The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  His lower lip apucker, he took it sulkily, hoping one of the Welsh lads had not dosed it to make her more amenable. Inside he was thanking God that these musicians were all the worse for drinking. His millstone lady was tapping her foot to the music, and it was easy, sprawled as he was, to slide his hand around her ankle meaningfully. She smiled down at him, clapping her hands, and nodded, but she did not rise.

  His fingers rose above the slender ankle, enjoying the smooth slope of her calf. It was wonderful what modesty that drew forth; as the piece ended, she stood up, trying her nursery Welsh in bidding them ‘Nos da’. Emrys she bussed upon the cheek and then sweetly blowing kisses to them all, disappeared up the stairs. With a mumble and a touch of forelock, Miles fled after her and taking her by the elbow, hurried her across the shining puddles.

  ‘I did not know you liked Welsh epics,’ she giggled, when they reached the street.

  ‘Tell me the one about the foolish English virgin. You should know it backwards.’

  Heloise tried to stamp her foot at him. Grammercy, she had not asked the rogue to hazard a beating! ‘That is not—’

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ She found herself swung into a doorway with his hand clamped over her mouth. ‘I risked my life coming after you tonight, madam.’

  ‘Why in Heaven bother?’ Heloise retorted in a fierce whisper as he loosened her. His hand had left her with a gravelly taste.

  ‘Such gratitude. Because, lady simpleton, if you are ravished by a Welshman whoreson in the high street, I shall never be free of you and will have to suffer an egg smelling of leeks in my marital nest.’

  ‘Well, it would serve you right. Are you going to see me back or are we to huddle here like adulterers while you lecture me all night?’

  ‘I thought I was a decent Christian man,’ he growled, grabbing her hand and hauling her along. ‘I reckon Job in the holy scriptures was better off.’

  ‘What’s that to the point?’

  ‘He mainly suffered boils. Why God has saddled me with such a shrew as you, I cannot fathom.’

  ‘Because you hang men and dislike children and kill innocent bees.’ That retort brought him up short. ‘And I … I rescued you just now, you ungrateful man!’

  ‘Lady, be quiet! You are making enough noise to bring the watch from Bulith, let alone the next street.’

  ‘Well, you are ungrateful.’

  ‘Hush!’

  ‘Huussssssssh!’

  Miles cursed. His chance of taking her through the streets without discovery looked nigh impossible and if they were found together, he would be stuck in a marital rut with her forever. If he could sober her … He hauled her along a laneway towards the river and into a doorway built into the town wall.

  ‘What is this?’ She struggled to free her hand, stumbling in the darkness as he hauled her up a spiral stair into a watch tower.

  ‘Somewhere to stare at Pen-y-Fan by moonlight while you regain your sobriety. Get down.’ A fierce hand forced her to crouch. ‘I want to make sure we have not been followed.’ He stooped beside her, listening intently, and then tensely edged upwards as though he expected a volley of arrows to come flying in if he stuck his head up. ‘I hope your magical powers run to alarum bells,’ he muttered.

  Heloise muffled a giggle. ‘There is nothing here, sir, but the tylwyth teg, and us.’

  He ducked back down. ‘Faeries, that is all I need. We have enough problems already from the underworld – of Brecknock, that is. What is so amusing?’

  ‘You, you are so gloriously serious.’

  ‘I think you mean sober, which is more than you are.’ He played sentry again. ‘Our luck is in, it seems.’ A hand, warm and dusty, located one of hers. ‘I should have learned by now that danger and you skip hand in hand and it always embroils me.’

  Upright, she untangled her feet and surveyed an enchanted world. Below them flowed the Usk, black as Lethe with the cleared moon broken in shards and glossed upon its waves. Gables and ridges, shingles and tiles, all sleek with rain, glinted in silence like an altar painting. Torches burned at the castle, but half-heartedly as though the stones themselves were slumbering. But the wind was blowing from Pen-y-Fan, something was shifting.

  Miles, scanning the gaps of cobble and dirt between the dwellings, was listing lethal possibilities. Murder? Bootcaps and fists applied strategically to rib and groin in reprisal for the hanging? A bloody means to stop the alliance with ap Thomas? Rape of the lily maiden at his side? Why in Hell had he brought her up here?

