Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “Lady, tell them!”

  The kindly shadows hid the dints in Rushden’s face and she glimpsed how handsome he had been—the high-boned cheeks and lordly, angular features declared an illustrious Norman ancestry—too good for her, despite her mother’s noble blood. No, this was not the match she had envisaged for herself—a miserable marriage made within a circle of bared steel.

  “I c-cannot marry Sir Miles, Father, a-against his will.”

  “Lady.” Her bridegroom’s voice was a purr of thanks, the anger briefly scabbarded.

  Her father only laughed. “See how he plays my daughter like a lute.”

  Heloise closed her eyes, her spirit screaming with disgust. She wanted to flee from the despot who had sired her, and seize whatever rope of escape was flung to her. But not this way! Not by spoiling this young man’s future. This was folly! Yoke herself to an enemy, one who already despised her for her merchant blood, a man who would use the good lordship of the Duke of Buckingham to annul the marriage instantly? No! For where would that leave her? Neither maid nor wife, her honor questionable, her name a scandal. Oh, she should not have detained this stranger in the orchard, she should have conducted him to her father’s presence and spoken to him before witnesses.

  Her eyes snapped open as fingers, compelling and powerful, curled about hers. “Lady, you must swear to the chaplain that I never defiled you!” Miles Rushden drew her so close, he could have easily kissed her mouth. “Swear it!” As if he felt her trembling in his grasp, his voice gentled, “Dear God, mistress, the bees would have stung me to death if I had laid one finger on you.” They were almost breast to breast. The charm was momentary, dangerous, and Heloise, not yet loved and tried in the tournaments of the solar and bedchamber, experienced the unexpected, unreasonable stirring of sensuality.

  “How can you do this?” she exclaimed to her father, shaking herself free from the brief mental enslavement, although the man still held her and she felt the burning pressure of his fingertips and the strength of the mind behind the eyes that compelled her gaze. She could not help but look up at him again. Moistening her lips nervously, she sought out the courage she needed. Stand up for yourself, Margery Huddleston had warned her.

  “Be at ease, Sir Miles. I will not have you!”

  “Thank you.” Satisfied, he let her go instantly.

  “Heloise!” Her father grabbed her. How many years of tyranny were within that one breath? Roped by their hands, bowed down by fate, Heloise tried to pull free from both and run, but she was threatened with disinheritance and Dudley Ballaster’s threats were shafts that always found their mark.

  Miles knew he had lost. He read the despair in her eyes. The little knight, for all her bravery the other day, was frightened of her father.

  “I—I want her examined.” He folded his arms haughtily but inside he had never felt so helpless in his life. “It will prove she is a maid.” It was his final bid, a last coin of reason to be tossed upon the table.

  The girl gasped, trying to free herself, but her father’s smile was nasty. “As you wish, Sir Miles. Examine her yourself.”

  “No,” exclaimed the wench, blanching even paler with fury and outrage. “I shall not permit—”

  “Be quiet, girl, can you not see our guest is worried that we may close the door on the pair of you and accuse him afresh? Well, lad, our repast grows cold but if—”

  Heloise Ballaster, with a quick twist of wrist, broke free, her breathing fast. “Chaplain, I beg you—” She flung herself on her knees on the step before the priest, her palms in supplication.

  “My son,” the chaplain asked Miles, “were you alone in the woodcutter’s hut with this young woman?”

  “Yes, but . . . only for an instant.”

  “Pah, more than that,” said someone.

  “And were you or were you not alone in the orchard with Mistress Heloise, sir?”

  “ ’Ad ’er on the snow, ’e did,” chirped in another unwelcome voice.

  “Yes, but again—”

  “Again, indeed. My son, I sincerely advise you to do the right deed by the young woman you have carnally known, especially as her father is agreeable to the match and has offered you the disputed manors for her dowry. Let us proceed.”

  “What did you tell your father? That I raped you among the bee skeps?” Rushden’s lip was drawn back in a snarl. “What did it take? A small cut and a few drops of blood upon your petticoat?”

  Heloise struggled to rise but her father had her by the shoulder. “Stay where you are, daughter!”

