by Anne O'Brien
Some two years or more before, he had by chance attended the traditional gathering at King Henry’s court at Westminster. And there he had set eyes on Beatrice Hatton. How long had it taken him to fall in love with her? As long as it took to plunge headlong into the depths of her violet–blue eyes, as soft and velvety as a pansy, and willingly drown there. He had watched her, distantly at first, admiring her joyful participation in the dancing, her fearless skill when riding a horse to the hunt. Her shining happiness in all that she did. And he had been drawn to her, the sharp tingle in his blood giving him no rest. Until the archery contest when he had made his first approach, encouraging her to respond to his subtle flattery, enjoying her innocent response. Being captivated by the indomitable life force, the translucent charm. Vivid and unquestionably beautiful, she had drawn all eyes, but it was to him that she looked. On him that she smiled and granted her hand in the succession of round dances.
Now as he rode from Great Houghton, Lord Richard found himself remembering her as she had sat between her smiling mother and glowering father, watching the dancing, her desire to participate clear in every line of her body, the tapping of her foot against the tiled floor. She had been wearing, he recalled, a high–waisted gown of figured silk trimmed with fur at hem and low neckline. The full skirt, which flowed into a train, would not make dancing an easy task but that would not hinder her with her gifts of grace and agility. Her hair had been covered by a long veil secured by a jeweled band, that did everything to emphasise the lovely clear oval of her face as the pale silk drew attention to her glorious eyes.
Then the music from flutes and horns and drums had struck up a popular tune and Richard had known that he must dance with her. So he had approached Sir Walter Hatton, stern and forbidding despite the lighthearted occasion.
“I would ask your daughter to partner me in this dance, Sir Walter. With your permission.”
Sir Walter had frowned, pursed his lips in sour thought, misliking the smooth elegance of the young courtier who bowed so gracefully toward Beatrice. But he could not so openly refuse without comment. Stafford had powerful connections. Besides, Lady Margery smiled her agreement and Beatrice gave a little tug to her father’s sleeve. So he would comply, if grudgingly.
Sir Walter hunched his shoulders. “If she wishes it, sir.”
Of course she did. Her face was alight with it. She was on her feet before her father could change his mind, her hand in Richard’s as he led her to join the other dancers.
“Did you think I would refuse?” Her fingers curled into his, her teeth glinted in a smile of sheer delight.
“No, lady. But I thought your father might.”
She glanced over to where her father continued to grimace at the merriment in general and at her and her partner in particular. “He has no love for the Court. He is here out of duty only, and in loyalty to the king. He suspects all courtiers of empty smiles and false words. But why would he refuse something so trivial as a dance?”
“He might have other ideas for his beautiful daughter.”
Her brow furrowed in a little frown. “I do not take your meaning, my lord. Ideas other than what?”
“Of you being my lover. Of being my wife.”
Her eyes flew to his face. Her pretty lips opened in a perfect O of shock.
“My lord … Indeed …”
“I would never have believed it possible for me to fall hopelessly, helplessly in love with you—with any woman—with so little acquaintance. But now I do, Mistress Hatton. What do you think? Can such a thing as love at first meeting exist?”
“I … I think you flatter me, my lord.” She turned away from him in the dance, only to return a moment later, to put her hand trustingly into his.
“Of course I flatter you,” he continued, noting the deepening color in her cheeks with appreciation. “How could I not flatter so lovely a lady? But it comes from a heart which you hold within these pretty fingers.” He tightened his clasp on her hand as they moved closer together in the dance.
“Lord Richard!”
“Mistress Hatton!”
Perforce they separated again. But she never took her eyes from him. And then they were together once more, one of his arms firmly around her waist as they trod the lively steps.
“I think I have fallen in love with you. What do you think?” He whispered the words against her ear.
She glanced up. “Is your heart beating as fast as mine, my lord?”
“Undoubtedly, lady. It beats for you.”
“Then I think you could very well be right.”
And he had been. Somewhere between the festive carol–dance and the intricate steps of the sprightly pavane, he had fallen in love. As effortlessly and completely as that.
It had presented a soldier adept in military tactics with no difficulty at all to organise any number of private meetings with the lady. Where eventually he could persuade her compliance in a kiss, a close embrace. Although, as he recalled, she had needed little persuasion, only reassurance for her innocence. Her emotions were as engaged as his and they had yearned for more than a stolen kiss. He had wanted marriage, and so had she.
They had discovered one particular gallery, little more than a corridor between one reception room and another in the vast Palace of Westminster. But it was blessed with window seats, and too cold for most to brave except through necessity. It had been witness to their exchanged vows of love. When she had shivered in a brisk draft he had taken off his fur–lined cloak to wrap it round her, to envelop her in its heavy warmth. She had sighed with pleasure and leaned in to him. Until a lady and gentleman had walked past, with slanted glances, knowing smiles.
“We must go. I think I should not be alone here with you. My mother would not approve.” She had tightened nervous fingers on his arm.
“And your father would probably have me whipped from the palace!” He had smiled his understanding. “My lovely Beatrice—will you grant me one privilege before we go?”
“I might.” Her teeth gleamed in the shadows.
