by Anne O'Brien
Charmed beyond belief, Lord Richard laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, Mistress Hatton. I will respond as any gentleman must to so confident a lady. Two gold nobles if you achieve such magnificent accuracy.”
Beatrice nodded. Her mother would be truly horrified if she could overhear her well–brought–up daughter. Wanton indeed!
“Very well, my lord.”
She positioned her slight body sideways to the target, drew back the bow–string with a fine grace and considerable expertise to her ear. Sighted calmly along the goose–feathered arrow. And let it fly.
It buried itself in the center of the target. Which, after all, she silently acknowledged, was not so very distant.
There was a ripple of applause and comment around them, but neither was aware. Lord Richard took her hand, raised it formally to his lips.
“Your accuracy is magnificent indeed, Mistress Hatton.”
“I warned you.” She knew that her fingers closed tightly over his.
He leaned a little closer so that his next words were for her ears only. “Would your lethal arrows be as fleeting and deadly in piercing my heart, do you suppose?”
“I could hope so, my lord.” She understood his meaning perfectly. And had no hesitation in answering him in like form although she blushed with deep color. “For my heart is also touched. I would not wish to suffer the torment alone.”
And when Lord Richard Stafford later had the opportunity to hand over the two gold nobles to the fair archer, he did so in a private corner of the inner garden, with a kiss. Not a formal, chaste caress to her cheek, to which no one could take exception. But with his arms holding her close, breast and hip and thigh molded against his, and a pressure of mouth against mouth that both possessed and promised everything. A kiss that left her momentarily stunned and speechless and set anticipation humming through her blood.
Now in her bedchamber at Great Houghton, she sighed as she remembered. And folded the two gold nobles close within her hand. She would never part with them.
And she remembered also that in that inner garden Lord Richard had drawn a glowing picture for her of his own home. Elton’s Marsh in Norfolk. Made it live for her with words that spoke of his deep love for it.
“Is it large with drafts that whistle down long corridors?” Beatrice had been skeptical of his description. “And dark corners where it is impossible to see to set a stitch or to write a letter?” She knew both inconveniences from her own home at Mears Ashby
He had grinned at her disbelief, giving his often stern face a youthful charm that caused her to tingle with awareness of him. “Yes, it is large but less drafty and certainly lighter than most.
“And how can that be? Do you boast, my lord?” She had rewarded him with an arch look and raised brows.
“If I boast, it is of my grandfather’s doing. You should know that he fought in the war in Europe and came home a wealthy man. In France he had seen castles greatly different from our own and was attracted. So he built Elton’s Marsh with them in mind.”
“And you are proud of it.” She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, as he described it for her.
“It is splendid.” Lord Richard had drawn her hand through his arm as they strolled down a damp path in the garden, skipping the puddles, brushing through wet branches that overhung the path. Caring nothing for the silver drops that might soak their clothes. “It is built of brick and shines redgold in the sunlight. In an evening after a fair day it glows with warmth. My grandfather had larger windows put in and many small chambers rather than a single Great Hall. It has a garden as extensive as this one.”
“But would it not be easy to attack and destroy such a house?”
“Why, no. My grandfather was a prudent man, so Elton’s Marsh has a moat and a tall lookout tower. Ramparts and a gatehouse, of course. I can repel anyone whom I do not wish to receive at my door.”
Beatrice could not resist the question. “Would you be willing to receive me at your door, my lord?”
“I should be delighted to do so,” Lord Richard replied promptly. “Indeed, I think I will insist.”
And oh! how she had hoped and dreamed that he would, lured by his kisses, awakened to the needs of her own body by the knowing finesse of his mouth and clever caress of his hands. Even now her blood heated at the memory of his tongue tracing the outline of her lips, teasing the sensitive corners, encouraging her to allow him access to explore the inner softness. So intimate a possession. As intimate as the pressure of his hand on her breast so that her nipples tightened and her breath sighed with the glory of it. How could she not have fallen in love with him and believed his every enticing picture of their life together.
Instead her dreams had been shattered. Her family left the Court, her father full of plans to wed her to William Somerton. Lady Margery, her mother, could only advise her daughter that she would forget any festive dalliance as soon as she returned to the normality of life far away from the palace of Westminster. That she suffered from mere infatuation with a man of experience and glamour. Beatrice’s hand clenched hard around the shining metal of the coins. The love had remained at the center of her heart, tightly locked there, even when the days passed and he did not come. Even when William had pushed the ring onto her finger.
But Richard had forgotten her. Although he had denied it, perhaps it was simply that he had not loved her enough.
She placed the coins once more into the coffer that held her jewels, sore of heart.
For she must learn once more to live without him.
On the fourth day the inhabitants of Great Houghton Hall awoke to stormy skies and heavy rain that showed no immediate sign of abating. Then they became aware of the unmistakable sounds of an army on the move. There was no doubt. It was the Earl of Warwick’s army in support of the royal claim of the absent Duke of York, very close and making its ponderous way toward Northampton.
The battle would begin as Lord Grey had predicted.
