‘My brave wench.’ His soft laughter heartened her. ‘I forget how skilled you are in combat.’ Once more he set his arm about her waist and half-supporting her, drew her up towards the postern. She stooped and edged past below the window like a thief, while he kept the watchman talking. The clink of money echoed.
‘May a man not visit his mistress without the whole castle knowing?’ grumbled Rushden, his miserliness feigned. More jingled into the waiting palm. His curses were still audible until he caught up with Heloise in the bailey. ‘To bed with you, lady!’
‘Upon my soul, I am truly sorry I endangered you,’ she whispered, running her hand along his sleeve before they parted.
‘You endanger me all the time, Heloise,’ he answered cryptically and, like a night hawk, vanished into the shadows.
Chapter 12
Weary, exultant, confused and burned beyond saving, Heloise reached the first stair and froze as a hand touched her elbow.
‘Ralph Bannastre, my lady, at your service. His grace requires your presence. Now!’
Heloise spun round to seek Rushden’s help, but the courtyard was empty.
‘May I not see him in the morning, sirrah?’ No, she might not, he groused. And if she would make haste, he might take himself to his bed.
Grimy, hooded, her russet muddied with heaven knows what – self-stitched debris pearls and refuse spangles – she entered the duke’s bedchamber with a prayer to St Catherine on her lips. The duke, standing before the hearth, was a blur of kingfisher, his hair a sprawl of ruddy gold across the silken band edging his skin.
‘Where have you been, Lady Haute?’ He dismissed Ralph without a glance of thanks.
‘S-singing, your grace.’
‘No leave was given you to go outside the castle.’
‘Your grace.’
‘But leave you shall have. You will depart tomorrow!’
‘Very well, your grace.’
‘What?’ he asked calmly, coming towards her. ‘No defence? No bargain?’
‘Bargain, my lord?’ He was too close.
‘I could be persuaded to change my mind. After all, you have done a reasonable task of making my son behave.’ A jewelled forefinger hooked her chin. ‘What was this singing then?’
‘A Welsh bard. Lewis. I wanted to hear him, your grace, and …’
‘Lewis Glyn Cothi?’ As she nodded, he tipped back her hood and lifted a lock of her hair in astonishment. ‘“Sufficient grey hairs”. By Our Lady!’
‘Sufficient, yes, your grace, but I assure you—’
‘How very unusual.’ Cunning lit eyes empty of affection. ‘You have a choice, Lady Haute. If you wish to stay at Brecknock …’ He gestured to his great bed, with its voluptuous, silken pillows. She blinked at him. Too much, unfair and unexpected. ‘You will, of course, cleanse yourself first,’ he was saying.
St Catherine! Oh, she needed help to clear her weary head and talk this seducer away from her skirts! ‘I … I am a married woman, my lord.’
‘All the better, my lady. Your experience, I am sure, will do you credit.’
‘But I … I cannot deceive my husband.’ Nor could she divorce him if the duke seduced her.
Warm hands invaded her cloak, forcing down the russet gown to straining point. His lips trailed her neck. ‘Of course you can.’ He slid his hungry hands over her breasts. ‘You are quite delectable, Lady Haute. Of course, if you prefer, you can leave Brecknock tomorrow with your marital fidelity still in tacto or perhaps …’ a finger twisted in her hair, ‘I will send you to Bishop Langton.’
She shuddered. Rushden had warned her. Holy Church had always lain beyond her door like a dog to be wakened. It only needed Buckingham to howl and centuries-old suspicions of both the unknown and misunderstood would be picked up and hurled at her like jagged stones to hurt and kill. Perhaps the best way to deal with this was not to take him at his word.
‘I do not think you would find me good company in your bed, my lord.’ He no longer seemed to care that the small hands which strove to prevent his rambling were still street-stained.
‘Allow me to be the judge of that.’ Did he have to wriggle his tongue in her ear? Such unlicensed wantonness made her want to retch.
‘I am sorry, my lord. I cannot lie with you. Sir Miles Rushden can tell you why.’ Rushden’s name turned the key and the lock gave. Abruptly he released her.
‘Sir Miles? What in God’s Name has he to do with – Are you telling me Rushden has enjoyed you?’