“Your hair, lady. Will you let me unpin your hair?”
“What would my mother say? She would assuredly disapprove.” But Beatrice laughed at the prospect, not caring. “Very well, dear Richard. If you can. But I warn you—it is no easy task.”
So he had wrestled with the thin gold wires that held the butterfly headdress together. Removed it carefully, laid it aside. Then the transparent veil, as light as gossamer. Finally the pins that secured her hair.
“It is easier to get into my suit of armor with all its separate plates!” he remembered muttering as he dropped the pins on the floor and she tutted tolerantly at his clumsiness.
“I thought you would have some skill in this, my lord.” Her eyes had twinkled under his ministrations.
“Perhaps.” His shoulders might lift in a careless denial but he could not prevent a smug smile. “But on this occasion, lady, you should know that my hands are cold and my fingers less than agile.” A soft kiss had effectively silenced her.
Then her hair had been free. Had fallen to her shoulders and beyond. He had curled his fingers into it as it glimmered in the cold light from the window behind them. Soft waves of it, a deep rich brown as lustrous as his sables that wrapped her around.
“I shall remember this.” He bent his head to press his lips to it, to turn his cheek against it.
“Someone is coming!” Beatrice had tugged on his arm at the distant clatter of feet against the paving. So compromising a situation should be avoided by a carefully brought up girl.
And so Lord Richard had hidden the wires and the veil beneath her full skirts, pulled up the hood of his cloak to disguise her from inquisitive eyes. She was young and he was mindful of her unblemished reputation.
It was the last time that they had been alone together. The last time they had been able to speak together, apart from the terrible constraints of that final meeting in her family lodgings in Westminster.
He never did ask w
hat excuse she had made to her mother for returning without her butterfly veil.
The smile that now touched his mouth as he rode away from Great Houghton was bitter indeed. Because he had also been correct in his initial reading of Sir Walter Hatton. That gentleman would rather give his daughter to a man from his own narrow world than to a frivolous courtier, even though that courtier was a Stafford, with all the blood and connections of the name, and with a name as a soldier to his credit. So Beatrice Hatton, who had stolen his heart, was spirited away from Court with its shallow influences and had then been given in marriage by her family to a man who did not deserve her as his wife. Sir William Somerton, aged before his time, selfish, impatient, with a fine streak of self–importance running through his every gesture, his every word, was no fit husband for a young woman of Beatrice’s demeanor, full of life and spirit.
As good as his promise to Beatrice, he had made his farewells at Court and taken himself to Mears Ashby, determined to face Sir Walter, pursue his lady and carry her off to his own home. He had got no farther than the courtyard, hardly dismounted from his horse. Sir Walter had been less than welcoming.
“I am here to ask you to reconsider your decision, Sir Walter.”
“Lord Richard. You were not expected. Much as I admire your tenacity, my decision is made. I will not change my mind.” “I would offer a substantial settlement for Beatrice as my wife.”
“I care not for the Stafford name or for any settlement. Somerton is an influential man in these parts.”
“May I see your daughter?”
“No, you may not.”
“Can I not at least make my formal farewell.” By now Lord Richard would have grasped at any opportunity to see her.
“No. She is not here. She is staying at the home of her new husband.”
“What? Married so soon?” He could still remember the bitter blow that he was too late.
Sir Walter’s brusque reply had held no compromise. “No. She is there at the invitation of her lord’s family. Sewing bridal clothes, and such. Women’s work. She will remain there until the ceremony. All has been settled between Somerton and myself and the agreements signed. My daughter will not return here.”
Which had left Richard adrift, with no case to argue. And no action to take, unless he intended to beat on the door of her prospective groom and demand the bride for himself. To carry her off on horseback and wed her in the face of strong opposition and legal settlements. It might be appropriate behavior, and romantic at that, for minstrels’ songs of chivalric love and eternal devotion, but it would bring scandal down on his lady’s name as well as on his own. He had returned to London in a sour mood.
So it would seem that her father had not told her of his renewed request. Well, he could put that right. But there was nothing that Richard could do to change the situation, either then or now. Beatrice was still as far removed from him as—well, as the maidens of ancient mythology who stared down on him with lustrous eyes and unsmiling mouths from the tapestries stitched by long–dead Stafford women at his own home at Elton’s Marsh. Richard cursed the memory of her dead father who had rejected his own undeniable reputation, his position at court and his highborn Stafford blood in so cavalier a manner. Choosing over and above these advantages the Somerton connection and the expansion of local power, since the Hatton and Somerton estates marched together. Local politics had most assuredly been weighed against Beatrice’s own wishes and her happiness. Lord Richard tightened his fingers on the reins, causing his stallion to toss its head and fidget at the unusual treatment.
Which brought him to his senses. Deliberately he attempted to force his thoughts into more immediate channels. Such as his strengthening suspicion of Lord Grey de Ruthin’s interests and motives. The reason for Grey’s presence at Great Houghton. His obvious fury with Sir William’s response. There had never been any real suspicion of Grey’s loyalty to King Henry but perhaps it would be wise to keep a close eye on Lord Grey de Ruthin in future. Lord Richard must report his suspicions to his cousin, the Duke of Buckingham, who had been instrumental in his own presence here today in de Ruthin’s entourage. He stared with narrowed eyes at de Ruthin’s rigid shoulders up ahead as if he might read the man’s ambitions through the velvet of his tunic. In recent weeks de Ruthin had been very busy in his meetings and close discussion with a surprising number of Lancastrian lords.
