The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘When I mentioned we needed to talk,’ muttered Heloise, tugging her bodice straight, ‘I did not anticipate it would be such a struggle.’ With her headdress like a dislodged chimneypot and hair tumbling down over her right ear, any attempt to look grave and earnest would not wash. ‘Are you expecting me to kneel and confess to horsetheft and extortion?’ She indicated the prie-dieu, the only other furnishing in the room, save for the toppled stool and a crucifix on the wall.

  ‘Now that would be a wonder,’ Rushden answered, leaning back against the door and correcting his rolled-brim hat so that its pearl ornamentation was once more at the front. ‘You have only a few moments to state your case before my patience wears through. I advise you not to be wasteful.’

  ‘Is this tête à tête not unwise, sir?’ She righted the stool and picked up the prayer book, smoothing its bruised pages regretfully before she fastened the clasps back together. ‘It takes but a few moments to conceive a child. I should have thought you would have engineered a peacock tail of eyes to witness our argument and keep our conversation chaste.’

  That ruffled his tail feathers no end. ‘I am waiting, Mistress Ballaster.’

  ‘Well,’ she replaced the book on its oblique shelf, marvelling that her weariness had so swiftly abated. ‘In a nutshell,’ she steepled her fingers, ‘I have been banished from Bramley and now have neither income nor prospects outside these walls, thanks to you and my father.’ Pacing to and fro like a lioness in the king’s menagerie, she added, ‘and I would be the last person to deny Dionysia her chance to find a worthy husband so when—’

  ‘The point of this,’ he interrupted tersely, slapping his hand on the top of the prie-dieu.

  ‘The point is that my father sent me here against my will, and before I knew it I was installed as Ned’s keeper complete with keys and napkins.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘More or less.’ She sat down upon the stool. ‘Sir William Knyvett would have bussed me heartily he was so pleased to see me.’

  ‘I can believe it.’ A priest might have granted her absolution by now but Rushden was hardly likely to send her out with a benediction and a few Hail Marys. ‘You still have not told me how you dispensed with Lady Haute.’

  ‘Well, it was marvellously fortunate. The poor lady wrote to say she was indisposed with the measles in … hmm … Ashford, yes, Ashford in Kent and dear Sir Thomas Limerick sent me up my … well, her … unopened letter.’ She peeped up cautiously. He was looking surprisingly mild-mannered, but that was a sunny day that would not last long. ‘You really must appreciate, sir, that had I explained who I really was, it would have made things extremely difficult.’

  ‘For me?’ he offered sarcastically. ‘You were so unselfish, thinking of my sensitivity in such matters.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed helpfully. ‘I realise that this is putting you—’

  ‘I seem to remember before we last parted in such, shall we say, inconvenient circumstances, that I hinted to you that I never wanted to set eyes on you again.’

  ‘And here we are.’ Her dimpled grin was only skin deep.

  He was smiling too, his laugh a politeness, ‘And here we are.’ He straightened up from the prie-dieu and his expression changed so rapidly that Heloise sprang up from the stool and stepped back, her heart thumping.

  ‘So what are we going to do about this?’ he asked, advancing with dragon-like purpose.

  She shrugged helplessly as she read the desire in his eyes to incinerate her. ‘Nothing, sir?’

  ‘Nothing!’ That halted him. His gaze smouldered at her nonchalance, but to her relief he paced away from her and set his hands to the bar. For a moment she thought the interview was at an end, but he was merely bracing himself as if touching the tangible solid wood might bring comfort and restore common sense.

  ‘I seem to recall explaining to you,’ he swung round to confront her like a lawyer arguing his case before a jury, ‘that it was essential that we never spent a night under the same roof until the annulment was granted.’ He gestured to the excess of painted stars above their head. ‘Yes?’