  ‘Best that we wait a little longer,’ he advised, and taking a corner of his damp cloak wiped the forge dust from his face. They should leave now. What had begun in the orchard had to be withstood now but the ache was growing.

  ‘There is no harm – yet.’ Her words were a soft sigh with the ripple of willow leaves. ‘I would know … and it is all right,’ she continued in a steady little voice. ‘I actually drank very little.’

  Ha, is the earth round? Shapeshifter!

  ‘I am sorry that I put you at risk,’ she ventured softly, as if afraid to leave the abyss of silence between them unbridged. ‘It was kind of you to come after me.’

  ‘Kind?’ You are my possession. ‘Lady, I have been at great pains to build up a reputation that will shake some respect out of the Welsh. God knows who is behind this little adventure of ours and it is not over yet. There is still some price to be paid.’ His grim tone warned against the perils involved in baiting him. God’s mercy, but he was trying not to imagine the feel of her.

  At his back, the bells of the abbey pealed in another saint’s day.

  ‘England is full of walls,’ she whispered, slithering her fingertips over the sandstone. ‘Castles, abbeys, towns, anchorite cells …’

  Miles understood, or thought he did, but he had no answer; his thoughts were running widdershins, his sideways gaze lingering where it should not. He had seen her in so many forms – like a jewel toppled upon his palm but now … God in heaven, why did she have to look so ethereal and lovely, and stand so damnably close that he could smell her fragrance.

  ‘But music can steal through walls and conquer kingdoms,’ he observed. ‘That was sedition at work, my lady.’

  ‘Perhaps, sir, but their songs and voices were so beautiful. Speak gently and bid the sky no more to glower, nor cast a veil across the moon. I shall not forget tonight.’

  His mind was reeling, he had tasted loneliness, the river pouring mercilessly through the arc of stones, like sand through the glass of time.

  ‘Nor I,’ he added wryly, drawing his cuff across his mouth. ‘I still have the taste of ashes in my mouth.’

  ‘Have you no heart, Cysgod?’ she chided, laughing, turning to aim small fists playfully against his chest. ‘Is there no poetry in you tonight?’

  ‘There is a great deal,’ Miles answered, with a Welsh lilt, ‘and it is mostly Anglo-Saxon and the theme is getting you back to the castle without having our throats cut. As for my heart,’ he laughed, ‘I keep it where the Welsh can’t steal it, see. I advise you to do the same, cariad.’ And then he added in his own voice, ‘Are you cold?’

  ‘No, please,’ she protested, staying his hand from untying his cloak.

  ‘At least I can keep the cruel wind from you.’ Hands, ungoverned by mind, spun her and drew her back against his shoulder. It took all his will to keep his hands armouring her shoulders and prevent them straying where his lips longed to touch; his imagination was divine sedition and utter torture.

  Heloise held her breath. Loath to cut herself free from the spell that was winding, she felt the hardness of Rushden’s body like a stake against her back. Was this the passion that the saints denied themselves? This other fire kindled beneath her skirts? To confess her heresy would destroy her. Take him now, she could hear her father saying. Make him burn for you. Oh, if she were Dionysia, she would wind a halter of seduction around his neck and press her soft belly against his thighs. But for Heloise Ballaster, there would be no forgiveness in the
morning; Rushden would call her passion wanton and her surrender cunning, because to become her lover he must become her husband. Oh, her inexperienced hands were shackled, but she wanted to misbehave so desperately, to taste the words of love upon his breath.

  What shall I do? Her soul called out across the river to the ancient ones, the faeries that watched over her, and peace came with the rustling of the grasses. Look at the moon, whispered her inner being, is she not a veiled Diana staring out towards the planets, mourning Actaeon?

  ‘Are you a changeling, Heloise?’ The man’s voice at last eased the silence, his words warm against her cheek. ‘Is that what you believe?’ It was a step across the ice. A coil of woven words thrown out might help him reach her.

  With a fragile happiness, she leaned back, surrendering to the moment.

  ‘I see things ordinary—’ she corrected herself, ‘others never do.’ The answer was here, but this man would not know that just by standing with her in this stone turret like a king, that a spell was being cast.

  ‘Are there voices in the bells?’ Jeanne d’Arc?

  ‘Not for me.’ She shuddered, sheathing her hands into her loose sleeves.

