Battle-Torn Bride

by Anne O'Brien

  “He must.” Ah! How her soul cried out as she condemned their love. “Because my guilt, Richard, is as strong as yours. I am as much to blame for William’s death as you.” But her determination wavered at his closeness and the banked passion in that gesture. It was beyond her powers to resist touching the dark waves of hair, soft and vibrant, the lightest of caresses. Until she drew back her hand as if burned.

  And so he understood at last. Beatrice’s own transgression, as she saw it, effectively cemented the wall between them. They both had a weight of guilt to carry, undeserved, unnecessary perhaps, but still present as a dark cloud to cover the sun. He knew that it robbed him of all choice, even as he felt the brush of sensation against his hair. Rising to his feet, he took possession of her hand whether she wished it or not. And pressed his lips to her cold fingers. Despite her rejection, they clung to his as if she feared to let him go. Then he turned the hand that did not still clutch the brooch and pressed his mouth against the soft palm.

  “Farewell, Beatrice. God bless you and keep you. You will ever be in my thoughts.”

  “I would not want that we should part like this.”

  But he had already moved away from her.

  “Nor I. But what hope is there if love is bought at such momentous cost?”

  He walked from the room. And, she acknowledged as she pressed her palm against her heart as if to preserve forever his final caress, from her life. When he had gone and there was no one to hear she sank to the floor and sobbed out her wretchedness, devastated by the barrier that she had helped build between them.

  Richard Stafford stalked in potent despair from the Great Hall, down the shallow steps and across the courtyard toward the stables. He was devoured by it, a frustration so outrageous that it compromised his self–control, threatening to ignite into a blazing and violent outburst. Silently, viciously, he damned the twist of fate that had led him—and her—to this.

  When she had looked at him … He swore at the memory. He could tell her, of course, that Somerton had broken his sacred vows of allegiance to his Majesty. But what value in that? Would it not make her pain even harder to bear? Somerton’s blood was still on his hands. He loved her too much to inflict that on her and so would take the burden on his own shoulders And how could he refute her accusation? That he should deliberately widow her to take her to wife? A callous act, but what man in his circumstances would not consider it? Had he acted on such a shameful thought? No. But he had known what the end result would be, had he not?

  He grasped the reins of his horse from the groom in the stableyard, without his customary word of thanks, prepared to mount.

  And suddenly it came to him that he was surrounded by a ring of Somerton men–at–arms. Within the circle stood Rickerby, and Lawson, the steward.

  “What is it? Would you prevent my departure? I think not!” His question was a challenge to those who would impede him, a clear statement of his standing as a Stafford lord. But one glance round the faces was enough. The implication of the scene lodged heavily in his belly. There might be no weapons yet in sight but the plan was threateningly clear.

  The steward took on the role as spokesman. Unlike his usual deferential manner, there was no respect for authority in his voice. Rather that of judge and executioner.

  “Lord Richard. You were responsible for the death of Sir William Somerton on the day of the battle.”

  “Yes. My blade killed him,” Lord Richard replied. He kept his eyes steady on those of the steward, but his senses were aware of the dire threat from the circle around him. He dropped the reins, swept his accusers with a stare that contained as much arrogance as conviction.

  “Sir William owed his allegiance to the Crown. Somertons have always been loyal to the Lancastrian cause.” If it was possible for Master Lawson to snarl, he did so now. “Yet you, in the name of Lancaster, killed him. What treachery is this? You will not leave here alive, Lord Richard. You will pay for our lord’s untimely death with your own.”

  “No! It is not as you think.” Suddenly, it seemed that his life might depend on his revealing the circumstances of Somerton’s death. But with a sharp rasp of metal, enough to grate along his stretched nerves, Lord Richard faced a bright ring of steel.

