She reached Robert’s chamber to find that Frederick had already thought of the fire himself and the logs were burning radiantly, but there was still a draught coming from the crack in the wooden shutters. Antonia put her bread and milk on the table and pulled the covers up under Robert’s chin, listened to his even breathing and said a short prayer of thanks.
She sat on the edge of the bed to eat, and drank a little of her milk, then she lie down beside him and put her arms around him while silent tears escaped her lids and travelled wetly down her cheeks. She was aware that she was soaking the bed covers, but Robert was safely tucked beneath them.
She kissed his cheek, then settled down to rest her head on his chest and sleep some more.
The pain from his wound woke Robert and his mind tried to catch hold of his last recollection while he sought the courage to open his eyes. Before he lost consciousness, his last memory was the fading image of the swordsman who had thrust his sword into him, the fields showing through the misty rain, then nothing. He remembered saying a prayer for his wife before he embraced oblivion, believing he would never wake again, a prayer that one day she would believe he had loved her.
What would he see when he opened his eyes? Would it be angels come to bring him to Heaven, or would it be his father, looming out of Hell to greet him? Or would it be his sweet mother, arms outstretched to comfort him in his loss.
Finally he found the courage to view his surroundings and what he saw made his heart sing. He was home, in his own bed. The wind and rain was howling about the walls outside, the fire was glowing inside, and he could feel the beating of Antonia’s heart as she lie against him, her head on his chest, her arms around him.
He turned to her, leaned down although it hurt and kissed her lips. She looked up and kissed him back, kissed him with all the passion he remembered and he held her close against him.
“Robert,” she said softly, then she sat up and took the pitcher from the table beside the bed, poured a little into the tankard and held it to his lips. “Drink this. It will give you strength.”
He sipped it, then pulled a face.
“It is milk,” he said with a grimace.
“It is and you will do as you are told and drink it.”
He drained the tankard then looked up at her as she took it from him, then opened his shirt to check on his wound.
“Are you real?” He muttered. “I am not hallucinating, am I? You are really here, lying beside me, kissing me.”
She leaned over and kissed him again.
“When you are fully recovered I will do more, but I am very angry with you. How could you go off and risk your life in a hopeless cause? I thought you had more sense, I really did.”
He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek.
“You had but to tell me you believed me and I would have stayed. As it was, I thought there was little left for me here and if I were killed, you would at least be free to love again.”
“You fool,” she answered. “If you were not wounded I would hit you for that.”
She lie down and put her arms around him once more, kissed his neck, traced her lips along his face to find his.
“Does this mean you believe me?”
“Robert, can you forgive me?”
“For what? You have done nothing.”
“For doubting you.”
“So you do believe me, then?” He paused long enough to hug her. “What happened to make you believe me?”
“You said things when your fever was high, when you kept calling for me but could not hear me. You called for me, not Camilla. I thought my heart would explode with the joy of it and I was so scared it was too late.”
He shook his head slowly.
“No,” he replied. “Not now I have something for which to recover.”
“Lord Stanton was here this morning,” she told him. “Camilla has developed a conscience, apparently, because the Lord has not blessed her with a child. She confessed to her priest who told her there would be no absolution until she confessed to me.” She paused and kissed his shoulder. “She sent her father.”
He pulled her against him and closed his eyes in relief.
“Antonia, I love you,” he said. “I love you more than anything in the world and I would never hurt you. I believe this past year to have been punishment for my earlier attack on you.”
“No,” she argued, putting her fingers to his lips. “There was no divine intervention, only a jealous and spoilt woman who could not have her own way for the first time in her life.”
“You could be right,” he answered. “But had I not been so boorish in the beginning, you might not have believed as you did. I do not know what made me behave like that.”
“I do. You were angry with your father, you were angry with me because you thought I had somehow persuaded him to make the Will as he did, and you were disappointed that your plans were thwarted.”
“That is all true, but none of it is adequate motive to threaten you with rape. And I almost hit you! How could I have done that?”
“You have a temper, you were angry and there was I telling you I would not help you achieve your birthright. You were afraid; I did not realise that at the time, but you would have nothing without my agreement to the marriage and I was refusing you.”
“And I believed I could force you into it by taking your maidenhead, by leaving you so no one else would want you.” He flushed. “Was that really me? How can you ever forgive me?”
“I forgave you for that long ago, but if you ever again risk your precious life for the Princess Elizabeth, who does not even know you exist, that I will never forgive.”
“Really?”
“Really. You have your birthright now and the next thing you need to do is to recover so we can have a son to make it his one day.”
He turned on his side to face her, pulled her to him and held her face in his hand as he kissed her, that kiss which made her feel that she was falling.
“You know what?” He said softly. “I suddenly feel much better.”
