The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  His threatening tone set Belle's head to spinning anew. “I don’t know,” she protested, her voice barely audible even to her own ears as she dug her fingers into the bench's grassy seat.

  Anger only blazed brighter on his face at her denial. “Be warned,” he snapped, yet keeping his voice low enough that his words stayed private between them. “Graceton Castle will tolerate no spies or traitors within its walls.”

  Had Belle not been properly terrified, she might have laughed. Of all the people in the world she could think of no one less suited to spying or plotting than she.

  Straightening, Master Wyatt turned on his heel. As she watched him stride away, his path taking him so near to Sir Edward that their shoulders almost brushed, she sagged back against the bench. So it was only the queen who wanted this marriage. At least Belle’s first husband had desired the little bit of property her stepfather had made her dowry, if not her. What sort of life could she have if she were shoved into wedlock with a man who didn't even want that much?

  Ned Mallory’s jaw clenched as the Northerner strode toward him. If ever there was a man who acted prouder than his station, it was Master James Wyatt. He was nothing but a country squire's steward, yet this servant dared to refuse a knight’s challenge, striking back with scorn instead of a sword as all men should do.

  The steward shot Ned a single sidelong glance then strode on toward the garden gate. That Squire Nicholas Hollier would favor so disrespectful an employee made it that much easier for Ned to justify finding a way to force Lady Purfoy to refuse this marriage. She had to. He couldn’t leave court, not when he had to be here to keep his finger on the pulse of Norfolk’s growing catastrophe so when the perfect moment arrived he could spew his excuses and denials.

  If only the earl of Leicester, Elizabeth’s favorite, would do as he swore he could, and convince his Virgin Lover that it was safer to have her royal cousin wed to her noblest and most Protestant peer. But Leicester stalled and each day he delayed the duke’s fortunes slipped. Should the earl fail, Ned would face the same financial and political ruin the duke did when the extent of their involvement in the plot was revealed, as it surely would be.

  He crossed the yard to drop onto one knee before Lady Purfoy. “Sir Edward Mallory at your service, my lady,” he said, catching her hand in his. “As the queen's proxy in the matter of this marriage I want you to know I'm appalled at Master Wyatt's rude behavior toward you. I intend to see he pays for how he's treated you this day.” He let his voice fill with outrage, hoping the lady was as dull-witted as she was plain, something her lady mother had often suggested.

  Rather than reward his offer of protection with sighs of gratitude she caught a sharp breath and snatched her hand from his. Fear filled her clear gray eyes. “Master Wyatt did me no wrong and I’ll not have you tell our queen he has.”

  Ned hid his flinch. Careless fool! This was no sophisticated courtier, but a country bumpkin, unused to Elizabeth’s bluff and bluster. After the way the queen had spoken to the lady today, of course she was more afraid of her monarch’s reaction than any slight done to her pride. He used his most charming smile to bandage his error as he tried again.

  “I see it’s true what’s said of you, that you are a Christian woman, quick to forgive as your Lord commands. Given your depth of faith, how your heart must wrench over this marriage.” He shook his head sadly.

  Gentle surprise filled Lady Purfoy's face. “My faith? What has my faith to do with this union?”

  Ned let his brow crease. “Ah, I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but you do know the squire's a Papist?”

  Her face paled until he thought she'd swoon. She caught his hand, holding on as if for her life. “The queen wants me to wed a Catholic? Nay, I won't do it. What if my new husband won’t allow me to hold my own church services?” she pleaded, as much to the world as to him.

  Ned's stomach writhed. Until this moment he'd never considered himself a cruel man, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Laying his other hand atop hers, he gave her fingers an encouraging pat.

  “Our Gloriana has always appreciated strength of religious conviction, especially in a woman. My lady, if this marriage so frightens you, you need only speak to Her Majesty. Explain to her the strength of your beliefs. I'm certain your faith will convince her to find the squire another wife.”

  Lady Purfoy sagged back against the bench, shaking her head in refusal. “Nay, I dare not,” she breathed. “I must marry the man she has chosen or Her Grace will confine me and mine in the Tower with my lady mother.”