  Heloise nodded apologetically, giving the ceiling a cursory glance. ‘But this is a rather large roof,’ she pointed out, including the entire castle in her remark. The man gave a hiss of angry breath, but she pressed on: ‘Sir, you only spoke to me at all tonight because his grace commanded you.’ Mind, he had little choice; if he avoided ‘Lady Haute’ like a plague-ridden village, some tongues might have wagged, but that observation was better stored away. Instead she continued quietly, ‘So you see, I imagine it is possible for us to avoid each other completely with almost no effort.’

  His quicksilver eyes regarded her scathingly. ‘Are you such a simpleton? If you remain here, mistress, I have access to you.’

  The meaning drew the blood into her cheeks and, as if to thrust the words fully into her mind, her husband coldly let his glance rise from her little pointed toes, hover in unseemly fashion upon her breasts, and halt upon her lips, which she parted unwittingly beneath such scrutiny. Something which seemed to begin beneath her ribs, like a slow vortex, was whirling downwards to her thighs. This man knew too well what lay beneath her clothing. She turned away from that insolent study before she was tempted to stare and give him brazen coin for coin.

  Access, yes. Miles was tempted. This silver-haired enchantress was a hand’s grasp away, beseeching him with waif’s eyes; her body was a tantalising sheath to be broken, to be seduced into granting him admittance. It would be so easy, so satisfying to tug away the silken panel that lay across her collar and free those pert breasts for lovemaking. He felt himself hardening and swung away from her, gripping the prie-dieu as if it exuded some holiness that might assist him against her witchery. He had to be rid of her. Her presence disconcerted him, creating fractures in the wall he had erected against emotion. If he permitted it, her lies, her disguise, would be like ice freezing into the cavity of friendship betwixt him and Harry, pushing them slowly apart.

  Heloise guessed he was exacting a silent revenge for the shaking administered to his careful world, and was sorry for it. Brecknock could give her safe haven for a little space if only the harbourmaster’s watchdog would let her stay. What would happen if she did step across the pace of world that lay between them to nestle against that arrogant backbone? And suppose she trailed a gentle touch across the glimmering knuckles and up his velvet sleeve to his shoulder to tangle her fingers in the black soft waves and coax Rushden’s face down to hers? Would he kiss her or curse her? No, she must risk nothing. Along that sinful path ’twixt hand and lips lay folly and Heloise knew better than to steal what could never be hers.

  The man had turned his face to her, waiting. It was necessary to soothe the hackles down and slide a makeshift collar round his neck until she could work out the answers herself. Stroking fingertips up and down the back of her hand fisted against her breasts, she tried to think of an answer to placate him. It cost her but being conciliatory was far more crucial than losing her temper.

  ‘If need be, I shall submit to an examination when the annulment arrives.’

  His reply astounded her: ‘Shall you indeed? We should both be fools to rely on that.’

  ‘You whoreson!’ The unladylike word was out before she could leash it and it took all her power to fight down the urge to knock the Rushden hawk nose crooked.

  Seeing such temptation whorling her fists, Miles swiftly stepped back out of harm’s way. ‘Such fine manners, Mistress Ballaster.’ He let his mouth curl haughtily. The girl’s base blood showed. ‘I am merely being practical, woman, if you would bother to listen. There are other ways to lose a maidenhead besides lying with a man; riding horseback, for instance, can rip the evidence of virginity.’

  Heloise’s defiance slackened. He was perfectly right, even if the indelicacy of the man in mentioning such matters shocked her.

  ‘So let us be clear on this, you shrew. I am ordering you to leave Brecknock by Thursday or I shal
l have you taken back to your father by force, make no mistake. You may ride home muzzled in a cart for aught I care.’ He did not mention Myfannwy would be arriving.

  Heloise leaned wearily back against the wall. She did not want to return to the little empire ruled by her father; she was going to have to fight with every weapon she had to keep some hold over her destiny, and she could not see beyond Brecknock. ‘I think you are making rather heavy weather of this, sir.’ He looked fit to explode at such an understatement, but she continued: ‘I should like to retain my position here.’ The proclamation made her feel good and she straightened up and announced the rest of it: ‘In fact, I intend to. The duke’s son needs some affection in his life. I have seen beggars’ children given more love, so—’

  Laughter in the passageway outside stifled her peroration as Miles flung up a warning hand. A young woman’s inebriated giggle and a man’s soft winning tones rippled past and ebbed beyond their hearing. When the silence again lay between them. Heloise picked up her skirts decisively. ‘Since it is not wise to be seen or discovered conversing with you, sir, especially in private, would you mind if we end this delightful audience?’ She swept to the door and stood regally for him to open it.