  ‘You are trembling.’ The man’s hands slid down to clasp hers beneath her breasts. ‘Not long now.’ Until …

  ‘An owl, look!’ she exclaimed delightedly as the grey wings skimmed soundlessly past their turret.

  ‘The lady Bloedeuedd perhaps,’ he said softly, his arms falling lower, hands splaying across her, melding her against his hardness. ‘Born of flowers, bewitched into an owl for being unfaithful.’ His voice was close, so seductively close. ‘What else do you see?’

  ‘I-I saw … foresaw … a fire consuming the thatch beyond the church.’

  Rushden did not answer straightway. ‘Highly likely,’ he murmured. ‘Do you feel the fire as well as see it?’ The fire, yes, she wanted to turn within his arms so badly. ‘And people, Heloise? The orchard …’

  ‘I felt your mother’s pain.’ Her breathing was growing swift.

  ‘And us, Heloise?’ So y Cysgod was hunting in the darkness for the future.

  At least loosened, her silver hair could hide her face as she stared downward as if she were watching the torches ignite the wood beneath her. ‘No, not us. Something else is – I cannot tell.’ Wretchedly, she flung herself free. ‘For there is no pattern, you see, it is more like …’ She was babbling but … ‘more like a glimpse of a page from someone else’s story and then the book is closed. I do not hold the keys to the clasps either. Nor do I seek the lock. As you warned me yesterday, sir, I might be … burned for it.’

  His finger was gentle beneath her chin. ‘Then tell no one.’

  ‘I have told no one.’

  ‘Lady … you have just told me … I am your greatest enemy.’

  ‘But I trust you.’ Her eyes were shimmering with more than moonlight.

  ‘Well, do not.’ He lowered his head. ‘Expediency is the enemy of loyalty and all men are traitors when it comes to—’

  ‘—to what?’ The question was a dreamy sigh; the answer … a shadow eclipsing heaven. Oh, she wanted this more than anything in her whole life.

  ‘This.’ His fingers tangled in her hair, holding her face to await his pleasure, tantalising her until she could have screamed for him to kiss her with open lips – and open heart. She would not dare to beg.

  ‘Heloise!’ He drew his lower lip along hers. She could have tempted Lucifer back to Heaven. His hands fastened possessively around her waist beneath her cloak and slid upwards, marvelling at how wonderful she felt, her body sweet and delicate and close.

  ‘No!’ Frail manacles closed suddenly about his wrists. She pulled away, leaving him aroused, unsatisfied. ‘Think of Myfannwy …’

  ‘Myfannwy! When the moon is out you cannot see the stars.’

  ‘I do not want to be your mistress,’ she protested. ‘I do not want to be bought a little house in Hereford and the neighbours whispering, “There goes Sir Miles Rushden’s whore when he can spare the time”.’

  Miles did what any quick-witted man would do, pushed beyond endurance, to hush a lovely woman. He kissed her properly. It was his error. Heloise Ballaster tasted of mead – but such flowers, such divinity, that he felt like a god in tasting her. Within the girdle of his fingers, her waist was delicate, and her hair moonlight, celestial fire, about them both. As he deepened the kiss with a tender hunger, it was as if a magic surrounded them and some arcane power was touching a taper to pendant drops of light on either side of a path to welcome him to another world. Bewitched, he recognised himself inspired, renewed, as though the shackles that bound him to the humdrum earth were severed one by one.

  ‘Heloise.’ He had never felt like this before.

  As if she understood the raw hunger in his voice, her laughter brushed his mouth and she drew back, her hair tiptoeing upon the fingers splayed against her back.

  Miles had committed sacrilege, yet at whose bidding? ‘I should not have done that,’ he told her and hoped divine forgiveness was possible.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, siren’s fingers running across his lips. ‘You should not have.’

  Miles felt dazed, lunatick. He took her face once more between his palms and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips told her that he wanted her surrender, that only in his conquest would she find her truth.

  Heloise slid her arms up round his neck and wreathed her fingers into his hair. He was her destiny, her black, ruthless, desirable knight. Her thighs were turning to fire as he kissed her neck, her throat, his hands fondling and stroking with an urgency.

  But the magic suddenly fled and the most profound feeling of imminent evil surged into her mind.