Beatrice expected Sir William to gather his men and leave immediately, to avoid the Yorkist troops and join the Lancastrian flank. To her amazement, the courtyard remained silent with no activity beyond the movement of the servants between dairy and kitchen. She found Sir William seated on the dais in the Great Hall, frowning at the rain, which still rattled with summer ferocity against the windows. He tapped his fingers on the table with a hideous and persistent monotony, a dark thundercloud on his brow, saying nothing, unaware when Beatrice stepped in.
The hours of the morning ticked by. Rickerby hovered outside the door, muttering at the delay, awaiting orders that never came. Master Lawson watched from the shadows. Sir William remained where he was with now a tankard of ale at his elbow.
The troop movements without continued.
Finally Beatrice could stand it no longer. She took up a position at her lord’s elbow.
“That clamor is surely the Yorkist army under the Earl of Warwick,” she stated, unnecessarily.
“Yes.”
“Will you not go?”
“No.”
Sir William continued to sit in sullen silence, his face deliberately turned away from her. Almost, she thought, as if he did not dare meet her critical gaze. Which she found impossible to believe.
“Will you not join the Lancastrians and fight for your king against those who would usurp his rightful power? Both Warwick and York have been declared traitor by Parliament.”
“It is not a simple decision.” The sharp snap of a reply could not hide the anxieties in her lord’s eyes, in the heavily scored lines that bracketed his mouth. He looked drawn, as if he had not slept well, and older than his years by a good decade.
“But His Majesty will look for you, for your standard. Have not Somertons always stood for the Crown?” Beatrice lifted her hands, then allowed them to fall in total incomprehension.
At that, Sir William surged to his feet, pushing away his chair so fiercely that it rocked back on its legs. “Oh, yes! Somertons have a fine rep
utation for their loyalty! Without question we cleave to Lancaster. But you have no sense of the choice put on my shoulders, girl.” He swung away from the lady, who so innocently masqueraded as his conscience, and stomped from the room, leaving her to look after him in appalled amazement.
The midday meal was served, where no one showed any appetite. The spiced rabbit casserole, a favorite of Sir William’s, congealed in its dish. The delicious Lombard chicken pasties, bursting with meat and spices, went untasted. The waiting continued. The manoeuvring armies had fallen silent. The brittle silence also continued in the house. This time Beatrice chose not to break it.
Then at two o’ clock, the rain still falling steadily, distant shouts and cries again drifted to them through the heavy air. Laced through it all was the heavy crash of cannon fire.
“It has begun.” Sir William paced the Hall, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip.
“My lord …” Beatrice did not know what to say.
But Sir William had finally made his decision and raised his head. “We leave immediately.” He signaled to his steward. “Tell Rickerby to attend me here.”
“But you cannot go like this—you are not wearing your armor—you will be in danger …” Beatrice’s words died as her husband lifted his hand to silence her.
“No. I think it will not be necessary.” His expression was grim indeed and it was, she thought, not from fear of the battle or of death. “I should have been gone from here some hours since. I know what my conscience dictates but I dare not …” The words were bitten off. “This will be protection enough. Help me.” He began to shrug into a leather brigandine jacket, lined with metal plates to give some basic protection, such as his archers might wear.
“At least take your helm. You cannot go without.”
“Very well.” The squire was dispatched. “Listen!” Sir William’s hand closed round Beatrice’s wrist, fingers digging in with sudden intensity. “I fear the outcome. I shall not be gone long, but, God help me, I must give my allegiance to Lord Grey de Ruthin.”
He rode out of the gate at the head of his liveried retainers, a proud little army, leaving Beatrice to watch in mounting horror, not understanding the direction of his words.
On the flat expanse of ground before the walls of Northampton, the Lancastrian forces on the right flank under the command of Lord Grey de Ruthin, broke their tight formation to allow the Yorkists to charge through unhindered. From where he controlled the center, the Duke of Buckingham stood aghast, unable to believe what he saw.
“What are they doing? In God’s name, we are betrayed! If Warwick gets through our lines, the king himself will be open to attack and capture.”
“Do I attack?” Lord Richard Stafford at his right hand signaled his men to come up.
“Yes. Give no quarter. If Warwick takes possession of the king, we must fear for his life.” Buckingham slammed his visor down. “We must protect His Majesty at all cost.”
So Richard Stafford led his liveried men–at–arms toward the unfolding disaster. The Stafford banner, red and black with its proud silver lion, flew bravely overhead. The deep cry of A Stafford rent the air above the thud of hooves and the cries of the troops. As he drew his sword and prepared for some fierce hand–to–hand fighting Lord Richard cursed the war, the outrageous ambition of the Duke of Warwick, and the day when it had become impossible to determine friend from foe.
Then there was no time to think at all.
Beatrice waited for the rest of that endless day. A premature dusk fell, the rain turned to drizzle. William did not return. But fleeing soldiers, some of them bearing obvious Lancastrian colors, began to pass along the road outside the castle, making haste and in disarray. Of their leaders there was not a sign.
“What news?” The sentry at Great Houghton called the enquiry.
The reply chilled Beatrice’s blood to ice in her veins. “The king is defeated. Warwick’s troops are running amok. King Henry is taken captive.”