God curse these men! As if she were a pie to be sampled and shared around! She made no answer. Let the duke draw his own conclusions. Rushden would not forgive her, but God damn her if she was going to lose her virginity to a creature who saw her merely as a plate to be licked. Buckingham took her wrists and rearranged them behind her back.
‘So you are lying to me when you prattle of virtue. All this talk of husbands, yet you have already given your body to a lover.’
‘Speak to Rushden, my lord.’ Help me! she cried to the tylwyth teg, struggling fiercely as his mouth came down half suffocating her. ‘Ask him, my lord!’
‘It seems I must.’ He let go of her and unlatched the door. ‘Pershall! Bestir yourself! Fetch Rushden!’
A sleepy mutter answered from the pallet beyond the door. ‘Saints preserve your grace! Is a woman not sufficient for you?’
*
Miles, a gypon and hose over his bare flesh and a richer cloak flung about his shoulders, stared in surprise at an aggravated Heloise, tousled and delightfully unkempt, and then an invisible visor of indifference snapped down.
‘She says she is your mistress.’
Behind Harry’s back, Heloise waved her fingers in denial. With a prayer to whichever saint had sympathy for white lies, Miles sucked in his cheeks and perused the lady with an interest calculated to goad her severely. ‘Not yet, my lord. Suffice it to say that I have made obvious my interest and the lady may reel me in any moment she pleases. You are rather late throwing in a line, I think, your grace.’
‘I consider your behaviour inappropriate considering the delicacy of the negotiations with Rhys ap Thomas.’
‘Inappropriate or inconvenient, my lord?’
‘Both.’ Harry evaded his searching gaze. ‘Lady Haute left the castle without permission.’
Miles’s smile was tepid. ‘With permission, my lord.’
A red flush of annoyance exacerbated the duke’s embarrassment. ‘You knew?’
‘Yes, my lord, I granted her leave.’
The pretend object of his admiration sensibly kept her head lowered as Harry looked suspiciously from his face to hers. But it was not over yet and to appease the duke, Miles circled her. ‘My lady, tell his grace your conclusions about Lewis.’
‘I-I consider him to be no danger. He sings words that might be considered seditious, but I believe his passion is of a bodily nature, not political. Most of his songs seemed to be about women.’ She made no mention of Emrys nor that her Welsh was woeful.
With a sullen pout, the duke eventually unfolded his arms. ‘So, Lady Haute, you are reprieved for the time being, but I will hear a full report in the morning.’ Not a word of thanks, not a hint of an apology. Dismissed, the lady fled.
Harry unfortunately was not finished. ‘Why did you not inform me, Miles?’
‘Lady Haute was in a half-mind not to place herself in danger.’ Any moment Harry would smell the lies.
‘But she did and you let an English noblewoman go into that nest of vipers.’
Oh well, better he came clean. ‘I-I accompanied her, my lord.’
Harry looked like a cannon with its fuse lit. ‘I see.’ Did he?
‘It is best not discussed outside this chamber, my lord. Should the lady be invited again …’
‘But you were set upon.’ No doubt the bruises on his jaw were ripening nicely.
‘Yes. Welsh brigands, but I would wager a year’s pay that the Vaughans were behind it. A payback for the drubbing I gave them.
And we hanged one of their men for sheep stealing, remember.’
‘More complaints from the high sheriff tomorrow,’ the duke was grumbling. But it was not trouble with the Vaughans but the recent jab to his honour that made Harry as merry as a leper with a looking glass. ‘You could have told me, Miles. I have just made an utter fool of myself trying to seduce the woman.’
‘You have many others to choose from, my lord.’
‘So I have but … but the moonlight hair, so very intriguing. You knew?’ Miles nodded. ‘Do you think she’s silver everywhere else?’ Personal annoyance had to be hidden from dukes, especially this one. Since he might dig himself a deeper hole with speaking, Miles gave a cold laugh. ‘Do not assert rank, my lord of Buckingham.’
‘Ha!’ Speculation gleamed. His grace was staring at the bed as if estimating its capacity.
‘No!’ exclaimed Miles, following his thoughts. ‘If – if I decide to sample the lady’s capabilities, I shall not be sharing her.’