  “Kneel down, my son.” Miles folded his arms and stood there, his chin raised. “Kneel, lad!” A well-aimed boot slammed into the back of his knees and he found himself on his hands and knees, wincing in pain. A gloved hand grabbed him by the hair and hauled him into a kneeling position.

  “Good lad,” whispered Sir Dudley and a dagger pricked the skin beneath his chin.

  The chaplain swiftly read out the question but Miles kept silent.

  “There are plenty more ways to make you say the right words,” whispered his determined father-in-law. “We could slice your horse’s fetlocks and make sure your servants go shriven to Heaven before morning. Satan got your tongue, lad? Say it!”

  The words were pricked out of him. A huge roar of laughter buffeted him and Sir Dudley let him go. The chaplain quickly demanded the bride’s answer.

  “Agree to this, mistress,” Miles threatened the shivering girl beside him, “and you shall think yourself wedded with Lucifer himself.”

  “Do you think me a fool?” she ground out, her breath uneven.

  The priest, becoming annoyed and peevish, repeated the words for the bride a third time. The crowd held their breath.

  Heloise stared stubbornly ahead, but someone gave her soles a hefty kick and as she jolted forward, her lips parted to protest, and a voice said swiftly, “Ego te vole habere—” A cheer went up. Dionysia had her fingers across her lips as she leaned down to adjust her sister’s dress. “You will thank me later,” she whispered.

  Her reluctant bridegroom was struggling to rise in fury but her father set a firm hand upon his shoulder.

  “Repeat that,” said the chaplain, nodding to Heloise, his eyes darting behind her warningly at Dionysia.

  Heloise’s head jerked up. If Didie spoke the promise, did it mean that Rushden would be married to her?

  “Heloise,” warned her father, his voice heavy with threat.

  “Heloise, please,” whispered Dionysia.

  Her mind was whirling rapidly. There must be no question which sister this man had married. No legal wranglings. Dionysia’s future must be safeguarded. With such beauty, her sister could marry a wealthy, powerful Yorkist lord.

  Heloise’s voice was clear and unfaltering when she finally obeyed:

  “I will have thee, Miles, as my husband for the rest of my life and do hereby plight my troth . . .”

  The man beside her cursed. “You shall regret this. Upon my soul, you will!” His wrist was grabbed ungently and his hand was guided forcibly to place a ring on her fourth finger.

  “It shall be annulled, never fear,” she whipped back. “I have as little pleasure in this as you.”

  They were pushed into the chapel for one of the fastest masses Miles had ever heard. This household was not only corrupt, it was almost godless.

  “Bring on the bride ale!” exclaimed Sir Hubert, as they hauled across to the hall. Some optimistic fool flung a green garland about Miles’s neck. He ripped it away.

  Heloise, who had once attended a wedding at Middleham where the bridegroom had tenderly kissed the bride through a garland, felt deprived of all earthly joy. A trothcup was brought to her new lord. The wine must be welcome to his ebbing spirits though not the manner of it. Rushden raised it mockingly to salute her.

  “To your perdition, sweeting!” he said, and dashed its contents in her face.

  Six

  “You will thank me for this one day.”

&nb
sp; Heloise, shrinking from her father’s voice, found her chair surrounded by the household women hovering excitedly, like agitated butterflies, to escort her beyond the solar to the best bedchamber. It was a relief to quit the company of the silent man who had been seated beside her through the feast but a torment knowing that they would shortly haul him struggling up the stairs and thrust him into bed with her. She remained seated, staring unseeing at the delicacies on the bridal platter that neither she nor Rushden had touched. Her body was sticky where the red wine thrust at her had made shameful rivulets upon her gown and run like blood between her breasts. The musicians began the erotic shivalee with its sensuous drumming.

  “Heloise, come,” urged Dionysia, bending over her shoulder.

  “Oh, why did you do this, Didie?”

  “Because it is the only way of escape and I love you too much to leave you here,” her sister responded quietly. More loudly, Dionysia exclaimed, “Come, all is ready for you.”