  With an ill will, Miles hoisted the bar from its brackets, wondering why he was giving her more time. ‘We shall speak of this again. Do not think yourself out of the wild wood yet, mistress.’

  Heloise ruined her triumphant departure by asking in wifely fashion: ‘Oh, did you remember to write to His Holiness?’

  ‘No, I might manage it in a year’s time,’ he exclaimed witheringly, his fingers still controlling the door latch. ‘Of course, Pope Sixtus and Bishop Stillington and my lord of Canterbury. Anyone I have missed out? The king? The Ottoman Emperor? Yes now, there is a thought, and the poor heathen fellow has a different wife each night, while I have difficulty dealing with the one foisted on me. Good night, madam! Forgive me if I follow you at a distance, but I wish to ensure you find your way to bedchamber unravished.’

  ‘So considerate,’ purred Heloise, grateful even if it was self-interest rather than gallantry which fuelled his thoughtfulness. She waited while he robbed his purse of the chapel key and lifted the candle free.

  Keeping a cautious distance like an assassin, Miles followed her. She went the wrong way twice and had to be whistled and signalled with the candle so that by the time she reached her door, he was ropable and close to suspecting her of leading him on a tour of the entire living quarters out of sheer revenge.

  He plundered an aumbrey and drank a cup of muscadelle, angry that he had been drawn into the wretched girl’s conspiracy. Moths had more sense; at least they investigated a flame before it consumed them. And he was the one person in the entire household who had claimed any recognition of Lady Haute. If the real widow arrived, Harry would want to know why Miles had deceived him. And Lord Rhys ap Thomas was arriving on Thursday. Damnation upon it! Curse her! Curse everything!

  His bed was occupied when he finally flung himself down on it. Dick de la Bere amiably rolled out of his way and asked whose skirts he had been lifting.

  *

  Like a dog with a bone to bury, Rushden was certainly trying to be rid of her as discreetly as possible. Next morning as Heloise was leaving the castle chapel after Mass, the porter, at great pains to make a delivery himself, handed her a letter. She tucked it briskly beneath her belt, whisked Ned back to the nursery and locked the letter into her jewellery coffer.

  Thank all the saints she did. When she finally snatched a few moments’ privacy, she discovered it purported to be from Lady Haute’s husband, requesting his wife to return at once. The orange seal on the parchment was different from the previous one and rather indistinct. Yes, it was a letter from a husband. Hers! ‘Rogue!’ she muttered and tossed it on the nearest fire. She was not going to spin away when Rushden cracked his toy whip. God smite him! How long would this game endure?

  And what was worse: she had been commanded to take Ned to breakfast with his sire. To hear about the sword-swallower? The duke’s interest in his son was the only glimmer on a dark horizon, for she guessed that his dear friend Rushden would be listening too, and sending vengeful promises to her across the trenchers and the Paris napery.

  The duke was breakfasting at the small table in his bedchamber and Heloise, having delivered his son, was bidden to wait by the door – near enough to remove Ned if he disobeyed; far enough to be disregarded and hear nothing. She felt like a sentry as the servants came past with platters and it was embarrassing too. Ned tucked his legs around his stool leg, blew on his pottage and prattled happily. Several times the duke stared across at her, and her husband, dining with them and ill at ease with the child, glanced over his shoulder occasionally, but offered no pleasantries.

  Heartily sick of studying the scarlet and gold caparisoned bed, the costly carpets, the pedestalled astrolabe and the collection of lidded golden goblets studded with gemstones, marching across the cupboard shelf, Heloise observed that his grace of Buckingham matched his bed. He was buttoned tightly into a scarlet doublet stitched with panels of yellow silk, criss-crossed with golden cord. Yet for all his flamboyant splendour, there was an elegance in his companion that was much more powerful.

