Court of Foxes

by Christianna Brand

  The woman had curtseyed herself out of the door, dismissed, and now he came into the room. Came up and stood behind her and put his arms around her, his hands on her breasts. She swung round to face him. ‘My lord — one moment: one moment — listen to me! I want to tell you — to explain to you… My lord, I repent of this marriage. I… My own heart…’

  His arms closed around her, hard and strong, his mouth came down upon hers. She felt the sick surge of excitement that she had known on the first day he had kissed her, on all those other days of his controlled embracings; and fought against it, moving her head from side to side, repudiating him, trying with all her no small strength to thrust him away from her. But all the time, even as she fought, she knew that the flame was burning up within her, growing bright within her, uncontrollable, a flame of pure physical passion, pure animal desire. His eyes were dark and brilliant, staring down into hers; one arm now sufficed to hold her, one hand struggled to pull aside the low bodice of her white gown; and, sick with angry shame at her own weakness, her own infidelity, she yet, unresistant, permitted, encouraged — half swooning against him in a sort of sick rapture as his hard brown fingers touched for the first time the sensitive tips of her breasts. He said nothing, spoke not a word; only violent, ruthless, relentless, in the grip of his own passion, imposed his will upon hers, ripping away her petticoats, silently cursing impeding cambric and corset, flinging her at last half naked across the width of the bed. Her arms fell lax, her lips acquiesced, accepted, responded: grew, in response as avid and demanding as his own. Her body arched to him, the flame was soft and lambent no longer but a flaring-up of ecstasy that flared at last into such a bonfire of consummation as burned away all other longings, all other desires — all other loves…

  They sat through the long evening meal, one at either end of the mahogany table, polished through the years to the colour of old wine; speechless, exhausted, sick with passion consummated, desire fulfilled. The servants moved about them quietly, handing dish after dish, course after course, removing each almost untouched. They spoke not a word; what words, she thought, could two people have left to speak to one another, after such an hour as that? And yet… Had it been Brown Eyes — would there not have been a look, a sweetness, an exchange of glances, half-tender, half naughtily ashamed, under the silent, impersonal watchfulness of the attendant staff? What have I done? she thought; what have I done? For, heaven knew! — no one could claim the marriage un-consummated now; and with its consummation went all hope of ever finding her way to the arms of her own true love.

  The meal reached its climax, the housekeeper reappeared and led the way to the vast withdrawing-room upstairs, proffered chairs, proposed the tea board at such and such a time… Will she one day decide, thought Gilda, that we can find our way, without conduct, about our own house? — or am I to move through the rest of my life as though I were a dummy, incapable of decision or action on my own? And will every evening drag like this evening? she wondered, stifling the first yawn, half a silent hour later. Would there be nothing to look forward to ever again? — but the ending of an evening like this — which in turn would lead up to the great bed with its dark crimson hangings and its dark crimson blazing of animal matings with a man whom she never could love; and yet, it began to seem, never be able to resist… And she thought of her true love, of Brown Eyes, with his arms full of roses; and was sick with shame for that earlier loveless devouring that now had for ever ended her hope of his love. For something to say, she asked, for the third or fourth time, about arrangements for their journey on the following day, towards Wales; for the third or fourth time was told briefly, almost abruptly, that all was in train, a coach would be at the door by seven o’clock; a plain hired coach to preserve their secrecy, rather than the huge, crested family equippage. They were to sleep that night at Gloucester; with changes of horses they might be there by the evening; it was almost exactly half-way, they might be at Castell Cothi by dark the next night…

  ‘In that case, I must be up by six for my toilet; with your permission, my lord, I will retire.’

  He jumped to his feet. ‘Certainly. It will be best.’ And he pulled on a bell rope and soon the woman came and there were more curtseyings, and a procession formed at last to conduct my lord and lady up the stairs to their rooms. Two footmen went ahead with candelabra held high, the housekeeper after them, walking crabwise looking backwards, alert lest a young woman of seventeen years be unable to mount a score of broad, shallow steps without a helping hand; behind her Catti Jones, the dark Welsh maid, stepped smartly with her skirts held up above her trim ankles. At Gilda’s side Lord Tregaron kept a protective hand at the elbow of her right arm.

  A man came to the top of the stairs and would have descended; but seeing the little cortège coming up, paused at the top and waited for them to come to the splendid curved landing of the first floor. The footmen moved a little to the side to avoid him as he stood silently, bowing, making way for the lady to pass. On Lord Tregaron’s arm, she paused for a tiny moment to bow back an acknowledgement of his courtesy. He raised his head; and once again for one moment they looked back at one another, those two…

  Fair hair and a quiet face, gentle yet strong. Brown Eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AT THE DOOR OF the bedroom she stopped. In front of them all she said to her husband, coolly: ‘I will bid you goodnight, my lord. We have an early start tomorrow,’ and bowed and went in; the maid Catti following her, closed the door behind her. She said sharply: ‘Lock it; you can sleep on the sofa in here, with me.’ Not for all the red roses in the world would she spend the night in that other man’s arms; but her own vile flesh even now assured her that if he came to her, she might still be unable to refuse him.

