She felt hard metal on her cheek and moved her head back to look at the large oval locket which hung from a chain between his breasts. She had never seen that before and now she took a deep breath to gather enough courage to open it, expecting to see the perfect face of the beautiful Rachel staring back at her.
He made no move to stop her as her fingers found the clasp and she gasped to see her own face, a tiny version of the face in the painting which hung in his bedchamber at Summerville Hall. What on earth did that mean? She would not ask, but she realised now how the guard had recognised her. He must have seen this locket.
“You should not be here,” Richard whispered urgently. “It is too dangerous.”
“I care nothing for danger. I had to see you.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, a real kiss, not like the last one they had shared, a kiss that aroused those feelings which were half forgotten, which she had tried so hard to forget. He pulled off her headdress and cast it onto the floor amid the straw, then unfastened her hair and ran his fingers through it, holding her head gently to look up at his face. He looked drawn and haggard, but was still the most handsome man she had ever seen.
“Oh, my love,” he whispered with a note of remorse. “I did not want you to see me like this.”
“How, Richard?” She demanded. “How did you come to this?”
“Convicted of high treason you mean? Me, the Queen’s most devoted and loyal servant? It is ironic, is it not?”
“I cannot believe you fell this far for a woman, you of all people. I hope she was worth it?”
His eyes swept over her and there was a gentle little smile playing around his lips as he spoke.
“Oh yes,” he said. “She was definitely worth it.”
A sob caught in her throat and tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her vision. So that wretched woman, that whore was to invade their last moments together. He would go to his grave still loving her, still wanting her and not even remembering how much his wife loved him.
“These will be our last moments together,” she mumbled through her tears, “yet still you find words to hurt me. God in heaven, do you really hate me that much?”
He laughed then, that self deprecatory laugh.
“If I could hate you this would all have been easy,” he said, keeping his voice low, then he pulled her close. “You do not think I was speaking of Rachel, do you? Would that I had time to tell you all about her, but time is something I have little of. I installed her as my wife to keep attention away from you, to keep you safe. She has been well compensated for her services.”
She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. He had raped her, threatened to kill her and left her to live as a peasant in that freezing cottage, and now he was saying he was in this filthy cell for her sake? She did not believe him; he was saying these things to make her feel better, to make himself feel better.
“Just how far did those services go, My Lord?”
“I refuse to answer that. I shall never see you again. I will not waste the time talking about her and besides, I do not want us to be overheard. Nobody knows the name of the lady in question, and I would like to keep it that way.” He turned to the letters he had been writing, then handed them to her. “It is only my Will,” he said, “and a letter to Anthony. I dare write nothing more, though there is so much more to say.”
“Anthony is outside,” she told him. “He too wants to see you, to say goodbye.”
He shook his head vehemently. “No. He cannot come here. It is too dangerous. I will not see him. There is so much I want to tell you, to explain, but if they let you in they must intend to listen. That is my only regret now, that you will never understand.” He pulled her to him once more and his voice was low when he spoke. “Just know this: I have loved you more than life itself.” Then he kissed her lips and slipped his hand inside her bodice to caress her breast. “You must go now, please. I fear for your safety if you stay.”
I have loved you more than life itself. That is what he had said, but how could those words be true? Was he just giving her something to remember, something to live on when he was gone?
“When will they..?” She began but she could not finish.
“Cut off my head?” He replied. “At dawn tomorrow.”
He was so calm, so brave, as though his awful fate was of no importance, as though his appointment with the executioner was just like any other, like any day.
She had a vision of him laying his beautiful head down on that block, of some incompetent axe man hacking it off as they had that of Margaret Pole. It was rumoured she was cut to shreds about the neck and shoulders before her head finally left her body, before she finally died.
Bethany imagined the unruly crowd cheering at the death of a traitor, as they always did whether they believed him guilty or not. She could not bear it; the humiliation of this proud man who was her husband would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Then she remembered the little leather pouch which still hung at her waist.
“Wait, Richard,” she said, without thinking. “I have this.” She unhooked the pouch and opened it so he could see the contents. “There is no need for the public humiliation.”
“Poison?” He asked with a puzzled frown. “Suicide?”
He was shaking his head slowly
“What is wrong? Have I angered you again?”
He closed her fingers over the leather pouch.
“You are not thinking, are you? Would you have my soul burn in hell for all eternity?”
No, she had not been thinking. Suicide was a mortal sin, the greatest of all.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
“No matter.” Then he kissed her one last time and pushed her toward the door. “Now go, please.”
Anthony was still waiting, seated on the damp stone wall outside.
“He will not see you,” she told him as she took the hand of the boatman to help her into the waiting craft, leaving him to follow. Nothing was said as they collected their horses and began the long journey home, a journey she did not want to make. She wanted to stay there and hold her husband in her arms till the very last second of his life, but that would not be permitted either by the guards or by him.
