by Jane Feather
“I can always rely on you to tell me the most unflattering truths, brother dear,” Pippa stated, rising to her feet. “But have no fear, 'tis just the heat. Stay and enjoy the next spectacle. Two teams are to match canes, as I understand it. Such excitement!”
She gave him a smile that held a smidgeon of her usual mischievous spirit and he was sufficiently reassured not to insist on escorting her. He waved in acknowledgment and took her vacated seat on the bench.
Pippa, realizing that Mary was watching her departure, curtsied deeply and received a haughty nod of dismissal in response. Relieved, she slid past the rows of spectators and made her escape. Heralds' trumpets sounded behind her as she walked through the narrow entrance to the lists and into the relative quiet of a sun-filled cloistered courtyard.
A man stood in the center of the courtyard, leaning against the sundial, idly cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger.
Lionel Ashton.
Pippa's step quite uncharacteristically faltered. Then she moved backwards into the shadows of the cloister and stood motionless, trying to untangle the skein of conflicting emotions that held her fast as a fly in a spider's web. She couldn't take her eyes off the man. He had discarded his cloak and wore only doublet and shirt open at the neck as it had been that morning, with plain black silk hose. He was bareheaded and she saw how the sun turned the strands of gray among the dark hair into silver threads.
What was he doing alone out here? He seemed unaware of the servants crisscrossing the courtyard, of pages scurrying in and out of doorways, or even of a pair of wolfhounds prowling the cobbles, pausing every now and again to sniff at his ankles. He had the quality of utter stillness, utter detachment from his surroundings.
She had seen him before. She knew she had.
Pippa was not one to let a mystery stand. She pushed aside the odd feeling that had kept her in motionless retreat, moved briskly out of the shadows, and crossed the courtyard. Her jeweled silk slippers made no sound on the cobbles but her turquoise and rose damask skirts swished with her step.
He looked up when she was a few paces away and his clear gray eyes met hers. There was no mistaking their message. It declared a connection between them, one that was both complicit and open.
“Mr. Ashton.” Pippa addressed the problem in her customarily straightforward fashion. “I find myself very puzzled. I know we have not been introduced but I am certain we have met before. Can you enlighten me?”
He slid his dagger into its sheath and bowed. “No, madam, we have not. I would not have forgotten such a meeting.” His voice was deep and rich, and his smile was as she remembered from that morning, as sweet and tender as the first snowdrop. “You have the advantage of me, it would seem.” He raised an eyebrow.
“Lady Nielson,” Pippa supplied, nonplussed. How could he possibly deny that they had met before? The message in his gaze was an open admission. And yet she couldn't remember herself. Once again she felt the cold prickle of fear on the back of her neck.
“Ah, yes. You are married to Viscount Nielson,” he observed, not altering his position against the sundial. “Now I think about it, we did come across each other this morning in the queen's presence chamber. Perhaps that is the memory you seek.”
“No, 'tis not.” Pippa shook her head. “I felt the same recognition then.”
“My apologies, my lady, but I cannot enlighten you.” He sounded amused.
Doubt assailed her. She couldn't be the only one to have the memory if it was correct. Perhaps she was simply mistaken. But there was no mistaking the strange flutter of excitement that blended seamlessly with the confused sense of dread, filling her head so that she couldn't think clearly.
“You have abandoned the tourney?” he said, smiling still.
“I have little stomach for contrived outcomes,” Pippa declared, an edge to her voice as she struggled to master her confusion.
Lionel Ashton nodded. “From what I saw of the match, your husband's loss to Philip was somewhat spectacular and one can't help wondering if it was truly necessary. It does indeed seem a pity that our Spanish friends won't rely on their own skills for success.”
“Your Spanish friends, as I understand it, sir,” she returned with asperity. “Not mine, I assure you.”
His smile changed. It lost its sweetness and his eyes became cold. Then almost as suddenly, almost before she could register the change, he was once more smiling gently at her. “They are not all bad,” he said, his tone mollifying.