  “I will see you in Purgatory, sweetheart,” Rushden told her, breaking his silence. His dark-fringed eyes were furious, his smile icy, as he rose to his feet.

  Uncertain whether he intended to privily murder her or discover some other torment to feed his revenge, Heloise lifted her chin. “I should prefer to go to Hell alone.”

  “Oh, take ’em both up,” exclaimed her father. “I’ve had a bellyful of his sour manners.” He eyed the untouched food with miserly regret. “Set the platter in their chamber. Mayhap, son Rushden, you will have an appetite on you after you have played the man.”

  Rushden’s fist missed her father’s jaw by a whisker and the sole of his boot sent the board from its trestles, heaving the huge salt, the platters, and the goblets. The dogs rushed at the tumbled repast and the hall rose in consternation.

  Gulping back tears, Heloise took to her heels and ran up the stairs. She grabbed the wooden bar behind the solar door and tried to set it across before the others could reach her but her little sisters ducked in beneath it, giggling.

  “Oh, what is the use,” Heloise cried in despair at the huge human torrent bearing Rushden towards her like a hapless log. “No, please!” she cried as Dionysia pushed her backwards into their father’s bedchamber. His splendid bed, with its green tasseled celure and David and Bathsheba frolicking on the costly tester, was now a torture. Quilted silk pillows made her tremble.

  “Tame him. Bell him,” purred Dionysia.

  “Take off his horns and stroke his tail,” giggled someone else as the women surrounded their victim, plucking at her belt and kneeling to untie her garters and roll down her stockings. Was this what it felt like to be attacked by carrion birds?

  “Where is his tail, then?”

  Someone hushed her youngest sister.

  Leading the male procession, the chaplain stepped in to sprinkle holy water on the sheets and her new husband was carried awkwardly through the doorway like an unloaded coffer and set up beside the wooden bedstairs. Outside on the wooden landing, Matillis lingered, wringing her hands, and the minstrels fiddled frantically.

  Sir Dudley pointed a finger at the bridegroom. “Remember, you are not setting foot outside this chamber until the marriage is consummated.”

  Rushden laughed. “If I have enjoyed your daughter already, as you allege, then this”—he waved a hand to the bed—“is quite unnecessary.”

  “Oh, I applaud your clever tongue, lad, but I like to see things through.”

  “Have you not meddled enough, Father?” exclaimed Heloise from the circle of women, slapping their hands away.

  Her parent ignored her, standing at the foot of the bed like a tourney marshal while Rushden’s escort, bruised and black-eyed, grabbed at the man’s clothing as if they were enemy soldiers robbing a dying commander of his armor. Heloise’s assailants recommenced their task as if it were a race.

  “Make sure they are mother naked,” Sir Dudley chivvied, rubbing his hands gleefully. “Then let us see if a Rushden stallion can mount a Ballaster mare. Into bed with ’em.”

  Miles was shoved alone between the sheets; the girl had not yet arrived there. Between the moving rout of skirts and sleeves assailing her, he momentarily glimpsed a slender waist which gracefully flared into white hips that beckoned touching, and, below, a pale shimmer of narrow heel and shapely calf. The corner cressets were stifled and the chamber dimmed as they plucked off her headdress. The bed glinted, like an altar betwixt two candles, and he waited for the priestess. Fair like her sister, he thought at first, regretting that he dared not run his fingers across that silken skin, and then he blinked in disbelief as they pushed her backwards to the bed. The girl’s hair was grey. Like the Loathly Lady! He had been bewitched and wed to an old woman. Primeval superstition quickened his heart.

  “No, I will not bed a witch!” he roared, crossing himself and struggling to quit the bed. “By sweet Christ, Ballaster, is this the only way you can find a man to mate with her? I will not bed a witch.”

  There was a gasp of horror and a dreadful, ugly silence followed as if a spell had frozen every one of them to stone. Appalled at himself, Miles wished he might scrape the words back up but they lingered on the air like the appalling stink of vomit. The woman’s silver head turned. With relief and disbelief he saw that the complexion framed by the aged hair was still delicate and tender but her look of tormented fury slashed him like a whip. He recoiled against the pillows, remembering the hushed whispers of his childhood that Jacquetta Woodville had bewitched King Edward, lured him to the forest, and forced him to marry her eldest daughter when by rights he should have wed a foreign princess. And now it was happening to him.