They rode on in silence for some time, reaching the gates of the city before Anthony spoke.
“How does he look?”
She stared at him, thinking what a stupid question that was.
“He looks like a man about to meet his maker,” she replied. “How did you expect him to look? Better? Like he might recover?”
She was angry, angry with him and angry with herself for wasting so much precious time. Would it really have been that hard to pretend, for his sake?
“You were wrong, you know,” she told him.
“Wrong? About what?”
“He never hated me. He never wanted me dead. He loves me; he told me so just now, for the very first time ever, and the last. I shall live on those words for the rest of my miserable life.” Just as he intended, she thought.
She rode away then, leaving him to stare after her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bethany stayed up that night, afraid to sleep. She kept the fire going and walked about the room just picking things up and studying them, as though she would never see them again. She did not want the dawn to come. She felt that if she did not sleep, she could hold back time like King Canute trying to hold back the waves. She did not want to waste this night, this last night, for it is hard to part with today when you know you must face tomorrow.
The dawn found her dozing, despite her efforts. She awoke with a start, thinking she had just had the worst nightmare ever, then she realised it was no nightmare after all, it was real. This morning she would be a widow, this morning she would say goodbye forever to the only man she could ever love. And Richard would go down in the history books as a traitor to his Queen.
She fought off sleep during that long night, wondering what she could do to m
ake things even a little better. She thought about suicide, thought seriously, and the only thing that stopped her was Richard’s reaction when she had suggested it to him. Would you have my soul burn in hell for all eternity? That is what he had said, and he had meant it. He would prefer to face the executioner, prefer to brave the humiliation of the cheering spectators, those ‘guests’ who would be privileged to have an invitation to the beheading of an Earl. He would rather face all that than risk his soul by taking his own life, in private, with dignity. And if he was right, if there was no paradise for a suicide, then Bethany would have thrown away any chance she might have had to meet him again. It was not worth the risk, but that did not stop her from thinking about it.
And what was she going to do with the rest of her life? It was the custom for the monarch to find a new husband for a countess and she wondered if that still applied when she would probably lose her title as well as her home. The Queen might think she had suffered enough, to be cast aside while her husband kept his mistress close beside him. Or she may be angry enough to decide it was her fault, that had she been a good wife he would not have looked elsewhere.
If she had to choose it would be the latter. She had lived as a peasant before, she could do it again; anything was better than a forced marriage to someone else. No one could ever replace Richard, no one could ever hold her in his arms and make her feel what she had felt for him, what she always would feel for him. The idea of another man in her bed, in his place, touching her, made her shudder and look more closely at the little leather pouch. Should it come to that, she still had the option to take the veil, though that would be hypocrisy at its worst.
One thing she had to do before she made that final decision was to ride out and tell the tenants their lord was no more, that his lands would be forfeit and given to someone else and whoever that someone else might be, it was certain he would not be building chimneys and making sure they had enough to eat.
She was uncertain about her ability to do that, but it was what he would have wanted, what he would expect of his countess.
She met Anthony in the great hall, where he had just finished announcing their fate to the servants.
“I will go now,” she told him. “It is my place to inform the tenants.”
“As you wish.”
She watched him for a few moments, wondering what was going on in his mind. He must be heartbroken too; had he considered his own future? He seemed to be struggling to hold himself together, just waiting for a private moment when he could submit to the pain he must be feeling.
“And what about our fate, Anthony?” She asked with hesitation. “Yours and mine.”
Bethany had no idea if he had property of his own, if he had even thought about what would become of her. Her family was gone, her father had disowned her in his Will. She had nothing now, nothing that Anthony did not choose to give her.
She thought of Charles Carlisle as a last resort. He would protect her for Julia’s sake and if she had to live with her son, with Richard’s son, there were worse things. At least the child would remind her of his father, as if she would ever need reminding.
“I have a house my father left me,” Anthony said quietly. “You may come and live there with me, if you wish.”
“Thank you. It is good of you.”
“It is for Richard’s memory that I make the offer, make no mistake about that. Were it left to me, you could go back to the cottage in the woods, or starve on the streets for all I care.” His voice rose angrily as he spoke and she could only stare at him, stunned. So, he too, really hated her. “It is your fault he is dead, and for that I cannot forgive you, not even for Richard’s sake.”
“How is it my fault? I did not tell him to present another woman as his wife.”
“He wanted a wife who could stand beside him, who would honour him. You could not do that for him, could you? So he had to find a substitute and for that he has died, executed as a traitor.” His eyes held hers for some moments before he added: “No, for that I can never forgive you.”
She turned away and wiped away tears with her sleeve. She badly needed comfort; she had hoped Anthony and she might mourn together, find comfort in each other’s grief, but that would never happen now.