‘No,’ Harry’s smile was ruthless, ‘you will not. Let us not delay matters any further. Tomorrow you shall wed Myfannwy.’
*
Godsakes, two wives! Miles woke up hard, thinking of Heloise. Last night had been an error, kissing her, lying to Harry. Well, he would wed Myfannwy even if it was breaking the law, and tup her so much that by the time the church courts started hearing the case, she might be carrying a child and that would settle the matter. And he would not betray Myfannwy; Heloise must leave this very day and he must tell her so straightway and yet …
She was on her own – thank God! – twitching tapestries along the wall close by the duchess’s apartments. He ignored this peculiar activity and the ache in his groin, and tried to imagine how blissful it would be without her. ‘What in Heaven’s name were you doing going to the duke’s bedchamber?’ he rasped, dispensing with niceties.
She let go a dusty arras and rubbed at her nose like a rabbit washing its whiskers, not looking at him but up and down the passageway. ‘His man, Ralph Bannastre, was lying in wait while you were shinning it to your bed in lily-livered fashion. You might have warned me. Have you seen Ned? He was not with his tutor.’
‘I got you out of the scrape.’ With a jingle of spurs, he kept pace with her.
‘Yes, thank Heaven, I could have been violated otherwise and then not even a score of Holy Fathers could have severed us. Where is that child?’ She was opening doors to all the chambers along the passageway and frustrated, halted. ‘Your duke nearly had me naked to the waist. A few minutes more and I would have told him who my husband was, out of perfect desperation. Sir, if you want that annulment, protect me better.’ She turned and marched back the way she had come. ‘Women have the right to bestow their bodies where they please. Any man who thinks otherwise is …’
‘Heloise.’ He grabbed her by the elbow. She was blushing, averting her face, the fury of activity a mask. ‘Changeling, all men are heretics in that respect.’
‘I-I have to find Ned.’
‘Be still! Will you look at me, woman! He wants you, Heloise. It seems that half the castle does.’ Something, surrendered in his voice, made her obey at last. Tears glistened like dew upon her lashes. All eternity was telling him to kiss away her misery. ‘Harry takes what he desires, Heloise. So do I. You have to leave today for all our sakes. This morning. I shall arrange an escort.’
Hazel eyes awash with tears implored his mercy. ‘Oh, I know my sand is through your hourglass,’ she whispered sadly. ‘The … the real Lady Haute may arrive at any hour. I gave myself a week, no more, to win your heart.’ His heart?
‘BOO!’ A small figure in a demon’s mask sprang out in front of them from behind the arras.
‘Oh Hell!’ exclaimed Miles and let her go.
*
‘My lady?’ Brian the archer entered the nursery. Heloise’s bags, ready for slinging across the packhorse, stood waiting for him to shoulder. He frowned at her cat lolling in a patch of sunlight. ‘It is time. They are all in the chapel, so the way is clear.’ He nodded at Rushden’s two men-at-arms who had been posted outside her door.
Heloise glanced from Dafydd curled before the hearth to the ribboned letter she had left for Bess to read to Ned. ‘I have been happy here,’ she murmured, pulling the door closed. The soldiers fell in behind her.
‘You have been good for the child, my lady.’
She had no choice but to let them escort her down the staircase. She faltered at the music from the chapel. Rushden was in there saying his vows to poor Myfannwy. Not at the church door this time, she thought numbly. He had made sure of that.
Across the bailey, Cloud fidgeted, but Martin was standing with the porter and two guards. They seemed to be arguing with a tall scarecrow fellow, a scholar by his dark clothes.
‘Oh, my lady,’ the porter called out in relief when he saw her, and came puffing over with the others following. ‘This fellow reckons he has come from Westminster with an urgent message. I dare not interrupt the service. Will you speak with the fellow?’
Oily black hair unpleasantly rambled over the humbled hunch of the messenger’s shoulders, but the bearded face was sharp with murky intelligence
‘Thomas Nandik, madam. I come from Lord Hastings, madam.’ The voice – scholarly with an Essex dialect – was insistent.
‘From Westminster?’ she said in disbelief, noting that his chewed fingernails played upon the rolled brim of a hat so threadbare that she could see the rushes inside.
‘Aye.’ Dark eyes, red with fatigue but burning with purpose, fixed her and suddenly every instinct told her this was vital. She glanced towards the chapel and bit her lip.