  ‘No.’ She pushed at his chest, her heart beat frantic. ‘Something is wrong. Let me go! You must!’

  ‘Curse you, Heloise.’

  The iron bands of his arms freed her; sweat pearled upon his pale forehead.

  She shrank against the wall, fighting against her soul’s desire, wondering what power had dragged her from him, and struggled to reason.

  ‘Yes, curse, Miles Rushden. But if I let you take what you do not want, tomorrow you will call me “whore” and “witch”.’

  ‘Come here!’ Thirst for her serrated his angry voice.

  ‘You did this of your own free will,’ she exclaimed and sped off down the steps like a fleeing princess. ‘You said so.’

  He hastened after her, grabbing at the cloak and gaining no purchase but, as he caught her to him on the last step, a nearby dog barked a fierce alarum. They froze, no longer melded in desire but waiting. He held his breath, his fingers tense in the furrows between her ribs, his heart beating behind her shoulderblade as she leaned against him. Oh, this was the evil. Not Rushden! Out of the darkness, three men came at them with cudgels.

  ‘Hide!’ Rushden protectively flung her sideways out the way of the attackers and quickly drew a dagger from his boot.

  Cursing, Heloise landed indecorously amidst a pile of rubbish and scrambled round to face the enemy. Her husband had wrapped his cloak about his left arm as a buckler, but with no long steel to make the assailants keep their distance, he was hard pressed.

  ‘Dal y ferch!’ She instinctively knew the Welsh was meant for her. She must attract help at any cost. Swiftly clambering to her feet, Heloise sang forth her highest, most piercing note while her fingers fumbled in her purse for her only weapon.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ exclaimed Rushden, laughing even though he was besieged on the first step. ‘It must be the figs!’ As she drew breath, a choir of adjacent dogs took over, and tapers in the nearby dwellings suddenly flamed behind the shutters.

  ‘Diawl!’ One of the brigands charged at her.

  ‘Come on!’ she gasped and hurled the powder into his face.

  ‘Putain!’ A hand clutching his eyes, the large man staggered back. His sudden blindness gave her the chance to kick at his kneecap with all her strength. Wrenching his cudgel away, she whamm
ed it behind the second man’s knees, sending him sprawling onto Rushden’s blade like a paid bill for spiking.

  ‘Jesu, lady, I could hire you out when we next invade France!’ Miles struggled to free the blade as the third man hurtled at him. Fleet of foot, he sprang aside. The vicious club smashed down against the steps. He slammed the side of his fist hard down on the fellow’s neck, then with a hefty kick drove him crashing into the fence. But his assailant staggered back. Jerking free his cloak, Miles flung it in the other’s face and leapt upon his enemy.

  It might be Rushden she cudgelled if she interfered, thought Heloise, as the two men rolled across the stony ground.

  ‘Be off, the pack o’ yer!’ bawled a woman and a bucket of pisswater hit the ground.

  The rogue must have heard the thud of boots upon the cobbles.

  ‘Awn!’ he yelled, no longer struggling, and Rushden dragged him to his feet and hurled him at his staggering friend. The pair hurtled back against the wall. ‘Dere ’mlaen!’ Grabbing the blinded man’s belt, the third ruffian hauled him lumbering into the darkness.

  ‘As if I have not enough trouble,’ growled Rushden. ‘There will be the Devil to pay for this night’s work. The watch! Come on!’

  ‘But …’

  Godsakes, thought Miles, would she play physician? ‘Come!’ With a fierce arm about her waist, he sped her up the lane and into an alley just as the town watch arrived at the tower.

  Her breath was ragged, her heart crying mercy, as they reached the end of Shepe Street. ‘Come on, mistress! If the watch catch us …’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she panted. ‘I will have to have your children.’ He recoiled as if her body was fire. ‘Go on without me,’ she gasped, glimpsing his shocked face, pale as a handsome wraith’s, before she bent over, hands clasping her knees, her side burning as if she had been spiked by the Devil’s trident.

  ‘Easy, changeling.’ Strong hands steadied her shoulders and held her against him until the painful stitches had eased. ‘What was it you threw at the fellow, elfin dust?’

  ‘Honest flour,’ she panted. ‘Did you think I would venture out unarmed?’