  Again, triumph slipped from Ned’s fingers. Although he knew Elizabeth meant nothing by her threat, he'd never convince Lady Purfoy of that. He was running out of options.

  “If you'd rather not face Her Grace yourself, you can make me your advocate. I'm certain I can negotiate some solution that suits you both.” As he spoke relief flowed through him. Why, it could take months just to get her an appointment for a hearing with the queen.

  Lady Purfoy’s eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. She came to her feet and crossed her arms over her bodice. “What profit do you intend to extract from this wedding that you should offer to be my advocate?” she asked, new and wary distrust in her voice.

  Ned quickly rose after her, slapping the grass from his stockinged-knee. “Profit?” he asked, striving for an innocent tone. “What profit can I have save the desire to help a widow in distress?”

  “You don't even know me.” There was a steely edge to her words that didn't bode well for his cause.

  Ned damned himself for believing anything her lying mother ever said. Shy and plain Lady Purfoy was, but not simple or dull-witted.

  Lost, Ned floundered for a new avenue with which to twist her to his need, only to settle on the possibility of financial ruin. God knew it was eating at him.

  “No profit, my lady, only your security. For all these years Her Majesty has coddled her Papist peers in their heresy. And do you know how they thank her for her leniency?”

  Giving a scornful snort, he answered his own question. “They plot, my lady. Squire Hollier included. They plan to depose our sweet Elizabeth in favor of that whoring, husband-murdering Mary Stuart.”

  This wasn't untrue, just incomplete. Aye, the northern barons were spoiling for a rebellion, but Elizabeth had spent the summer preparing for it. As for Mary Stuart, there’d be no threat from that royal vixen if Leicester would just do as he promised and convince Elizabeth that her royal cousin’s marriage to Norfolk was safer than leaving the bitch in captivity. Not only that, any child the Scotswoman bore could become Elizabeth’s heir.

  Which was where Elizabeth always gagged, fearing her own replacement on the throne. Leicester, and Leicester alone, could convince their queen that there was no threat to her from such a child.

  “I'll not see you marry the squire, knowing you'll soon share a rebel's exile and impoverishment with him.” He fell silent, licking his lips and trying not to squirm as he willed the widow to say the words that would save him.

  She lifted one brow. Her eyes hardened to a dark gray. She nodded, the movement of her head slow. “How considerate of you to concern yourself with me,” she said coolly. “Or should I say use me?”

  Something in her tone reminded Ned of Master Wyatt's scorn. He would not be mocked, not by this little nothing and not by that servant! Damn her, she'd do as he needed. He would not, could not let the storm about to burst destroy him, not when everything he’d done had been with the best and most loyal of intentions.

  Ned leaned near to her, letting his lips draw back into a snarl. “Since you haven’t the spine to refuse marriage to one of the barons plotting rebellion then I think you owe it to those of your own faith to aid me.

  “I know the earl of Northumberland has asked the squire for aid.” More fool Kit Hollier for suggesting this. “If you insist on marrying the squire, then you will serve me by seeking out the proof I need so I may expose the traitors.”

 
Lady Purfoy rocked back on her heels as if he'd struck her. She caught a handful of his new doublet to hold herself upright, her grip so tight Ned saw the fabric's weave open as the jeweled buttons strained. Fearing for a garment that had cost him almost fifty pounds, he yanked her hand off his doublet.

  “He knew,” she cried, her fingernails now digging into his hand. “When Master Wyatt saw you, he accused me of being your spy. Now, he will carry the tale of our meeting to the squire. How could you do this to me? You've destroyed my marriage ‘ere it even begins!”

  The potential of failure drove Ned into new cruelty. “What does the opinion of an unwanted husband matter when I've just told you the squire plots to force Catholicism back upon England's citizenry? A faithful woman,” he gave just enough edge to these words to indicate he thought her no such thing, “would do all she could to preserve her faith. That, madam, is your only purpose in this marriage.”

  The words should have had her cowering before him. Instead, Lady Purfoy’s chin lifted. Her eyes snapped fire.