‘Very well. Come on!’ Grabbing his arm, she ran as though her life depended on it.
‘No, Lady Haute!’ Brian bawled, racing after her. ‘I have – oooff—’ He toppled headfirst to the ground as Martin grabbed his ankle.
‘Quickly!’ Heloise flung open the door of the chapel and bundled the stranger in. There was no time for holy water.
‘What in—’ Gasps from those nearest the door disturbed the priest; the Latin halted.
‘My lord of Buckingham!’ Heloise exclaimed, marching towards the altar.
Rushden standing with the Welsh girl’s hand in his, turned. His face went white.
‘Christ in Heaven!’ Buckingham pushed past his duchess to face the interruption, scarlet with fury.
The scholar would have babbled his message to Rushden save Heloise had him by the elbow still. ‘That is the duke!’
Fumbling, he drew a letter from his breast and knelt.
‘Three days ago … The King … God rest his soul … is dead.’
Chapter 13
‘No lusty comets at his Highness’s passing. You would think we should have seen some portent,’ mused Miles, a widower still, passing Harry the calendar, as the duke’s close councillors swiftly reassembled in Harry’s chamber. Rhys ap Thomas was with them (it would have been difficult to deny him) and Myfannwy, unwed and quivering-lipped, was being soothed by Cat and Lady Haute. The marriage could wait.
‘Ha! Why bother with a dead king when we may concern ourselves with the new one?’ retorted the duke.
‘Lord Hastings writes that the queen is sending two thousand men to fetch her son from Ludlow,’ Miles read the letter through again. ‘We ought to swell the retinue.’
It was difficult to stay calm. At last, his dream of high office might come true. Hastings was asking for Harry’s help against the queen.
‘Should you not see which way the winds of power blow?’ ap Thomas suggested. ‘I am told, see, that Gloucester has little liking for the queen and her kinsmen.’
‘Exactly,’ the duke chuckled, ‘there could be rich pickings.’
Yes, thought Miles, and if the queen and Gloucester could be encouraged to destroy each other, the House of Lancaster might rise again and Harry claim the throne.
‘Here, Miles.’ With a scatter of sand across his broad scrawl, the duke folded
and sealed his letter. ‘I am sending a pledge of support to my Cousin Gloucester,’ he informed the others, swiftly grinding his signet into the soft wax. ‘Pershall shall ride with you, Miles, in case of mishap, and take this too.’ He tugged off a smaller ring. ‘Convince Gloucester of my loyalty. Convince him that he is in mortal danger if the Woodvilles seize the kingdom. Tell him to bring an army – where is that map again? Tell him I shall meet him at … at Northampton.’
*
Crossing the bailey was dangerous with horses being led out and couriers mounting, and Miles, fastening his sword belt across his riding doublet, nearly collided with Heloise. She had Ned in her arms, watching the preparations, but no doubt lying in wait for him. Well, he was not rid of her yet but …
‘Is it so certain the king is dead?’ she exclaimed, hastening after him. ‘What did the letter say?’
‘Infection of the lungs. From fishing, I believe. And now we have a child for king!’
‘Huzzah!’ Ned flung his arms up.
‘Exactly,’ muttered Miles, with feeling. ‘Enjoy the reprieve, madam.’ He caught the reins of the posthorse from his groom, sprang into the saddle and slid his feet into the leather messenger guards. ‘I am for Yorkshire to my lord of Gloucester.’ He could have said more but there was no privacy.
‘Sir—’ Heloise longed to beg him to bear her love to Dionysia and Lady Margery but there were greater matters for him to deal with. ‘Go safely,’ she said, a wife’s concern tender in her voice.
‘I pray so! We may well be on the verge of war. God keep you, my little lord, and you, too, my lady! Stand aside!’ And he spurred the posthorse through the gate.
*
At Middleham in Wensleydale, Miles, with a three-day beard untidying his chin and his eyes gritty from weariness, knelt before the Duke of Gloucester. His grace, sombre in mourning, his sorrow for his much-loved brother writ large upon his face, read Harry’s letter with stern concentration; perhaps the promise of alliance was unlooked for; the two dukes had always been polite to one another but never close.
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