawn she must have fallen into a heavy slumber, for Bess came in and shook her awake. Seeing the superstitious fear in the girl’s eyes at the unusual colour of her braids, Heloise hastily reassured h
er and made her promise not to gossip. Thank God, Dafydd had not emerged from his snug hiding place for a naming ceremony.
‘Sir Thomas said to give you this.’ Bess held out a sealed letter. ‘You made better time on the road than your carrier, my lady.’ The parchment was addressed to the duchess from the real Lady Haute.
Heloise thanked the girl and closed the door. With trembling fingers, she broke the seal and scanned the florid writing. Eleanor Haute craved her grace’s forgiveness but she and her husband were both badly smitten with the measles, and as she had no wish to infect Lord Stafford, she would be delaying her journey until the contagion had passed.
‘Thank you,’ whispered Heloise to any saints and faeries who were listening. A reprieve! A few precious days!
Fingers of sunlight were cheerfully poking through the shutters. The world was waiting for her. She ran to the window, leaned across the cold embrasure and lifted the latch to a view that took her breath away. Distant hills rose up beyond the woods. The highest peak was the hue of gorse and a laurel of light cloud hung gauzily around it like a victor’s wreath.
Moist warmth gentled the air. Her heart lifted. She could smell the fertility of the earth, imagine the young corn shoots unfurling beneath the dark red furrows and the creatures hidden in the trees and burrows stirring after their long winter sleep; her being reached out, rejoicing with them. The awkward bleating of suckling lambs came from the fields about the priory, and she could hear the impatient clanging of cart bells and the apprentices full throatedly shouting their wares down in the town. Her merchant toes fidgeted within the little beaks of her shoes and she wanted to be part of it.
*
The fair-haired child led in to make his bow was so beautiful that for an instant Heloise could not believe that the household thought him an ogre. He was clad like a tiny nobleman but the slashed, hanging sleeves edged with winter squirrel were unsuitable for a child and the cost of the mustard-hued brocade fabric of his doublet, which no doubt had to be kept from spills and mud, would have fed a ploughman and his family for a year. He took off his soft-crowned hat, bowed as gracefully as a courtier, and then spoilt the effect by folding his arms defensively and standing feet astride in a perfect imitation of Sir William Knyvett. The slightly winging eyebrows lent his face an elfish intelligence and perhaps this too made the servants fear him. Heloise knew too well how those sorts of suspicion hurt.
‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’ She opened the door for the high steward. He accepted the hint and with a warning glance at his lord’s son swept majestically out.
‘So, Lord Stafford, it is clear to me,’ declared Heloise, ‘that you do not need a lady to govern your hours but I do need to make a living. You look rather boring. Are you?’
The blue eyes stopped their assessment of her quite abruptly and the child’s gaze swung back up the tawny velvet folds of her high waisted travelling gown.
‘My mother is prettier than you.’
‘Of course, she is a duchess. Duchesses are supposed to be prettier than anyone else except queens – and princesses. Do you always carry eggs in your hat?’
The small face crinkled derisively at such stupidity.
‘There!’ Heloise pointed. ‘Where is my mirror? Let me show you.’ The swift placing of the little, freckled egg that her smallest sister had solemnly given her for a keepsake was easily achieved. Thank the saints, the child’s brim was upturned and fastened with a brooch. ‘Here,’ she rubbed the silver mirror against her skirt and held it before him. ‘A swallow’s egg. It must have fallen from a nest. What a pity you did not know, you might have hatched the fledgling against your chest.’ Small fingers felt for the egg and beheld it suspiciously, but he made no accusation. He dropped it down into his sleeve and Heloise wondered what other treasures wriggled below the fur. One of his sleeves certainly seemed to possess a life of its own. Dafydd had also noticed the twitching and prowled over to investigate.
‘What have you hidden in there?’ asked Heloise. She dumped the disgruntled cat outside the door and turned back to the child. ‘I do like frogs. Or is it a mouse?’ Better now than in her shoe or the bottom of the bed.
Annoyance twitched the precocious little mouth. Muttering, he burrowed one cuffed hand down into the split and drew out a toadlet. Heloise held out her hand and he solemnly tipped it onto her palm where she gently stroked it with her fingertip and waited for it to escape. It took strategy and coordination for the pair of them to catch it and crawling on hands and knees towards each other, both calling out instructions, took the sharp edge off the tension between them, but a knock on the door spoilt the adventure. It was Bess bearing a beaker of a urine-hued brew.
‘Your physic, Lord Edward. Drink it down like a brave lad.’
‘It is foul. I hate it!’
‘What is in this, Bess?’ Heloise smelt it and took a sip. ‘Uuugh, lungwort!’