“The king's reputation preceded him,” she stated, aware that this was dangerous talk, but that had never stopped her from speaking her mind in the past and wasn't about to now. “You would deny that reputation?”
Lionel Ashton stroked his beard that he wore in the Spanish fashion, small and triangular, and once again Pippa was struck by the curiously haphazard arrangement of his features. His nose was prominent and crooked, his mouth slightly twisted, his chin large and deeply cleft, his eyebrows thick as bushes and speckled with gray like his beard. A man more unlike Stuart in his appearance would be impossible to find. Stuart was beautiful, his features perfectly composed. Lionel Ashton was not even handsome. Indeed, not to put too fine a point upon it, he was ugly. And yet there was something about him that stirred Pippa in a way that she knew in her blood she must not attempt to explore or understand.
“Well, sir, would you?” she challenged.
“You refer to the king's reputation for womanizing?”
Pippa made no answer and after a minute he continued in a detached tone, “Philip is no saint. But your queen was well aware of that fact. I would suggest her husband's reputation is for her and her alone to worry about.”
It was, Pippa decided, a snub. However, snubs rarely troubled her. “On the contrary, sir, it is a matter for all loyal Englishmen.” She dropped him a curtsy and turned away.
He moved from the sundial and took her hand, tucking it neatly into his arm. “Since we've now become acquainted, madam, pray allow me to walk a little with you. The pleasaunce is particularly agreeable at this time of day.”
Pippa experienced a sudden flash of panic. There was nothing wrong with her accepting the escort of a gentleman of the court. Nothing for anyone to object to. Stuart wouldn't give it a second thought. And yet with the same instinct as before she knew she must not walk with Lionel Ashton. In the pleasaunce or anywhere else.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, pulling her hand free. “I have the headache . . . the heat . . . I have no wish to walk. . . .” Breathlessly she hurried away towards the arched entrance to the courtyard.
Lionel Ashton watched her go, his hands resting lightly on his hips where hung his sheathed rapier and dagger. Pippa didn't look back but if she had done she would have been frightened by his expression. His eyes were now iron-hard, filled with anger and contempt, and something else. Something very like dismay.
He turned on his heel and made his way to the lists where two lines of dismounted courtiers, one line wearing the colors of Spain, the other Tudor green and white, advanced and retreated amid the thud and splintering of their canes.
Stuart Nielson was standing at the far side of the ground, still in the leather padded doublet he had worn for the joust. Full armor was not considered necessary when one played only with sticks. He stood alone, and Lionel wondered if it was through choice or because his usual companions were too embarrassed for him after his mortifying loss. Not that the reason interested Lionel in the least.
He made his way towards Stuart, who saw him coming and turned hastily back to the tented enclosure where the participants prepared themselves for their bouts. Lionel increased his pace.
“Lord Nielson, a word with you.”
Stuart seemed to hesitate, and then he stopped. He waited for the other man to reach him. “Well?” There was no invitation in the sharp question.
“A hard loss, I gather,” Lionel offered, his voice soft. “Perhaps you have no need to immolate yourself quite so thoroughly.”
Stuart stared at him, his aquamarine eyes both hostile and frightened. “What do you mean?”
“Why, only that you could give Philip a little more challenge while achieving your objective.” Lionel was looking out over the lists rather than at Stuart. His tone was remote.
“What difference does it make?” Stuart demanded harshly. “I accept and obey my orders. All of them.”
“Yes . . . yes, so you do, most admirably,” Lionel said in the same remote tone.
Stuart flushed angrily. The dismissive contempt in the other's manner was unmistakable even though they had still not exchanged a glance.
“There are no signs as yet?” Lionel asked.
Stuart's flush deepened. “Not that I'm aware.” He paused, then continued on a note almost of bluster, “But it would be wise to desist for a few days.”
Lionel swung his head slowly towards him. “Why so?”
Stuart's hand rested unconsciously on his sword hilt and his face now was as pale as it had been suffused before. “There are difficulties,” he said. “Objections.”