  There was no hope. They would not listen to reasoned arguments, hot for blood as they were. He knew it as he measured his first move. Far outnumbered, he could not hope to repel so well–armed a band of trained soldiers, men who were out for revenge. But he would not make it easy for them. So because there was no other means of escape, he drew his sword with his right hand in one long, slow movement. His left hand plucked from his belt the long–bladed dagger. He would not die easily. To do so would be an acceptance of his guilt as a cold–blooded murderer.

  It crossed his mind, fleetingly, to wonder if Beatrice was aware of this ambush.

  “Come, then. Or are you too cowardly to face one man alone?” He swept his sword around the circle with lethal grace, grim and resigned but his courage unwavering. “I wager that not all of you will leave this place unscathed.”

  Then the time for speech was gone. Rickerby was the first to advance. With a skillful defensive movement on his right side, Richard Stafford parried the first thrust.

  How ridiculous, he thought, before he became too occupied to think of anything beyond the immediate, how supremely ironic that he should escape the carnage of the battlefield, when the Yorkists had sought to slay every one of the Lancastrian nobility they could set their sword against, only to die at the hands of these Somerton retainers who owed their allegiance to the woman he loved.

  The eruption of noise, quite unmistakably that of hand–to–hand fighting carried to Beatrice indoors, broke through the tremors that still shook her slight frame. She leaped to her feet, ran in the direction of the clang and scrape of metal against metal.

  And stopped with a shriek of horror at what she saw by the stable archway. Richard Stafford, still holding his sword but beaten down to one knee, his dagger in the dust at his feet. Hemmed in by five of her garrison, who might respect the skills of their quarry, but would still force the issue with sword and poignard to the death. The outcome was in no doubt.

  “Stop.” Her clear voice rang out with all the assurance and command that she could muster. She would not let her fear show, that their desire for blood and death might be stronger than her control over their allegiance. “Lower your swords! Stop!” She ran forward, praying that they would obey. When they still remained fixed on their prey, a fox’s single–minded stalking of a rabbit, she pulled on the arm of her steward. “Lawson. Make them stop! I will not be responsible for this!”

  “He killed your lord. He should be made to pay.” The steward slid her a glance, his eyes a little wild. “I heard your accusation. He did not deny it.”

  “Stop them, I say.” Her face blazed with determination, bright color slashing along her cheekbones. “Rickerby! You will put down your sword. I will not have this. You will do as I command.”

  All her awareness was centered on Lord Richard. He was hard–pressed, beyond recognition of her intervention. All his will was focused on the need to watch and react, to offer stroke and counterstroke, to hold the deadly steel at bay. Blood streaked his temple and cheek from a heavy blow to the head. His left arm hung loosely, carrying a brutal slash, dripping blood down his fingers into the dusty cobbles. Every thrust and parry was weaker than the one before. How long would it be before one of those swords found its way to pierce his chest or his belly? Sweat ran down his face to mingle with the blood; his breathing was labored. He shook his head as if to dispel the darkness that crept around his brain. It could not be long.

  Beatrice’s fingers dug painfully into Lawson’s arm. Now she was every inch the Lady of Great Houghton, demanding obedience. “We will not stain the Somerton name with this man’s blood. It would dishonor your lord’s name. This must stop at once.”

  The steward might still hesitate, but the lady’s temper and her stark w
ords did the trick. With his own sword drawn he advanced, knocking away, beating down those who would finish off their attack. They fell back as the lady’s orders cut through the bloodlust but not before a number of heavy boots made connection with the prone figure.

  So Beatrice was free to sink down beside Richard Stafford, now forced to the floor, hardly conscious yet he still struggled to push himself upright, against the pain and the fast–encroaching blackness. The sword hilt was still grasped in his hand although he had not the strength to lift the point of the blade from the stones. She looked over her shoulder to her retainers, composed and full of authority, no evidence of the churning emotions inside.

  “I understand your reasons. That you would be revenged for Sir William. But we will not take another life. Too many have died in these past weeks, without adding another name to the list.” She swept them with her gaze. “You will accept my judgment in this.” Only when she was sure that she would be obeyed did she turn her back to where Richard lay, still attempting to rise to his feet and face his tormenters.

  “Beatrice.” His voice was a mere groan. “What have you done?” Before he slid silently to the cobbles, releasing his sword at the last, his face hidden in a tangle of dark hair.

  She wasted no time to even consider that he might be lying dead at her feet. “Lift him,” she ordered. “Take him into the house. Prepare one of the rooms, if you please, Master Lawson. Gently, now. There is no blame to be meted out here but you will not take his life.”

  Without comment, they did as she bid them.

  Beatrice followed. She shuddered at the closeness of brutal killing but forced her knees to bear her with strength, her shoulders to remain firm.

  He is alive. I will not allow him to die.

  With all the twists and turns of fate, Lord Richard Stafford’s life was now in her hands.

  He was carried to a bedchamber, quickly made ready on the orders of Lawson who found himself unaccountably the object of his mistress’s wrath. Had it not been justice to exact revenge? But the Lady would have none of it. She sent two of her maids at a run for water, linen, herbal salves as Lawson saw to the immediate problem of cutting away his lordship’s ruined coat and shirt and applying pressure to the most serious of the damage to stop the bleeding. His ministrations revealed to Beatrice’s anxious gaze an array of blemishes and wounds.

  The splendid body, its muscles toned to perfection, had suffered. Guilt and pity rose to choke her. Her words, overheard by chance, were undoubtedly responsible. But not all had been inflicted at the hands of her men. The battle at Northampton, too, had taken its toll. The multicolor of heavy bruising, now beginning to fade, along one side from shoulder to thigh could be evidence of a fall from the saddle. There was a superficial sword slash, again partially healed, along one arm. A deep gash down one calf, the outside of one thigh. And the reddened chafing of armor around neck and shoulders, now fading, after that long day of intense activity on the battlefield in humid conditions and driving rain.

  And then, if that were not enough, there were the recent wounds. Nothing life threatening, she thought. Relief flooded through her, a cool draft to relieve the worst of her concerns. But a glancing blow from a sword edge to his shoulder had torn the flesh so that it was bleeding freely. New, livid bruising had sprung up along his ribs—probably from the viciously aimed boots of her men–at–arms—which could be broken ribs. Most serious was the blow to the side of his head that had rendered him unconscious. It was deep, along his hairline on his temple where his hair was matted with blood. It would leave a scar—but as long as it proved not to be fatal. Head wounds could be dangerous.

  She took stock of his injuries with quick eyes and solemn face. Then she and Lawson exchanged looks. Until Lawson’s fell when he read the sharp concern, the self–condemnation in her face that she was unable to hide.

  “Forgive me, my lady. Perhaps we should not …”

  “No.” She sighed a little. “You should not.”

  “I thought …”

  “I know. I know of what I accused him—and what you overheard. But whatever the truth of my lord’s death, Lord Richard did not deserve this at our hands. The fault is mine.”

  “But, my lady.” His eyes flew to hers again. “I heard you accuse him of my lord’s death …”

  “Yes I did. I can no longer think.” Panic rose to rob her of calm thought. All she knew was that if Lord Richard died because of her, she would have to live with the guilt until the day she, too, died. The prospect was beyond contemplation. But she knew that she must think. And act. She drew in a deep breath as one of her maids entered the room with the linen, a bowl and an ewer filled with water. Beatrice took the bowl and approached the bed, looked down at the ravaged and motionless figure, using every ounce of self–control to fight back the nightmare that he might not live. To any onlooker she succeeded admirably and her voice was calm.

  “The best we can do is restore him to health.”

  “Of course.” Lawson lifted the ewer and poured the water. “I can take care of this, my lady.”

  “No. It is my burden, too.” She managed a wry curl of her lips. “I think I need to make amends. I will help you all I can.”

  So Richard Stafford, within the hour, was washed and cleansed, the blood soaked from his hair. His wounds bound in clean linen, soothing salves applied to give relief from pain. And throughout their ministrations, Beatrice prayed that he would regain consciousness. How would she tolerate it if he slipped from this lack of awareness into death, without her ever being able to speak to him again? Setting one of the serving girls to sit beside him for if—when he awoke—she went to her own chamber to remove her bloodstained gown and blame herself anew for her impassioned words. He was still her love. Nothing could ever destroy that. As long as he would recover.that is all that she could ask. He would still leave her, of course. Guilt would still lie heavy on both their souls. But as long as he was alive and well, she could accept the inevitable.

  She returned to his room when the soft summer night was falling.

  “How is he?”

  “There is no change, my lady.” The maid rose to her feet.

  Beatrice laid her fingers against Richard’s forehead, the lightest of caresses. No fever, no heat. No obvious cause for concern, except that he did not stir. She could not resist allowing her fingers to smooth back a lock of hair.

  “Go and eat. Get some rest.” She smiled her thanks to the girl. “I will stay a little while.”

  Beatrice sat in the high–backed chair and watched him. Dark lashes on shadowed cheeks. Tanned skin stark against the heavy cream bandaging. Hands still, fingers a little curled, breathing slow and even. All she could do was wait and hope and silently ask forgiveness. She reached over the bed and touched his hand. Such strong fingers. So much latent power. Power enough to commit deliberate murder? Of course he could, but he would not! He has too much honor. Her heart whispered into the dark corners of her mind. She had never been as physically close to him as she was at that moment, as he lay helpless and under her dominance. Yet all was over between them. Must be so.

  She would have withdrawn her hand from his but he moved restlessly in the high bed, his head uneasy on the pillows. So she allowed it to remain, closed warmly around his cold fingers as if to anchor him to the present. To life. Her mind drifted. Taking her back to the occasion when Lord Richard had sought out her father to ask for her hand in marriage, a formal betrothal. He had presented himself at their crowded lodgings at Westminster. Dressed to impress in green–and–black–patterned velvet, the seasoned courtier, a man who demanded simply by his presence to be noticed and respected. He had worn his sword, strapped at his waist by tooled leather. She remembered for some trivial reason the superb workmanship of the intricately patterned hilt. And the heavy cabochon ruby he had worn on his right hand. He wore no such costly rings today. Her fingers smoothed over his. No man of sense would wear such jewels to travel the roads where thieves and robbers lurked. O
n that distant morning he had also worn over all the heavy fur–lined cloak, sumptuous sables, against the harsh winds. And he had asked her father, with all honor and grave dignity, not imagining that he would be refused, that Sir Walter might consider a betrothal for his daughter

  Her eyes now rested on his face, as still and pale as the wax of the candles. He had wanted her as his wife. And had been met with a blunt refusal. The words fell, heavy as a blacksmith’s hammer.

  “No, sir. You can have no claim on my daughter. Beatrice is already betrothed.”

  Her father’s words, echoing from that distant moment, still had the power to rob her of her breath. Surely Sir Walter would rejoice in it, snatch up the chance being offered to betroth his daughter to so puissant a family. She and her mother had looked at each other, eyes wide. Lady Margery’s mouth had opened to speak but no words came.

  “It is so,” Sir Walter had continued. “I have an understanding with regard to my daughter’s marriage. It has been agreed for some years. Sir William Somerton has need of a wife.”

  And thus all had been decided, in that one harsh pronouncement

  And Lord Richard? His eyes had sought hers. Must have read the shock, the flood of despair that had rooted her, silent, to the spot.

  “Sir …” His eyes had gleamed with quick temper but he would try again. “I would ask that you at least consider the wishes of your daughter in this affair. As well as the advantages you would gain if you agreed to my proposal.” He had paused, then added, for the first time, with masterly understatement. “My family is not without power and influence.”

  And Beatrice had been spurred into speech. “Father … If you would but consider.” She had raised her hands in a desperate plea. “Not William Somerton, I beg of you.”