‘Bravo, my lady. Never mind, poppet,’ the girl declared as the boy jerked his head away from her expected ruffling, ‘the woodbine will soon be out and you can have a remedy from that instead.’ She took the cup from Heloise and held it out. The child ignored it; anyone could see he was working himself into a temper. In an instant, he was red and gasping for breath. Bess thrust the cup back at Heloise, knelt down and grabbed the little shoulders. Shaking him did not help and patting his cheeks was little avail.
Heloise set the concoction down with deliberate clumsiness. ‘Oh, I have spilt it.’ The tantrum instantly ceased, but he was still short of breath.
‘It happens every time he is thwarted, my lady,’ Bess explained later after she had led him away to his tutor, ‘and every time he exerts himself. He can behave correctly when it suits him, but he is a snivelling little monster most of the time.’
‘To gain attention?’
‘To get his own way, my lady. Takes after his father, I reckon, for there are plenty of folks would say so when their tongues are loosened from a bit of drinking.’
‘What happened to the last governess of the nursery?’
‘Oh, got herself into the family way within a month, or leastways that was her excuse for leaving. I hope you will stay longer, my lady.’
Not if her so-called husband got wind of her presence, sighed Heloise, but if she could make herself indispensable at Brecknock before Buckingham and his retinue returned, then she might be forgiven her duplicity. Yes, Lord Stafford was a little devil. The deceptive angelic hair might darken to honest brown as he grew to manhood, but that sulky chin strongly hinted that he would become an unpleasant master if no one took him in hand now. At least she had the authority to order a change in Lord Stafford’s meals and medicines. The rest of the day, she distracted him whenever he threw a breathing fit. By nightfall she was exhausted, but so, too, was the little boy. He went to bed right willingly, to Bess’s amazement. Now if she could only manage Rushden the same, thought Heloise – and blushed. No, bed was not quite what she had in mind.
Her initial private success with the child was not repeated in the hall next day. The crux of the matter slyly put his tongue out at her, then whinged and baulked at his food through dinner on the dais. By the end of the meal, Heloise could see why the welcome she had been extended was becoming tepid. Sir William and the others had been hoping she would make obvious changes to the child’s nature. ‘If you behave, then I will arrange an adventure,’ she whispered behind her hand.
The small tyrant licked his spoon consideringly. ‘What sort of adventure?’
‘A surprise.’ The small elbows edged slowly off the table, the question mark of a back straightened and his toes ceased causing earth tremors below the great salt.
But, what surprise? She had but a few days until Wednesday when the duke and his retainers were expected. She began by taking the boy to the ducal kitchen after his tutor had given him leave. The child’s eyes goggled as she bid him examine rabbit nets, mortars, jelly moulds, turn the spit, ladle off the fat from the large cauldron, smell the different spice jars an
d sniff the basket of dried toadstools for the morning firelighting. The kitcheners stumbled in their answers to his questions, unused to noble visitors. It taught the child to count his blessings, for some of the tasks were loathsome: one scullion, stripped to his waist, was cleansing greasy vessels with steamy hot water and salt; another was foolishly struggling to scale a large perch; and the master cook, annoyed to have his realm invaded, made a great play of hacking a carcass going down for salting, to affright the little noble.
Ned giggled as Heloise tied his long sleeves in a loose knot behind his back but when she tucked cloths in the top of his stomacher and her platelet belt and pushed up her sleeves, he goggled at her. He, Lord Stafford, was to make pancakes? Soon she had the small kingdom of the kitchen under her domain, fetching bowls and whisks and joining in with instructions for their little overlord. In the afternoon, Heloise bade Ned show her the garden and there they moistened a barrow of mud and designed a castle fit to rival Beaumaris. It subsided rapidly. After dinner, they made bows and shot at the butts. The following morning, they attempted a crossbolt with glue, parchment and steel, equipped with little fur tails to tell which way the wind was blowing. A pity there were insufficient flax strips to make a decent string; her father would have been ashamed of the miserable result, but it entertained the child. They crept to the stables in the early hours of Sunday morning and saw a foal born. On Monday afternoon, they made a candle shaped like Salisbury steeple and pressed woodcuts onto it.
‘A chandler’s trade!’ tut-tutted Sir Thomas Limerick, called in to admire the child’s handiwork, but he smiled and patted her hand.
‘What harm in understanding how others must live, how the world runs.’
‘It runs on greed, Lady Haute. Those with riches do as they please, the rest labour.’
‘But you will admit the child is more manageable.’
‘For the nonce, yes, my dear, but things will be different when his grace returns.’
The Silver Bride Page 12