“Objections to what? She is aware of nothing.” Lionel was speaking very softly but his gaze was intent as it rested on the other man's countenance.
“She is aware of some things,” Stuart said with difficulty. “How can she not be?”
Lionel continued to regard him closely. The hardness of his expression diminished some. The man was in agony. And so he should be, Lionel reflected with a resurgence of contempt, but then he softened again. Stuart Nielson was in an impossible position. And even if Lionel Ashton believed that he himself would have died rather than accept such a position he was not going to throw the first stone.
“I will tell them that it would be wise to desist from now until we have some definite sign one way or the other,” he said, and saw the naked relief shine forth from Lord Nielson's blue eyes. “Soon there should be something . . . or nothing. You understand me?”
“Aye.” Stuart nodded. “I will keep a close eye.”
“Yes, I imagine you will,” the other said dryly. “I give you good afternoon, Lord Nielson.”
He bowed and Stuart returned the courtesy briefly. He remained where he was however, in the stifling heat beneath the tent, amid the bustle of competitors, the scurry of pages and varlets and grooms, the heavy odor of horseflesh, leather, and manure. Then when he became acutely aware of the glances cast in his direction, sympathetic some of them, curious some of them, one or two directly hostile, he left the tent by a rear exit, looking neither to right nor left.
Behind the tent, horses stamped, tossed their heads, as the heavy jeweled saddles and bridles were lifted from them. They were huge, magnificent creatures, dangerous, fearless, willful, bred to go into battle bearing the weight of a fully armored man.
Stuart paused beside his own charger, who stood relatively quietly at the water trough in the hands of a pair of grooms. The animal raised his head as Stuart approached and his eyes rolled. Stuart could almost see reproach there. The horse had been badly managed that afternoon and knew it. He was used to winning, used to the applause, the cheers, the acclaim, certainly not accustomed to slinking off the field in disgrace.
The horse, lips pulled back from his teeth, was clearly not in the mood to be stroked. But he was not a domesticated beast at the best of times and Stuart made no attempt to touch him.
“Check his fetlocks and give him a warm mash,” he instructed the grooms, then made his way through the press of horseflesh and along a beaten path that ran behind the stands that lined the lists. The path brought him to a gate into the pleasaunce. Here fountains plashed and the sweet scents of roses, lavender, and lilac filled the air.
He could hear the sound of instruments and followed the music to the center of the pleasaunce where a small group of courtiers lounged on tapestries spread upon the grass. Pages moved among them with flagons of fine rhenish and silver platters of sweetmeats and savory tarts.
The musicians were seated to one side under the spreading arms of a copper beech. Stuart listened, his eyes on the lyre player. He took a goblet from a page, absently selected a tart of goose liver and bacon, and then, accepting a waved invitation from one of his friends, took a seat on a tapestry beside the fountain.
“A bad afternoon,” his friend observed without inflection.
“Aye,” Stuart said curtly.
“We must not offend our Spanish guests,” the other murmured, casting a sidelong glance at his companion.
“No.”
“No doubt there'll be some unpleasantness at first, but it will pass . . . a nine days' wonder.”
As long as it didn't happen again. Stuart kept this reflection to himself. One defection would eventually be forgiven by the anti-Spanish contingent, but no more. Neither would any overt appearance of friendship, of supplication. His skin crawled in revulsion.
He looked across at the musicians. At the lyre player, whose black head was bent over his instrument, his eyes riveted to his plucking fingers. If he was aware of Stuart's intent regard he gave no indication, but it was always thus when Gabriel was playing, lost in his music.
Stuart abruptly cast aside the remnants of the tart he'd been eating as revulsion again rose bitter as bile in his throat. He got to his feet, upending the contents of his goblet on the grass, heedless of the splatters on the tapestry.
What choice did he have? The alternative was unthinkable.
“What ails you, Stuart?” His friend looked up at him in alarm.
“Nothing. I have just remembered I promised to meet with my wife at this hour.”