  The lady’s maid was not much of a lady’s maid; but Gilda after all was sufficiently capable of preparing herself for bed. She allowed the girl to brush out the marigold floss of her hair; the elaborate coiffure had been so tumbled that she had hardly been able to get it into some sort of shape for the supper hour and tomorrow might (with relief) resort to a simple knot of curls at the nape of her neck, tied back with a black velvet bow as was the habit when riding or travelling. Now, as the bristles slid their way through the silky floss she asked, secretly trembling: ‘Who was the gentleman on the stairs? Do you know?’

  ‘On the stairs? His lordship’s brother, David of Llandovery. They were saying in the servants’ hall that he is just this moment arrived, back from foreign parts much earlier than expected.’

  Gilda sat astounded. ‘His lordship’s brother? Is he the Honourable David Llandovery?’

  Catti misunderstood the emphasis; spelt out the lessons doubtless learned below-stairs. ‘My lord your husband is the head of the family, Madam, is it not so? — his father being lately dead and he now Earl of Tregaron. And the other, being the younger brother, second son of the late Earl, is but an “honourable”, with the family name of Llandovery. Dafydd — that’s the Welsh for David and Dai the short form of it: Davidd bach of Carmarthen, we call him down in Wales, begging your ladyship’s pardon, or Dai bach. There’s no exact English for it: darling David you might say, or dear little David — a term, one might say, Madam, of a sort of loving disrespect — everybody loves him in Wales, so brave and gay he is, and kind…’ But she broke off sharply as though she had said too much, been guilty perhaps of disloyalty. ‘All but his lordship, that is: for you saw how the two brothers passed without a word — it’s said they haven’t spoken for years…’*

  Here in this house, her husband’s house: the love of her life, her own husband’s brother, her own brother-in-law! She said faintly, ‘Does he — does David Llandovery live here in this house?’

  ‘Oh, no, Madam, he has a home of his own in Carmarthenshire where he also has estates, my lord of Tregaron of course having far the largest share. But this is the family house with no mistress till now but my lady the Countess, their mother, and therefore available of course to all her family. And return
ing from abroad and believing Lord Tregaron in Carmarthenshire I dare say — which indeed he was until yesterday, milady — came here not expecting to meet him. Or came anyway, perhaps; the house is large enough, heaven knows, to accommodate even two quarrelling brothers. And the staff here being forbidden to speak to anyone of your marriage, of Lord Tregaron’s being in town… It has been difficult for them in the servants’ hall, milady. A word was spoken to milord — to Lord Tregaron, my lady — when he arrived, as to his brother’s being in town…’

  That accounted perhaps for much of his abstraction during the evening; for the stilted conversation, the brief impersonal replies. But, meanwhile… She was shaken suddenly by a storm of temptation. ‘Catti — I would like…’ She broke off. She improvised: ‘If I — now that I am married — were to speak with David Llandovery, were to hold out a — a hand of friendship to him, were to try to heal the breach… My position isn’t easy, Catti, married secretly to my lord, without the knowledge or acceptance of his mother; how greatly it would ease matters if I might be the means of bringing her sons together again…!’ And she urged the girl on. ‘Run down, Catti, find out if he’s still here; seek him out, ask him — ask him if I may — but secretly, Catti — have just one word with him.’ The girl looked at her sharply, enquiringly, she was astonished no doubt at so fantastical a notion: that the unknown bride of an hour might patch up a quarrel of many years’ standing; and Gilda recalled that this was a servant of her husband’s, bound to him no doubt by long ties of family service in the half feudal conditions that would probably still continue in the ancient mists of Wales. But there was no time to be wise; here might be her last chance ever to speak to her beloved… You are a married woman, her conscience said to her, a married woman for less than a day, and already planning treachery to your husband — and with his own brother. But she did not care. I loved him first. I have loved him only: my husband, whether he knows it or not, has bought me for money, I care nothing for him; he’s seduced my virtue out of me by some magic of his own, but for the rest he is nothing, nothing to me… And she shoved the girl out. ‘Run, run and find out! Find out if he has left the house and if not, make an assignation with him for me… And secretly, secretly, Catti, I’ll reward you well…’

  It seemed a long time before Catti came back; in that time she had settled her dress, touched her face to new beauty with a shadow of paint here, a dusting of powder there; arranged the lovely sheen of her brushed-out hair into a very allurement of its own unrivalled beauty. I’m a traitor, she thought, a cheat and a liar and no better than a whore! But it was as nothing else that she and her family had embarked upon this adventure. In my husband’s arms I’m no better than a whore indeed; but this other I love, in his arms I shall be pure and made whole again because I love him, I love him — not for what he has or may give me but for what he is. However I may come by it, my love with him will be pure…

  But the maid came at last to the door and, silently curtseying, shook her head. David Llandovery had passed on down the stairs after their brief meeting; and not pausing to speak to anyone had walked out of the house and not come back.