  “You arrogant ass,” she said. “You don't care what becomes of me and mine so long as you achieve your own end. Release me!”

  “Or you'll do what?” he mocked.

  Pain exploded in his gut as she drove her elbow deep into his midsection. Ned gagged. He bent. Stars swam before his eyes as all the breath left his lungs. Arms crossed over his belly, he gasped like a dying fish and got about as much relief. He watched helplessly as she turned and raced from the garden.

  In his panic he’d destroyed his only chance for rescue. She'd never pardon him, not unless he admitted why he needed to use her. And to do that was to commit political suicide.

  Oh, dear Lord! What had she done? Belle stared in horror at the gasping man. Attacked the queen’s proxy, that’s what. He was too proud a man not to try and punish her for her bold behavior even though he had earned it through his attempts to use her.

  Snatching up her skirts, she whirled and hurried as fast as her head would allow out of the garden, then into Richmond's outer courtyard where she stopped in confusion. The queen had commanded new lodging for her party moved and she didn't know where they were.

  Belle turned a circle, scanning the square for anyone wearing a courtier's silk. The yard was even more crowded now than it’d been when she entered the garden. Serving men, their doublets off and their collars opened, were busy carting their betters' baggage from the palace to the battalion of wagons waiting in the nearby green. Where the queen went, so went her nobles along with all their chairs, chests, tables and carpets.

  As Belle made another frustrated turn, she again caught a glimpse of the garden gate. Sir Edward strode in her direction, his legs stretched into a fast walk. With a yelp, she turned a wild pirouette in one last, hopeless attempt to find someone to aid her.

  “Lady Purfoy!” Peg Hythereve's gravelly voice boomed down into the yard.

  Belle’s maid from her earliest years leaned out of a second-story window in one of the residences crowding the courtyard walls. Framed by the fine mullioned glass panels at either side of the opening, the grinning Peg still wore her stained brown traveling garments. “You must come and see the house they've given us,” she called with a wave of her hefty arm.

  “Open the door!” Belle shouted as she sprinted in the house's direction.

  Astonishment splayed across Peg's fleshy features then she disappeared from the window. By the time Belle reached the door, it stood open but blocked by Peg's bulk.

  “Back,” Belle cried, giving her maid a goodly shove so she could enter.

  “My lady!” the woman cried as she staggered back into the room's dimness then collapsed to sit upon the floor with a gusting thump.

  Belle slammed the door. It struck the frame and bounced open. Heart in her throat, she shoved at it again, then, fingers scrabbling, caught up the bar and tossed it into its brackets.

  It settled with a satisfying thunk. Belle leaned her overheated brow against the door’s cool wood. She was safe.

  Still fighting for breath, she rolled to the side to sag in the wall’s corner. Peg stared up from her seat upon the floor. Beneath her pique at being so rudely shoved, worry touched her broad face.

  “Belle, love, what is it?” she asked, forgetting rank and tradition against the panic of the moment. All Belle could do was shake her head and stare at the quarters the queen thought fit for a lord's bride.

  It was a narrow chamber with a tile floor. The walls were no different than most houses, being plastered and painted white. Already low, the ceiling seemed even closer to the floor what with the thick dark beams crossing it. A steep staircase climbed the leftward wall. It wasn’t a clever stairway, not when access to the upper floor was a simple square cut from the upper floorboards. There was a hearth in the room's far wall, barely big enough to warm the room much less allow for cooking. But then, what need was there for cooking when all courtiers and their servants were expected to take their meals in Richmond’s hall?

  Richard Moorward, the young footman whose contract of service had shifted to Belle upon her husband’s death, squatted near the hearthstone, his saddle packs beside him. Small and sensible with narrow face and shoulders, Richard claimed to be a simple man, asking no more of life than three meals a day, a new set of clothing at Christmastide and the occasional gratuity to augment his yearly wage. Just now his tawny brows were lifted high onto his forehead in surprise as he looked between Peg and his mistress.