THE END
BETRAYAL
HOLY POISON
Book Four
BETRAYAL
By
Margaret Brazear
Copyright © Margaret Brazear 2015
The Final Confession of Lord Richard Summerville is not available to the general public. Find out how you can have access to this hidden document
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CHAPTER ONE
Adrian stood sipping from his goblet and gazing at the painting above the fireplace in his bedchamber while he thought about the course his future might take now Queen Mary’s tyranny was buried with her. The beautiful face in the portrait was one he had not seen for far too long and the last time he had, those blue eyes were sad, not sparkling as the clever artist portrayed them with his brushes and oils.
Losing her had left him cold and occasionally something would remind him of his own sin against her and he regretted his actions, even the ones he could not have avoided. He could not have refused Queen Mary’s summons to court, could not avoid taking the position offered to him by her chief advisor, a man who almost ended his days on a headsman’s block. Adrian might well have met a similar end had fate not taken him to the palace in time to witness his arrest.
It had been a terrifying five years, more so since Queen Mary had singled him out for attention. That was the beginning, that is when he lost Elizabeth, for her past heartache would never allow her to believe in him.
He could scarcely believe it was over. The reign of religious zeal, the stench of burning flesh hanging in the air over London, all finished and a new Queen upon the throne of England, a Protestant Queen who would rule fairly, God willing.
He went to lie on his bed and stare up at the canopy above him, his hands behind his head, and remember the years since his father died, since he had last laid eyes on his brother. It always happened while he lie awake at night, that he would try desper
ately to find a way he could be with his wife once more.
His thoughts took him to the young girl he should have married had things gone to plan and if they had, he would never have met Marianne, would never have rescued her from the sordid life to which she had been condemned. Neither would he ever have met and fallen in love with Elizabeth.
As the heir to the title and estate, he had been promised to another maiden when she was but a child. Everything had been arranged in the traditional manner and the girl, little Lady Frances, had been sent to live with Adrian’s family when she was but ten years old, to be raised by them.
Adrian was four years older and although he had little interest in a child so young, the couple got on well enough together and he had been happy with the arrangement. He assumed she was also happy, but he never bothered to enquire. Frances was a pretty maid and sweet natured, with bright blue eyes and light blonde hair. Strange how the loves of his life had all been blonde, with those pretty blue eyes of varying shades.
They had not spent much time alone together as they had little in common and even when they rode over the estate, there were servants following them. There had been no chance for anything intimate to take place; it was the duty and responsibility of his mother to make sure of that and to keep Lady Frances chaste and pure until the marriage. To be honest, Adrian had never thought of such a thing. He still regarded her as a child, as a little sister almost, until shortly before the wedding.
He wondered later if perhaps he should have, if perhaps he should have made opportunities to be alone with Frances, to at least discover how her lips would taste, but the inclination was never there. He assumed it would come, once they were wed. Then intimacy would happen, would be thrust upon them, and he was content to wait. Again, he assumed she felt the same; it seemed he assumed too many things.
The betrothal ceremony had gone well, the date was set for the wedding and both young people seemed content with the arrangement. The young King Edward VI had reigned for six years and had changed England’s religion, had made the final break with the Catholic Church and declared the nation to be Protestant. Adrian’s father agreed but would have gone along with him even had he not; religion was not a prominent concern for him or for his sons although they would prefer to keep the Protestant faith.
So Adrian was all set to marry Frances and he recalled the conversation he had had with his brother about his own future, after the betrothal.
“Once I am wed,” he told him, “we will have to do something about finding a suitable bride for you.”
Mark frowned at him, making him wonder if he already had someone in mind.
“I would prefer to find my own wife, Adrian,” he replied. “I am sure there are many fine maidens I can choose from.”
“You have someone in mind?”
Mark was thoughtful for a few moments as he looked away.
“Perhaps,” he said. “We shall see.”
It was unlike Mark to keep secrets from his brother. They shared everything, all their little conquests and defeats, and Adrian could not help but wonder why he was reticent to reveal his future plans.
“Well, do not leave it too long or all the eligible ones will be taken.”
Mark was silent, gazing thoughtfully at his brother as though he had something to ask, but was unsure if he should. At last he made up his mind.
“How do you feel about Frances?” He asked abruptly.
Adrian frowned, not really sure he understood the question.
“How do I feel?”
“Yes, how do you feel? Do you love her? Do you imagine what it will be like to have her for your wife, do you anticipate the experience with pleasure?”
Mark’s tone was angry, but Adrian could not understand why that should be. Could it possibly be that he was jealous because their parents had taken a lot of trouble to procure a suitable bride for his brother, but not for him? It seemed unlikely. Mark must understand that as the heir, Adrian’s future had to be carefully planned.
“What a very odd question,” Adrian answered. “I am not sure I feel anything. She is a sweet girl and will make me a good wife, I am sure. What else is needed until we are married? I am not at all sure where your questions are leading.”