Beatrice sat in her chamber throughout a long night. She had no thought of sleep, worried for the safety of her husband, of course, as a wife must be. But also swamped with a slick wash of guilt that her true anxieties were elsewhere.
For she knew not the fate of Lord Richard Stafford. The fear for him held her in its vicious talons, too hot to allow tears.
The glorious sunshine of the following day, so cruel in its beauty after the torrential storms and the bloody massacre, beat down on the somber cavalcade making its way to Great Houghton Hall. Beatrice watched it approach, scanned the faces and then, its meaning heavy in her breast, ordered the gates open. She was waiting in the courtyard as they entered. Some of the Somerton men–at–arms led the party, but not all who had departed with Sir William returned. She was relieved to see Rickerby in their midst. There was also Sir Edward Hatton, her brother. And at the rear, the supply wagon bearing a shrouded form.
“Ned.” Beatrice came to stand at his stirrup, her face as white as he had ever seen it against the deep red damask of her gown. “Is it William?”
“Beatrice.” Ned dismounted to stand before her, similar in height and coloring. Similar in temperament, but maturity had brought him a calmer outlook. He took off his hat and scrubbed a hand over his face where the strain of the previous day’s activity showed clearly. He took his sister’s hand in his. “Beatrice. What can I say …?”
“It is William, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You saw it happen?” Her lips felt stiff, as if pronouncing the words was difficult.
“Yes. I was there.”
“Let me see him.”
She walked to the side of the wagon. Ned leaned in to cast aside the wrapping from the body and Beatrice looked down on the face of her dead husband. His clothes and hair were filthy from where he had fallen in the churned mud of the battlefield. The fading red of his grizzled hair was almost obliterated by the deeper rust of dried blood that streaked his face and matted his clothing. His eyes were closed but his mouth was set in a twist of pain or perhaps of fear. She touched one of the cold hands folded on his breast.
“William …”
It was difficult to feel grief for this man who had treated her with such callous indifference and contempt. She could not weep for him.
Ah, but she could weep for Richard Stafford.
Was Richard Stafford lying somewhere wounded? Dead even? She had sent him into battle, refusing him the words of love, of concern and tenderness that were in her heart, driven instead by his rejection of her. But what if he were dead, his final thoughts of her only that she had condemned him? She would never forgive herself.
Remembering her duties, she gave orders for the men–at–arms to disperse, to be given ale and food. For the chapel to be readied to receive Sir William’s body. Then turned back to Ned.
“Tell me what happened. We learned from men passing the gates that our forces were overrun by the Yorkists.”
“It was a disaster,” Ned answered, his voice thick with sheer disbelief. “They drove us from the field and put to death every one of the Lancastrian lords they could lay their hands on.”
“And William was cut down, too.”
“Yes. He was not wearing his full armor. A brigandine such as his would never stop the heavy blade of a sword. What was the man thinking to risk his life so?”
Beatrice shook her head but did not explain William’s strange delay on the day of the battle. What did it matter? William was dead.
“Oh, by the by, I found this.” Ned broke into her thoughts as he began to dig in his pockets. “I recognised it immediately. I suppose you gave it to William as a charm, a safeguard. Although I would consider it far too valuable to risk in a battlefield.” His lips twisted in a wry grimace. “It was pure chance that I saw it …”
She saw what he held in his hand. Impossible! Her heart tripped from its normal beat, her throat dried as she recalled where she had last seen it. She struggled to find her voice. “Where did you get that?”
>
“In the mud. I saw the gleam of gold. A little way from Somerton’s body. It must have been torn from his clothing when he fell.”
Beatrice could not find the words. She took the object from Ned’s hand, turned it over.
“Did you give it to your husband?”
She looked at Ned in sheer horror.
He did not understand her response. Saw only the pale skin, the white shade around her mouth as she compressed her lips, the deep color of her eyes as they took in the meaning of his revelation. It was simply grief and shock, he decided. A political marriage did not mean that she would not mourn her lord. No need to tell her of William’s ignoble deeds on the battlefield. That would only serve to bring her more grief.
Then Beatrice closed her hand over her brother’s arm, nails digging in. Her voice was low but with an intensity. “What did he look like? The man who struck William down? You said that you saw him.”
Why does something so inconsequential matter? If a man falls on a battlefield, what does it matter whose hand wielded the sword? But Ned would tell her this, if it would help to ease the pain that shivered over her flesh, vibrating through her fingers into his arm.
“I never saw him without his helm or even his visor raised—I was too busy defending my own skin—but the standard and the livery of his retinue was one of the Staf–fords—a silver lion rampant, on a half red, half black background. It is one of the most recognizable arms in the country. So it would have to be Lord Richard Stafford.”
Beatrice merely stared at him, lips parted, unaware that her fingers had tightened like claws, until her brother winced in discomfort. Her mind could not take it in. The facts jostled in her brain, seeking any explanation but the one that hammered at her consciousness.
Richard Stafford had slain William.
How could this be? Were they not both fighting for the Crown?
One answer worked its insidious path into her thoughts. One answer only, as Richard’s words as he had left her dropped clearly into her mind.