  The metallic sound of the door latch jiggling against the bar exploded into the room’s quiet. Belle sprang away from the panel as if pricked. Of a sudden, Richard was at Belle's side, his every muscle tense. Despite his small size, he radiated strength and confidence.

  “My lady, what is it?” he whispered.

  There was a quiet tap. “Lady Purfoy?” The call came softly through the door. “Please, it's Sir Edward Mallory.”

  Hearing a gentleman’s name, Richard relaxed. Relief whooshed from Peg and she heaved herself to her feet with a groan to start for the door. Belle caught her maid’s hand before the woman could reach for the bar.

  “Upstairs, and swiftly,” Belle whispered in command to both of them, already turning to lead the way, Peg's hand yet in hers. Richard only stared at her, his face alive in surprise at so strange a command. Servants of his rank rarely entered their betters’ private chambers.

  “Come,” Belle urged him. Over their weeks of traveling she'd come to value him for his calm assessments and quick understanding of situations. It was this she needed from him now and in a place where there was no chance Sir Edward might overhear.

  Still looking confused, Richard followed her up the stairs as Sir Edward tapped again, this time with more vigor.

  “Please, my lady,” he said, sounding frantic indeed. “If I could only explain?”

  Ignoring him, Belle stepped into the upper chamber. Brigit Atwater stood near the window. Pretty Brigit, Lucy’s reluctant governess, was not yet twenty. Wearing a bodice and skirt of green with a white coif atop her black hair, her face was pinched in worry.

  Clutched tightly to her side was Lucy. Belle's precious daughter wore only her shirt and a wee white coif atop her golden curls in preparation for napping.

  “Mama,” Lucy cried and tore out of her governess’s arms to launch herself at Belle.

  Belle lifted her daughter onto one hip, grateful beyond telling that she remained free to do so. Burying her face into Lucy’s hair, she breathed in her daughter’s scent. Keeping Lucy safe and in her arms was all that mattered now.

  Downstairs, Sir Edward nigh on pounded on the door. The sound filled the upper chamber through its open windows.

  “What's happening?” Brigit cried out. “Why does no one answer the door?” Her words died into a gasp as Richard followed Peg into the upper chamber then she blushed prettily. Despite the difference in their ranks and backgrounds, she and Richard had become friendly during the journey to Richmond.

  “Please, my lady.” Si
r Edward’s voice rose in desperation. “A moment is all I ask. Please, open the door.”

  Richard strode across the room and closed the window. The knocking stopped. A moment passed, then another. All remained quiet.

  Lucy's grip around Belle’s neck loosened. She pressed her lips to her mother’s ear. “Why are we afraid?” she whispered loudly, sounding nothing of the sort.

  “We aren’t afraid,” Belle replied, to hide her own cowardice from her bolder daughter.

  “We aren’t?” Peg cried, now wringing her hands along with Brigit. “Then why are we all up here? What has the knight done that you must run from him?”

  Another gentlewoman would have held back, waiting until she had one of her own class in whom to confide. A lifetime of scorn from those deemed of her class had left Belle far more trusting of her servants than any other.

  “He asked that I should be his spy, prying into the affairs of the new husband Her Majesty has found for me.”

  “A new husband?” her maid gasped, her eyes round as coins.

  “Aye.” Belle's lips formed a weak smile. “However, the bridegroom no more wants the bride than she wishes to wed him.”

  “But not even the queen can force others to wed against their wills,” Brigit offered stoutly. Then she glanced uncertainly at Richard. “Can she?”

  “Only if our good Queen Bess has some way of twisting Lady Purfoy and this man into accepting the union,” he said, then looked at his lady. “Does she have a way?”

  “She does,” Belle replied with a sigh. “If I resist, I may find myself sharing my lady mother’s Tower confinement.”

  Peg blanched at the mention of that horrid prison. Brigit gasped and eased a half-step closer to Richard. The footman stood as he always did, solid and sober. Lucy leaned her cheek against her mother's. Belle's arms tightened possessively around her beautiful child.

  “Why is your lady mother imprisoned?” Peg demanded, trading on nearly thirty years of familiarity to pose so blunt a question.