  The body of a siren, but her hair. . . The witch-girl had turned and was gazing at her sire in horror, unaware that the moonlight curtain of her hair had parted and a taut breast was jutting through. This was enchantment indeed, subtle, enticing; Miles’s spellbound gaze drank in her beauty like a thirsty man, enjoying the indulgence for a fleeting, lustful moment. Each curve was deliciously seductive; the tips of her unnatural hair, which hid her womanly parts, beckoned his eyes. He felt his own senses responding and reasserted control over his instincts, knowing that Ballaster was watching him like a smug magician, confident that he would be bewitched enough to slide between her thighs before the dawn.

  Heloise saw the fear and contempt in Rushden’s stare grow hot with lusty interest and with a gasp realized that every man in the room was leering. She could only set trembling arms across her body and lower her head so that her hateful hair at least hid their faces from her. Her anger spent, she was shivering from the growing chill and trembling at the burning desire that flickered in Rushden’s eyes. Not until now had she believed that he might actually lie with her.

  With an effort, Miles forced himself to look away and sensed the ancient fear stalking through the men. Carnal desire and superstition writhed in the very air. Christ have mercy, what demons had he released? How long had the girl been hiding her fey hair from the men? The sea of suspicious faces needed to be calmed. He would not wish a woodpile lit beneath Heloise Ballaster.

  It was an effort to coax his mouth into a semblance of humor. “My, Ballaster, a pretty changeling, then, if not a witch. Did your wife sleep in a toadstool ring the night your daughter was conceived?”

  God’s rood, worse and worse! Now he was labeling her mother a whore who had frolicked with an elfish lover, and gluing cuckold’s horns on Ballaster’s forehead.

  “Set back the covers. Daughter, get into bed.” Ballaster’s cheeks were dark, his voice terse. One of the old besoms clucked approval at Miles as the sheet was whipped away from him and the bawdy gests began to restore normality. The magician was not smiling. Miles felt Sir Dudley’s derisive stare note the recent bruising. Hardly any pock scars spoilt his body. “Hail damage, sweet knight,” his previous mistress had teased between kisses. It had only been his face that he had deliberately marred in guilt and anguish.

  “My daughter’s body is unblemished, as you have so
thoroughly observed for yourself, Rushden.” Miles swallowed at the just accusation. “I warrant her hair is uncommon but she would not have been able to stomach the mass if she practiced the black arts. As to her mother’s honor, slander that further and I will score through my daughter’s dowry. Now set your naked leg against my girl’s! Do it!”

  Cursing, Miles eased himself sideways and touched anklebone and calf against his witch. He felt her shudder as if he had burnt her.

  “Bear witness, all of you, that their naked flesh has touched. This is the way of handling royal weddings by proxy,” Ballaster told the gawking household before he flung the bedclothes back. Everyone applauded, ignoring the swift jerk beneath the covers as the protagonists moved apart.

  “Leave us! Go!” Heloise grabbed the sheet and swiftly drew it to her collarbone. “Go!”

  The chaplain stepped forward and gave them a very hurried blessing, with an extra one for Heloise’s fertility, much to her annoyance.

  “That’s done, then. Bring away the bridegroom’s clothes, you ribalds.” Sir Dudley jerked his head at Dionysia to gather up her sister’s tumbled gown. “Now remember, lad, you are not going from this bedchamber until you have performed your husbandly duty and, daughter, you will behave like a good obedient wife. Acknowledge this man as your lord from now on and do your duty to please him. Attend to her, young man, and beget your heir. I want a grandson.”

  Rushden lunged forward, fist clenched, but her father, stepping back, merely laughed. “You grow predictable, young fellow,” he scoffed. He waited until everyone had trooped out the door, except Sir Hubert, who lingered to blow Heloise a kiss and bow nobly to Rushden before her father pushed him out and, following him, loudly locked the door.