Lord Richard sighed, breathed out slowly. With a battle so imminent, it was imperative that he concentrate on his duty to the Crown. He had no right to place Beatrice Hatton, her present and future happiness, before the security of his king. Or to consider his own happiness of paramount importance, for that matter.
Lord Richard proved to be the worst of company on his ride back to the Lancastrian headquarters at Northampton. His noble companions eyed him askance after a few short replies. They left him to brood.
Chapter Three
On the morning following the visit of Lord Grey, Sir William began to make preparations for the imminent battle. Rickerby, the Commander of the small garrison at Great Houghton was in receipt of a list of terse instruction. His men–at–arms must tend to their weapons, their leather jacks and helms. Beatrice was similarly instructed to oversee the liveried surcoats that would proclaim their allegiance to the Somerton family. The silver gryphon, wings spread in flight, shining out from a deep blue background made a bold splash of color. Messengers were sent out to William’s retainers in the surrounding manors to inform them that their lord would require their feudal service in battle.
Somerton’s own suit of armor was unpacked from its wrappings by his squire, cleaned and placed ready in his bedchamber. Beside it, the great visored bascinet with throat and neck guards. His sword was honed to a lethal edge.
Then all they had to do was to wait. Which gave Beatrice far more time than she needed to worry and think and remember.
It was inevitable that the images to crowd her mind were those from the occasion when she first saw Lord Richard Stafford. Overawed as she had been by her visit to the royal court and the splendor of the occasion, yet still she had noticed the handsome figure of the influential Stafford lord. Had watched and admired him from afar. Discreetly, of course. What interest would a young girl from a small estate hold for this man when his family had the ear of the king? Still light in years—indeed, he was only some few years older than her own brother, Ned—Lord Richard bore his authority and his shining reputation as effortlessly as he rode his destrier in the lists at the Christmastide tournament—and with equal success—a subject of envy and admiration from both men and women. No! Lord Richard Stafford could look as high as he pleased for a bride, or for a lady to share his bed in a more temporary and carnal arrangement if that was his choice.
But still her eyes were drawn to him. She was aware of his presence whenever he entered a room. His figure carried the fashions of the day so extremely well. She could still see him, bright painted in her mind, standing within a small group of royal advisors in a thigh–length tunic of rich patterned damask, his knee–length boots in the softest of leather, his hose of finest wool. A low–crowned, draped hat with a gleaming jewel pinned to the upturned brim called attention to his face. She thought that it was his fine eyes with their dark brows, reminding her of the peregrine falcon in her father’s mews, that had captivated her. When he claimed the hand of one of the court ladies to dance, she knew for the first time in her adult life the unpleasant slick of jealousy over her skin.
But of course he would not look at her. A Stafford would not look at a girl who had barely left her lessons at her mother’s knee!
Until one day. Beatrice could not but smile at the memory of the day, brighter than the rest and with a gleam of sunshine, when archery butts had been erected in one of the courtyards to allow the assembled company some outdoor activity other than the hunt. All who wished, including the ladies of the court, were encouraged to take part.
Beatrice could see it now. Well taught by her brother, sh
e was quite confident in selecting one of the smaller long bows. All she needed were the arrows. And when she would have gone to collect a sheaf for herself, she had found Lord Richard suddenly there, standing at her side. He made an elegant little bow. His fine lips curved in pleasure at her surprise.
“Mistress Hatton. Allow me to be of assistance.” He presented her with the first of a sheaf of arrows.
He knows my name! She could feel her face flush, her mouth become dry. Prayed that her hands would not tremble at his proximity.
“Thank you, sir. You are kind.” She lifted the arrow from his elegant hand.
There was much jocular comment and friendly laughter from the knots of bystanders around them; that perhaps it was necessary to keep a fair distance now that the ladies were to participate.
“And should I step back?” Lord Richard asked in all seriousness, his eyes on hers. It was the first time that she had noted the flecks of gold that warmed his cool regard.
She angled a glance. “Do you not trust me to be true in my aim, my lord?”
He smiled more widely at her deliberate flirtation. The lady might be youthful and innocent but she undoubtedly had a pretty manner. “I think I might trust you very well, Mistress Hatton.”
“With the first arrow? First arrows are notoriously unpredictable, my lord.”
“Perhaps. Do you need to find your range?”
The undercurrent between them, the swirling current that wrapped itself around her senses, was so strong it had almost choked her as she sought for a reply.
“I think I know the range very well.”
“Then let us try it.”
“Would you wager on the outcome, my lord?”
“Indeed I would.” He was watching her, as she knew. Could not take his eyes from her animated face. “For what is a contest without a wager? A gold noble says that you hit the target. With the first arrow.”
“And at the very center?” Her eyes widened along with her less–than–innocent query, allowing him the full impact of her direct gaze.