  Rushden’s black cote’s slit sleeves rustled with a lining of grey taffeta every time he set his cup to his lips. Heloise’s gaze was drawn immodestly to the lazy stretch of his shoulders, the way the white pleated collar of his shirt was half-hidden by glossy hair, black as midnight. You need a barber, she silently chided his proud profile, and then blanched as he suddenly tugged at a fingerful of hair and squinted sideways at it. This is definitely against the teachings of Holy Church, Heloise chided herself, or was it mere coincidence? Could the man be made to feel a tickling in his right kneecap? One of Rushden’s ringed hands slid down across the woollen hose of his left leg. Hmm, then she tried to make him sneeze without success before she sensibly gave up. It was wrong to mock the magic; the faery realm might punish her for succumbing to such frivolity.

  His grace of Buckingham finished his gillysops in wine, dabbled his fingers in the proffered rosewater, and scraped his chair back, but it was Rushden who spoke to Heloise. ‘I understand you have received bad tidings from home, my Lady Haute.’ He wiped his hands on the napkin and flung it back across the page’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, nothing of consequence, Sir Miles,’ she answered grandly, ‘but thank you for your concern.’

  Rushden’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Your husband does not miss you?’ Buckingham was being helped into his cote by his servant, Pershall.

  What else had the queen’s letter of recommendation told the duke, she wondered in panic. ‘Not a bit, your grace, except he fusses occasionally about matters that are easily remedied.’ She gave her real husband a quick smile and looked back at the duke. ‘I do not complain, my lord. He leaves me to manage my own affairs so long as I do not interfere with his pursuits.’

  ‘Elderly, is he?’

  ‘Somewhat older than I, your grace, and …’ she pursed her lips looking towards Rushden, ‘and his understanding is not what it was.’ A hit indeed, for Miles Rushden picked up his meat knife, fingering it lovingly.

  The duke turned from the handmirror held by his servant. ‘My son has been telling me his breathlessness is almost vanquished.’

  ‘A few infusions, tried and true,’ Heloise answered warily.

  ‘Good.’ His grace did not offer a verdict on her governance. Certainly not a man to put praises in her alms dish. Observing Ned eyeing his long sleeves mischievously, he languidly felt them for protuberances, but finding none, ruffled the boy’s curls. ‘Off with you!’ Dismissed, Ned scampered back to Heloise, bowed to his father and Rushden, then tugged her swiftly out.

  It was Rushden’s sleeve that had received the earthworms. He silently handed them to Heloise later and strode off before she could apologise.

  *

  Mistletoe! That was it, thought Miles,
noting an incongruous tangle of greenery on a healthy tree branch, still unfurled for spring, as he rode out with his men-at-arms to Llangorse to investigate some trouble stirred up by the Vaughans. Mistress Ballaster was sinking her tendrils into him like mistletoe and looking so pearly white and pretty that every man at the castle was stripping her bare. Godsakes, the Tretower rogues were easier to deal with than the cursed wench. He tried to concentrate on the road, wishing he had Traveller back. Maybe he needed to whistle outside every byre and barn he passed. Where could she have hidden him? Perhaps he should interrogate the balding esquire who had been with her at Potters Field.

  To Hell with Heloise Ballaster! If only he could forget what lay beneath the layers of skirt, the froth of veil and the strip of fur that had edged her neckline this morning. Here he was on the outskirts of Llangorse now and his mind should be on his errand, but no, last night’s temptation was still with him, reminding him he did not just have a familiarity with this particular wench, he actually owned her. That was, if he wanted to – and it was not impossible. The thought was tantalising and an incredible nuisance. Just when he was telling himself it was necessary to be honest with Harry and have the wench sent packing back to her outrageous father, a part of him that had not been overworked of late was urging him to amuse himself. You own the goods, said his sinful side, you could at least examine them further before you send them back.

  It was at that point that he and his men were attacked by the Vaughans.