  She slept alone that night and undisturbed, Catti Jones curled up on the couch at the foot of the great bed. Next morning very early she was wakened and while she dressed, was brought a cup of chocolate and a hot roll. By seven the coach was at the door with more bobbings and bowings, the staff saw them off and the door of her new home closed after her. So this is greatness, she thought: this is grandeur! A moment of love without passion; an hour of passion without love — for the rest, an oasis of ponderous boredom, never free for a moment from servile eyes watching, respectful ears listening, from eager hands working at what one would very much rather do for oneself. With her husband she had exchanged no more than a perfunctory word of greeting as, in his three-caped great coat, he joined her in the hall and handed her down to the coach, Catti Jones scrambling in to perch on the seat opposite them, clasping milady’s dressing-case since no jewel-box had been brought with her. From under white, lowered lids she flicked up a glance rather anxiously at their two faces. What might Catti have told him of that mad attempt last night to see his brother? Not for one moment, she thought, would my lord of Tregaron accept any nonsense about hopes of bringing about a reconcilement. He looked very grave, and for a moment she was afraid. But after all… You had but to go up close to him, stand with your hands behind your back, raise your lips to his, yet not kissing him… Shame filled her at the readiness with which the thought sprang to her mind, but it was not the shame that had come on that first occasion, in those first early days when she had discovered the power of her body over his senses; she knew that, little by little, that shame was dying, that shame would die. Such gifts, after all, were but weapons, put into a woman’s hands.

  The coach rolled and rumbled over the cobbles, every turn of the iron-shod wheels taking her further away from all those she knew and loved. Cold, aloof, withdrawn, her husband sat in silence; she looked over at Catti’s face, and Catti was looking down with a hangdog air. Traitorous bitch! she thought; and was for a moment disconcerted when, as though in reply, the girl returned a look of dislike and resentment hardly less violent than her own. A fine pair, she thought, to be travelling with, two hundred miles.

  At midday the coach drove off along a side road and at last stopped at an inn. There was a flutter and a flustering, a great deal of bowing and protesting, but the accommodation was villainous and the meal not much better. They ate in chill silence, broken only by necessary civilities; in silence resumed the drive. But at the Cheltenham inn that night he came to her room, dismissed the maid with a wordless gesture, threw himself across her body and began, at first violently and then with slow, sensuous mouthings that turned her bowels to a sickness of desire, to kiss her white shoulders and breast: possessed her briefly, rose and still with hardly a word spoken, was going to the door. Unsatisfied, filled with shame at her body’s longing, she sought to conceal it in anger. She said:

  ‘Your lordship has, I now perceive, but one use for a wife.’

  He stopped, his hand on the door. ‘Have you some complaint to make of my love-making?’

  ‘I think only that there is very little love in it,’ she said, and as he remained silent, ventured, almost timidly: ‘I think that a man and his wife should be not only lovers but friends.’

  He came back and stood over the bed. ‘A man and his wife — and all his relations?’

  ‘Having no family of my own, of course I — I hope yours will be my friends. Your mother; and your sister also—’

  ‘And my brother?’ he said. ‘Is he also to be your friend?’

  So now she knew. ‘It was only that—’ She stammered and faltered. ‘The girl perhaps told you? May she not have misrepresented the situation? It was only that I thought the hand of a sister — of a new sister—’

  ‘You had seen my brother once, I think, before this?’

  ‘He sent me flowers—’

  ‘He gave you flowers. Others sent them but from him alone you, personally, received them. And I saw the glance that passed between you: the same glance passed last night upon the stairs. I had thought it the thing of a moment, long forgotten; but last night I saw that look again. Well…’ She sat, almost cowering, huddled against the white pillows, looking up into the angry brilliance of his eyes. ‘Well, Madam, Take heed! My brother and I, in spirit as well as in actuality, live apart. You’ll not meet him again; and if you should, will do your husband the courtesy of ignoring his enemy. Moreover, since he is betrothed—’

  ‘Betrothed?’ she said, her heart sinking.

  ‘To Lady Blanche Handley, daughter of the Earl of Trove. A binding engagement.’

  She did not remind him that his own engagement had apparently proved less than imperatively binding. Her heart was too sick with a stab of jealousy, the first she had ever known, at thought of her beloved affianced to another. Marriage was a humdrum business, she knew that already afte
r less than a day and a night of it: a jog-trot of boredom interspersed with taken-for-granted occasional violent moments of pleasure. But betrothal — a time for whisperings and kissings, for the murmurous pleadings, the slow, sweet, creeping-on of the intimacies of love. She made up her mind, from that moment, to detest the Lady Blanche Handley, daughter of the Earl of Trove.

  It was a grey September day when, next morning, they set out on the last lap of their journey: keen and cold for the time of year but fine, with the leaves just here and there beginning to turn and the nuts on the hedgerows of hazel growing brown and fat. Within the coach it was dark and warm with the gleam of old black leather polished through the years by the rubbing and shifting of seats and shoulders, the clutching of hands as the wheels lurched over the ups and downs of the rutty roads. The straw at their feet smelt strong and sweet, the rumble of the wheels ground out a rough lullaby. They clattered through the narrow streets of Gloucester, past the white, glittering twin-towered hump of the cathedral, over the crook-backed Severn bridge and out again into the country. It was afternoon when Lord Tregaron said to her: ‘We are passing into Wales.’