Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  Heloise’s cheeks flamed. Must she succumb like a meek slave to a man who had threatened to beat her for putting on armor and loudly labeled her a whore and her mother a harlot? Never! She had a little courage left—save, her body was shaking now, beyond her control—but, Jesu mercy, she now feared this stranger who had been given lordship over her.

  Wrapping himself in silence, Rushden attempted to draw up the coverlet but it was woven of stiff metal threads and heavy brocade. With a curse, he slid out of bed. Heloise yelped in surprise as he yanked the unbleached blanket from her, draping it round him like a bishop’s cope. Then he strode across to the small table.

  “Are you hungry?” The nonthreatening, commonplace inquiry made her realize that she had been holding her breath. Her body lost some of its rigidity.

  “Yes,” she whispered, catching hold of the words tossed to rescue her temporarily, wondering if she could wriggle out of bed, taking the sheet with her.

  “Stay there. I will bring the platter across.” A sensible solution but hardly reassuring. She felt tethered like a bait, wondering if this Rushden mastiff might take a bite out of her at any minute.

  He set the plate between them and hoicked himself up onto the bed again, carefully keeping a fold of the blanket across his thighs. The rest of his covering was permitted to fall. Heloise peeped sideways, aware of arm muscles that would take more than her two hands to encompass and a broad triangle of back, which had stretched the borrowed doublet at the seams. Strong, elegant hands tore off a piece of bread and set a slab of cheese upon it. He took a mouthful hungrily, his fine white teeth tearing the crust free before his stare rose from the silver platter to examine her and he drew the back of his hand across his lips.

  Clutching her sheet firmly, Heloise reached out for a Lenten tartlet. Its casing was sticky but it smelt divine to her starved senses and she suppressed the temptation to attack it ravenously. They ate in silence. The nourishment restored her spirits and she stole a covert glance at her new husband’s profile. Instinct told her the hate lit by her father had abated somewhat. The gentleness of the candlelight hid the scars on his cheek and showed her a face of strength that might have graced Camelot or Aix, but his strong chin and hawk-beaked nose unnerved her, and the stubborn edge to his mouth she knew already. And she had vexed his ambitions.

  Yes, Holy Church had linked them, making her his property for eternity unless he found the legal means to unlock the invisible chains from both their wrists. But that was for tomorrow. It was the hours of darkness stretching before her now that made Heloise anxious. She had been given to this stranger, like the repast that lay between them, to enjoy or disdain as he pleased. A stranger, albeit no ancient creature with December skin and foul breath, but a man who knew more of women than she did of men.

  She licked her fingers thoughtfully. At least her hunger was not so great now. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped her and her companion paused in his own eating and looked at her for the first time that night without being disagreeable or stern.

  “This can be annulled.” His words were reassuring but his fingers reached out and lifted some strands of her hair, testing the texture.

  “I—I am not a witch,” she told him at last, her voice husky, sounding foreign to her hearing.

  “No? How disappointing.” A slow smile lit his face, his steel grey eyes teasing her tortured senses. He let her hair fall but it seemed a long moment before he looked to the platter and selected a sweet pastry. Heloise’s heart was drumming with ill speed.

  “I thought you much younger at Potters Field.” That, she supposed, was the nearest she would receive to an apology.

  “I am almost twenty.”

  A frown tempered his amazement. “I thought the blonde maid was the eldest. And you are still unwed?” he continued. “Why? Because of your hair?” He watched her fingertips tangle themselves in the silken silver threads against her cheek.

  “I had no desire to wed. You or any other.” That did not please him. Did witches wed? At least married women covered their hair. Some urge arose—a desire to reassure him that she would keep her hair hidden so as not to shame him—but the words died on her lips. There would be no future with him. She watched the blanket trail behind him as he left her to stride across to the wine jug. Yes, he would leave.

  He filled the goblets set out for them, not asking her will but making the decision for her in husbandly fashion. “It will restore you,” he told her, bringing the winecup across.

  “Yes,” sighed Heloise, and drew it to her lips. She watched above its rim as he lifted his.

  “We have a dilemma, you and I, mistress,” he said eventually and emptied the vessel far too rapidly. Agile thoughts flickered like tapers behind the alert gaze, his body tense and purposeful as he ran a thumb across the goblet’s smooth perimeter.

  “What do you suggest, sir? That I change you into a sparrow so you can fly out the window?”

  Rushden’s eyes glimmered wryly. “Witty but not very practical—if you are not a witch, that is.” A wave of laughter from downstairs mocked them. “We are both resolved on annulling this marriage. Is it possible?”

  Was the wine abusing her senses further? “Yes, of course, sir, if you petition his holiness the Pope straightway, and I imagine that his grace of Buckingham would—” And she must write to his grace of Gloucester.

  He was holding up a hand to silence her. “Lady, I do not mean that. Believe me, I shall do everything within my power. What I meant was—” He looked about the room as if the mislaid words had rolled beneath a cupboard. “What I need to know is, Are you a virgin?”

  Her cheeks burned. “What if I say no?” A spontaneous verbal thrust, revenge for his earlier insults! The reckless reply snuffed out the goodwill in him. His gaze coldly apprised of his response and she felt her breathing grow uneven.

  “Then we shall grow old together in mutual hate.”

  “I might be lying.”

  “You might be lying, yes, either way.” