by Anne O'Brien
But Sir Walter turned away. “The agreement is made. Our alliance with Somerton is important to me. You will wed him.”
And then it was over, Richard bowing with stiff formality, his face a mask, to her father and then Lady Margery. And finally to herself.
“Mistress Hatton. Forgive me if I have caused you any distress. You should know that my sentiments have undergone no change.” Then quietly for her ears alone. “I will not accept this decision. I will come for you.”
He had walked away from her, from the room. She had only his final words to hold on to as a talisman. She had not seen him again until the day he arrived at Great Houghton with Lord Grey. Sir Walter had packed and taken them from London so swiftly, as if he feared that Beatrice might disobey his pronouncement. She had not even been able to send a message to Lord Richard, much less see him again. He had never come for her.
Yes, he had wanted her then, without doubt. But enough to kill to claim her, three years after? Her tired mind wrestled with his own admission of knowledge of his action, with her own secret desires, allowing all the longings of the past to surge back. She might have been the obedient daughter and wed Sir William, but her heart had remained in the keeping of this man who lay so deathly still under her fingers. She withdrew her hand as Lord Richard lay quietly under her touch and sat back in the chair to watch over him as darkness fell.
Eventually, in the stillness of the room, exhaustion took its toll and she slept.
Just before dawn when the light at the window was sufficient to allow soft gray outlines, he awoke. Swimming to an uneasy consciousness, he clutched at stray wisps of memory that had a tendency to swirl as smoke in a draft and escape out of his reach. He flinched as he moved unwisely against the pillows. His head screamed with pain. His ribs—well, he did not wish to think about those after the first sharp, breathtaking twinge of agony. His shoulder, he discovered, was stiff and firmly bound. He had been dreaming. He was in pain. It must be after the battle at Northampton, where everything had fallen apart, the whole of their planning becoming unraveled at the hands of Lord Grey de Ruthin. That must be the reason for his injuries. But where was he? He did not know this room.
And then it came to him as if a shutter on a lantern had been removed. He remembered.
Slowly Richard turned his head against the pillow. Saw her sitting there, head angled away from him against the high and unforgiving back of the chair. She would be wretchedly uncomfortable in the morning, was his first thought. He could not see her face, only her dark hair, unbound on her shoulders, as the light gradually brightened. Could see her pale hands folded loosely in her lap.
His scattered thoughts cleared, brought back the events of the day. What a dreadful morass of desire and guilt trapped them. All culminating in an effective ambush by the Somerton retainers who had without doubt sought his death. Had she given the fatal orders in a need for retribution? His disordered mind could not come to terms with the possibility, just as the pain in his body was as nothing to the misery in his soul. He would have stretched a hand to touch her, to find the smallest vestige of comfort, but could not find the strength.
Against his will, his eyelids fell. He lapsed once more into deep oblivion.
When he awoke again it was broad daylight. The window had been opened to allow cool air into the room and rays of sunshine slatted across the floor almost to the bed. The thudding in his head had subsided into a consistent but manageable ache. His sore ribs would not prevent him from mounting a horse.
The seat beside him was now empty. His clothes, cleaned and put to rights were laid over a coffer by the window seat. As the sunshine glimmered on the hilt of his sword, the events of the previous day once more slid into place, became crystal clear, not least the attempt on his life. Anger began to simmer through his blood. It became imperative that he leave, before any further attempt was made. If possible, he would leave without the need to see Beatrice Somerton again.
His plan failed. When Beatrice opened the door and entered, it was to stop in amazement. It took her but a second to assimilate. Lord Richard Stafford was fully dressed—although with some difficulty. At some stage he had removed the linen from around his head, revealing the angry wound along his hairline. His sword lay at hand on the table, his cloak, gloves. Stiff and unusually awkward in his movements, he held himself carefully. Deep lines between his brows bore witness to a headache, if she was not mistaken. He should not have left his bed. He was unfit to travel.
“What are you doing?”
“Lady Beatrice.” His eyes, cool and gray as river water, never left her face. “As you see, I am about to take my leave.”
“You cannot. You are not well enough to ride a horse. Your ribs …”
“Are sore but will not prevent me. Nor will the blow to my head, for which I have to thank one of your doughty men–at–arms. I have imposed myself too much on your hospitality.” She had never seen him sneer before.
Here was none of the emotion of the previous day. Only a cold control of all mind and body. Well, she could do the same. She lifted her head and ordered proud dignity to rule her reply.
“I think you should not. But you must do as you think best.”
Mouth firmed into a straight line, he made to pick up the weapon. Then whipped round to face her. All the tension, all the hurt and physical pain melded into an outpouring of furious and bitter reproach.
“Did you give the order for your men to lie in wait and kill me, Beatrice?”
Beatrice blinked at the attack, her own temper stirred. “I did not. How dare you suggest so vile and unworthy an action!”
“Yet you were free with your own accusations against me, without evidence.”
“Without evidence?” Her eyes flashed at the enormity of his accusation after a long night when her own conscience had pointed its relentless finger at her careless words. “You said that you would come for me, and you did not. By your own admission you killed William. What more evidence do I need?”
The bitter anger overflowed around them into a deadly pool. Lord Richard found himself speaking against all his instincts. Suddenly the terrible words were said and there was no going back.
“And do you know why I slew Somerton? Do you really want to hear the truth? He was a traitor, he betrayed the cause and changed sides in the middle of the battle. Because of that, my cousin Buckingham died.”
“You lie!” Her lips were white with shock. “William was always loyal to Lancaster.”
“Oh no.” The contemptuous sneer again that tore at her heart with vicious claws. “Your husband turned his sword against his own king. And I killed him for it.”
Richard’s eyes blazed. She had never seen this man before in the suave, elegantly appareled courtier at Westminster. Furious, driven by strong emotion, with the aggressive instincts of a soldier. The air positively shimmered around him.
“Was it by your order, Beatrice? If so I should go down on bended knee to thank you for bringing me back to life instead of throwing my body to the buzzards outside your walls.”
Her temper snapped. Her composure disintegrated in a breath. Later she would be horrified, disgusted at such wanton behaviour. To have so little care for an injured man. But Beatrice was goaded beyond reason. She raised her hand, swift as a lightning bolt and prepared to strike, an openhanded slap at that contemptuous face that yet had the power to heat her blood. Except that his reactions, compromised as they were through injury, were still superb and even faster. In pure instinct he retaliated, grasped her wrist in no very gentle hold and dragged her close.
“No—you will not strike me, madam, unless I allow it.”
Nor did he let her go. Close, closer he drew her. Until her body touched his. Until she was aware only of the heat of his proximity, the warmth of his breath against her face, against her hair. His mouth hovered a fraction from hers. A whisper of breath away. All power and dominant fury.
She waited, unable to breathe, expecting to feel at any moment the s
avage imprint of his fury.
But he did not come closer. The curve of his lips held no humor as he looked down at her. “Should I kiss you a fond farewell? In memory of our dead love?” The curve faded, the scorching heat faded from his eyes as he came to himself. “If I did it would be punishment, not affection. I will not do that.”
He pushed her away, sharply so that she had to find her balance.
The icy restraint had returned in force. She saw his hands tremble with the need to rein back.
“Forgive me, Lady Somerton. My manners are deplorable. I would not hurt a woman or raise a hand against her. However sharp the spur.”
Beatrice found herself without words. What had she done to push him so close to the brink of control? Any common ground between them had been cut away so that they stood, isolated, wrenched apart beyond redemption.
Now Lord Richard claimed his cloak, swung it around his shoulder, ignoring the quick flash of pain that exploded through his body. It colored his words with cold vitriol.
“How fortunate, lady, that we discovered that we would not suit.”
Beatrice raised her chin. She would not sink beneath the emotion tearing at her heart but would respond in kind.
“Fortunate indeed. Farewell, Richard Stafford.”
He inclined his head, curt and final.
“Goodbye, Beatrice Somerton.”
His choice of words struck at her, much like the slap that she would have used against him. So final. It twisted, agonizingly, the blade in the wound.
I love you. I shall always love you.
She repeated it silently as he opened the door and made his way slowly down the stairs.
She had never felt so wretched in her life.
Neither had he.
Chapter Five
Once more Beatrice stood on her battlement walk to watch him ride down the road across the Great Houghton estate.
I have spent my whole life watching Richard Stafford ride from me.
As on the previous occasion, he did not look back. So finally Beatrice would have left her vantage point, lifting her hands in a little gesture of despair, but then saw an approaching rider on the road. And knew it for her brother. As the two men drew abreast they stopped. Talked for a brief moment. She saw Richard look back, saw Ned raise his arm and gesture widely. Then with a clasp of hands they parted. Richard spurred his horse on and disappeared through the thick summer foliage of a small copse. Ned came on at a slower pace to the manor.
“I saw Richard Stafford on my way here.” Ned flung himself onto a bench in the Great Hall, stretched out his legs and fended off one of the hounds that came to sniff at his boots. “He greeted me with reserve—looked decidedly the worse for wear and chose to be noncommittal. Nor was he disposed to linger. He looked like a man with trouble on his mind.” Ned slid a keen glance her way. “His head wound appeared to be recent. More recent than the battle, I would say.”
“Yes.” Beatrice could not look at her brother. “There was a … an incident here. Lord Richard was injured. But is well enough now to ride.”
“Ah.” Ned now swung round and faced her directly as she brought him a cup of ale. He took it from her. “So what was he doing here? And what was the incident you so artfully concealed? The truth now, Beatrice.”
Beatrice put down the ale flagon. “I.” What could she say? “He came to offer his condolences … for William’s death. He. Lord Richard.” And then she could disguise the misery no longer. Covering her face with her hands she struggled for composure.
“Beatrice. What is it?” Shocked into action, Ned stood to fold his arms around her, even more concerned when she refused to rest there. “Tell me what happened.” But he thought that he knew.
She pushed herself to stand alone, allowing her hands to fall. Her eyes were wide and dark with distress. “I love him, Ned. I love him so much. And I know that he loves me—or he did before I made it impossible. But he killed William. And perhaps he did so because he wanted to remove the one barrier between us. Which would have been my dearest wish. And that would make me as guilty as Richard. William’s death would have been murder, committed by Richard and condoned by me! I will always love him but how can I be with him if that is so? Also, he said … he said …” She ran her tongue over dry lips. “He said that William was a traitor. And I told him it was a lie.”
So that was it, as he had feared. “Oh, Beatrice …” Ned drew her to the settle, sat beside her and handed her his own cup of ale. It had become necessary after all to tell her the truth.
“Beatrice—it is true. Somerton turned against the king.”
“No …”
“This is partly my fault—that I did not tell you all I knew of the battle—but listen now.” His face was solemn. “It was a rout as I told you. We were betrayed. Our position was superbly defensive. We should never have been defeated.” Ned swore long and fluently, his hands gripping the cup that he took back from Beatrice and drained. “We were betrayed to the Yorkists,” he repeated. “By Lord Grey de Ruthin, God rot his black soul! He had it all arranged. No sooner had the Earl of Warwick begun the advance against our army than Grey ordered his men to lay down their arms and allow Warwick’s troops to simply drive through, without resistance, to our camp where King Henry waited the outcome of the battle.” He shook his head in disbelief. “So Warwick simply marched up and took Henry captive. It was desperate—within thirty minutes it was all over.”
“And William?”
Ned frowned at his sister’s tightly clenched fingers, skin white over the knuckles. It was not possible to put it gently. So, baldly: “Somerton changed sides. He joined de Ruthin in his treason and went over to the Yorkists.”
Beatrice could not take in the words. Richard had spoken the truth. He had not lied to her. She had accused him of a deliberate falsehood and trampled his honor in the dust. She had branded him a liar. Her heart wept silently for him and for her cruel words.
“I saw it happen,” Ned continued. “I saw Somerton take his stand with de Ruthin’s men under the banner of the black ragged staff. I saw him lift his sword against Lancastrians who rushed to protect the king. I saw him join the attack on Buckingham when our Commander himself came to his Majesty’s defence.”
“Oh, Ned.” As her brother’s words sank in, the tale of Grey’s treachery, and of William’s, she was cold to her heart, frozen with dread, cold as winter ice.
“And I saw Stafford strike Somerton down in his own attempt to save the king and his cousin Buckingham. He failed and barely escaped with his own life. You should know that the Duke of Buckingham was hacked to death,”
Beatrice sat in silence, eyes wide with the enormity of what she had done.
Then: “Why did you not tell me before?”
“To save you from the taint of treason.”
A little line engraved itself between her brows. “Ned—why would William commit so foul a deed?”
Ned shrugged. “Somerton owed allegiance to de Ruthin’s overlordship for some of his manors. De Ruthin would demand his feudal service. It would not do to make an enemy of such a one—de Ruthin is not the man to have against you. Perhaps de Ruthin promised him rich rewards if the plan worked. I doubt we shall ever know the truth.”
Beatrice nodded. It fit perfectly with what she knew.
“Somerton was guilty of treachery,” Ned continued, determined to leave no room for doubt in his sister’s mind. “Stafford slew William out of no more than duty and necessity, Beatrice.” He hesitated for one heartbeat then drove the nail home. “Stafford did not betray you. It was William who betrayed you. Betrayed all of us.”
“Oh, Ned!” She turned her face away so that her brother would not read her shame. “And I accused Richard of killing William deliberately, for dishonorable motives. Worse than that, my own men brought him close to death.” Beatrice’s breath caught in her throat, tight with emotion. “He was innocent of all dishonor yet I sent him away.” The horror of it stunned her. “Do you know wha
t I did? I struck out at him! Even though he was injured and in pain. How could I have done something so ignoble?”
Ned watched her, uncomfortable with the depth of her distress, then drew her close against him. “There now—don’t cry. It is done but perhaps it can all be undone.”
“I don’t see how. He will hate me forever. Nor can I blame him. I said such dreadful things to him, Ned. How could he retain any regard for me? I have destroyed his love and caused him such anguish.”
Ned eyed his sister’s pale cheeks, the firming of her lips as she sought to regain control. What his father had been about, to consign his daughter to such a loveless and unequal match! But Somerton’s local influence had swayed the issue and Beatrice had paid the ultimate price. And Sir Walter had lived hardly more than a year to enjoy the benefit! Ned squeezed his sister’s hand once more in quick sympathy then rose to his feet, drawing her with him.
“I must go, Beatrice. Will you be well, alone here?”
She took a deep breath and raised her head. The fault was hers and she must accept and live with it. At least she was now in possession of the truth. Of the dishonor inflicted on her family by William’s decision to break faith. And more importantly of Richard’s shining innocence and integrity.
“One thing, Ned, before you go … When I was sent to stay with my aunt in Lincoln before my marriage—did Lord Richard come to Mears Ashby?”
Ned was a touch shamefaced. “Yes, he did.”
“What happened?”
“He demanded to see you. Demanded that our father reconsider.”
“And?”
“Father told him that the agreements were signed and you were already living at Great Houghton. That you would be married within a matter of weeks.”
“I see. And I was not told.”
Ned slid a guilt–ridden glance at his sister, expecting a hint of temper. Could detect none. “What would have been the point?”
“None, I suppose.” But her voice was strained.
“Is it important?”