“Ah, the spirited Lady Pippa,” the other said with a somewhat lascivious grin. “There's many a man would enjoy being in your shoes, my friend.” In your bed was left unspoken but the implication was clear.
Stuart forced a flicker of the gratified smile that he knew was expected, then left with a murmur of farewell.
Gabriel, the lyre player, raised his eyes momentarily from his instrument as Lord Nielson departed.
Pippa sat at the open window of her bedchamber, her tambour frame idle in her lap. Afternoon was giving way to evening but the sun was still warm on her back and her unquiet mind was lulled by the continuous, indolent buzzing of a bee. Her body was filled with languor, as if she'd been drugged, her eyelids drooped.
The door opened, jerking her awake. She blinked in surprise, as much at the idea that she'd been about to take an unprecedented nap as at her husband's unexpected appearance.
“I thought you were still at the tourney,” she said.
“I saw you leave,” he returned. “Unable to stomach your husband's defeat, I imagine?” His voice was bitter. He began to unfasten the heavy clips of his padded doublet.
“Why did you have to humiliate yourself so?” Pippa demanded. “I understand it was politic to lose, but in such fashion?”
She knew Stuart was upset and angry but she had again the sense that he was holding her to blame for something. Still dismayed at their quarrel of the morning, hurt and troubled at its cause, she was in no mood to offer soft words of consolation. That she was also disturbed, thrown off course, by her encounter with Lionel Ashton, Pippa chose to ignore.
“What could you possibly know about it?” Stuart demanded, throwing his doublet to the floor. He flexed his shoulders, working the tired muscles. Losing a joust was every bit as tiring as winning one, and the sour aftermath of defeat made normal aches and pains even worse.
Pippa leaned her head against the high back of her chair. Why was she so tired! She made an effort to keep her voice reasonable. “I don't see why you would attack me, Stuart. What have I done? It seems to me after last night that I have the right to be angry, not you.” Despite her best efforts the note of recrimination was loud and clear.
His face flushed. “You are my wife, madam, 'tis your duty to give yourself to me whenever I wish it.”
Pippa rose to her feet, her tambour frame falling to the floor. She was flushed herself no
w, her hazel eyes burning. “And when have I ever refused you?” she demanded. “I object merely to being taken, used like some household chattel. God's bones, why wouldn't you wake me!”
He put his hands to his face and his fingers trembled violently. When he spoke his voice was barely above a whisper. “I asked your forgiveness this morning, Pippa. Can you not be more generous? I explained that I was overdrunk. I didn't think about what I was doing.”
Pippa turned her back on him, clasping her hands tightly as she fought down her anger and resentment. “It was not the first time, Stuart. Something is wrong between us. I would know what it is. Have I done something to offend you? I cannot put it right if I don't know what it is.”
Stuart stared at her averted back. Sweet Jesus! She talked of offending him!
Shame, guilt, horror swamped him. Denial tumbled from his lips. “Of course you haven't. Of course there's nothing wrong between us. You talk nonsense, Pippa.”
“Nonsense!” She spun around to face him. “It is not nonsense, Stuart! Ever since Mary and Philip were married, you have been behaving strangely. Distant with me . . . except when I'm asleep,” she added acidly. “You're always in the company of the Spanish, always obsequious, always deferential. And this afternoon was the last straw! You will lose all your friends and—”
“Hold your tongue, woman!” He flung the words at her, in a tone she had never heard him use before. Now he was ashen, his eyes filled with a wild desperation.
He took a step towards her and Pippa shrank back involuntarily, afraid that he was going to strike her. Something she would never have believed possible until this minute.
But her sudden movement gave him pause and he stopped some feet from her. “You have a scold's tongue,” he said more moderately. “Oblige me by bridling it.”
Pippa set her lips. “I am only trying to understand, my lord,” she said, her face taut. “I know there's something amiss and I would put it right.”
“And I tell you there is nothing, nothing, amiss except your refusal to accept that,” he declared. “Now cease your shrewishness, Pippa.”