Was he right? Was it her fault Richard was dead? As she rode toward the cottages she tried to recall his words to her when she last saw him, that he had done what he had for her. She had not believed him, but perhaps Anthony was right, perhaps he was trying to protect her. I have loved you more than life itself.
There were many people gathered outside the cottages when she rode up, men as well as women. It was unusual for the men to be about during the day, even at this early hour, and she could only guess that they already knew what had happened, that they were here to learn what the future might hold for them.
“My Lady!” A woman cried, causing the crowd to break apart and come forward. She dismounted, let them take her hands, even hug her. They already knew the news, of course. She should have known. Most of the women were weeping and the ones who were not were obviously holding back their tears.
But Bethany could not cry. To cry would be to accept his death and she was not yet ready for that.
“My Lady, what will become of us all?” One man asked. “It is so wrong. His Lordship was such a good man; he did not deserve the death of a traitor.”
As he spoke his voice rose and a woman came and tugged at his arm.
“Have a care, Will,” she said urgently. “You should have a care what you say.”
It was Connie, the woman whose late husband had abused her. Bethany remembered now her asking permission to remarry. She remembered Richard insisting on meeting the man, to assure himself she was not about to make another disastrous mistake.
“And who here is going to turn me in?” Will replied hotly. “Who here does not agree with me?”
“Connie is right, Will,” Bethany said quickly. “It is always harder to hold one’s tongue, but it needs to be done. Had I been able to hold mine, none of this would have happened. His Lordship would not want you putting yourself in danger for his sake.” She looked about at the anxious faces; what could she do to help them? Nothing, it seemed. “I have no knowledge,” she began, “of what the future holds. I wish I could assure you all, but I do not even know what my own future may hold.”
There was a babble of voices at that, and through the confusion she heard that she would always have a roof over her head, poor though it would be. She was touched, and began to consider that sharing with one of these good people might be a preferable option to the offer which Anthony had so grudgingly made.
You want to feel you have been chosen, not tolerated. They were Richard’s words when he proposed marriage and they were as true now as they had been then. Would this be an end to her story? That she would live out her days as the live in, mysterious relative of one of these good people? What would their new lord have to say about that?
It was all so heartbreaking, she could barely keep from crying, but each time she thought of a new path, the only one which appealed was inside that little leather pouch.
She had almost made up her mind while she fought off sleep during the long night, but now she was sure. She did not know whether the church was right or not, and somehow she did not care, but there were some duties she had to carry out before she could put an end to her misery.
Her first stop was the parish church in the village. In all the time she had been Countess of Summerville, she had never willingly set foot inside a Catholic church, always it had been to keep up appearances, to make people believe she was a good Catholic, and each time had been with a sense of deep dread. But her journey now was the most important of all, not to her, but to her husband.
She had no idea what to expect of the priest, whether he sympathised and mourned like the tenants in the cottages, or whether he rejoiced in the death of a traitor. She did know, however, that this whole village, including his church, belonged to Summerv
ille and until such time as the family was replaced, he owed his very life to them.
“My Lady!” He said, coming forward immediately. “I am so glad you came to me for comfort. His Lordship was much loved; all the village is grieving.”
“Thank you, Father,” she replied, somewhat reassured. “I have not come for comfort for myself but to request masses be said for His Lordship’s soul.” She pulled off the diamond ring which she wore and handed it to him. Her memory showed her the day Richard had given it to her, when she had given birth to Alicia; a gift for the mother of my child. And even when she had been so desperate, she could not bear to part with it. Now she would give it up willingly, just to prove to Richard, wherever he was, that she could follow his wishes, albeit too late. “This is all I have, Father. Will it be enough?”
He stared at the ring in her hand for a few seconds then closed her hand over it, shaking his head.
“No, My Lady. You keep that. His Lordship will have all the masses I can give him. He was a good man, a kind and considerate man. I am quite sure God will spare him time in purgatory.”
She thanked him and left, afraid those tears she was keeping locked up would burst out and start to fall.
It was almost noon when she got back to the house. She had been a widow now for four or five hours; she thought she would feel something when they did it, that she might feel the pain as well, but there was nothing. She could tell herself he was still at court, still helping Mary with her persecutions, still lying to his Queen; still taking his whore to his bed. She stood and stared at his portrait in the gallery, his handsome face, his playful smile. The clever artist had even captured his dancing black eyes and the muscles in his arms and she could almost feel them around her, hugging her close and arousing passion in her.
It was easy to tell herself he would soon be back, doing just that. She could tell herself all those things, she could look to the door each time she heard a sound, expecting him to be there, but she could not believe. Not when she knew different, not when she knew that very soon she would have to leave this place she had paid such a high price for, leave with Anthony, to be tolerated not chosen.
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