Mark stared down at his wine goblet, swirled the liquid about and sighed deeply.
“No matter,” he said at last as he got to his feet and left the room.
Adrian shrugged. No doubt the talk of a marriage had unsettled his brother, made him realise they were no longer children, no longer playmates and friendly companions together and there would soon be a third person in their lives.
The wedding arrangements were interrupted when the King died but for a little while, Adrian thought his death would have little effect on him or his family. They might have to postpone the wedding, as a sign of mourning, but apart from that there was little to concern them. The King’s cousin, Jane Grey, was declared Queen and the Earl of Kennington and his two sons went about their normal everyday business without concern.
But Queen Jane sat insecurely on the throne. Her reign was brief, lasting but nine days, and when the King’s sister, Mary Tudor, rode into London to claim her crown, their complacency was shattered. She would need the support of all her Earls and anyone who did not show that support, would be under suspicion of treason.
Adrian’s father was ill, very ill. They had no idea what ailed him, but he was in no fit state to make the journey to London. Adrian would have to go in his place, would have to ride in the coronation procession and feign the support of the whole family for a Catholic monarch who would shatter their lives and turn them inside out.
They were a prominent Protestant family and had given fervent support to both the young King Edward VI and his cousin, as well as the old King’s last wife who was fiercely Protestant. To have to pretend devotion to a Papist Queen would not be easy, but it had to be done if he and his family were not to lose everything, including their lives. Mary had promised religious tolerance, but no one really believed she would keep her promise, least of all Lord Kennington and his sons.
The journey to Whitehall was but half a day’s ride and they had been allotted chambers in the palace. Adrian would share with his brother, while his betrothed and her ladies would sleep in another chamber. They would stay but two nights. Tomorrow would be the procession and banquet then the coronation the following day. They did not want to be away from their father any longer, for fear of what they might find on their return.
It was a restless night, during which Mark mumbled in his sleep a lot, causing Adrian to keep waking. He tried hard to decipher what his brother was saying, something about it not being fair, but each time he had failed and ended by giving him a sharp nudge to shut him up.
Adrian rode for a short time beside the open carriage which carried his brother and his betrothed, then he walked his tall stallion to the front of the procession to represent his father, to give support to this new Queen. His attention was fully engaged for a little while in surreptitiously scrutinising her, in studying her lined features and her wide, staring eyes. She wore a purple gown of elaborate design, and a coronet so heavy she had to keep it in place with her hand.
He thought about the Queen’s age mostly; she was obviously past the age of child bearing which would mean hope for Protestants everywhere. So engrossed was he, he missed the fond smiles exchanged between his brother and his betrothed, neither did he see the intertwining of their little fingers as they sat too close together on the velvet cushions on the carriage seat.
Behind the Queen rode her half-sister, Elizabeth, who shared an open carriage with the Princess Anne of Cleves, King Henry’s fourth queen whom he discarded without hesitation. Most of the ladies rode in carriages but there were a small number on horseback and one of them caught Adrian’s eye. She had very dark hair and eyes and she was conspicuous by her sombre countenance. Where most of the people were laughing or smiling, this lady looked not only unhappy, but afraid. He reined in hi
s horse and waited for her to draw level with him before he bowed his head in greeting and rode beside her.
“Forgive me, My Lady,” he said. “Are you quite well? You seem to be distressed.”
“My Lord, thank you for your attention, but I am quite well. I am but a little out of place in this company and my husband is riding beside the Queen’s carriage.”
He turned to look at the front of the procession, at the tall, black stallion and his dark haired rider.
“You are Lady Summerville?” He asked.
“I am. You know my husband?”
“Not personally, My Lady, but he is well known by all.”
He bowed again and kicked on his horse, wishing this day would hurry and be finished. Remembering Lady Summerville’s sombre expression, it seemed he was not the only one who found it difficult to celebrate, to be happy about this occasion.
The colours were glorious, the sumptuous gowns and jewels of the ladies dazzling, and the Queen was cheered all along the procession route to Westminster hall. By the time they reached their destination, Adrian was brushing flowers from his shoulders and his horse, flowers which had been thrown to the Queen despite those blooms being rather expensive at this time of year.
It seemed not everyone was sorry to see the little Papist woman on the throne of England, but Adrian and his family most certainly were.
The banquet was sumptuous but the hall at Westminster was too crowded for conversation and they all returned exhausted to their chambers where they slept well in the palace, despite the noise from the many guests and residents. Once the coronation was over, both Adrian and his brother were relieved to be going home.
“Did you enjoy the festivities, My Lady?” Adrian asked Frances as they rode home in the Kennington carriage.
“I did, My Lord. It was exciting, not something I have ever witnessed before. I am surprised so many people cheered her.”
HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6 Page 51
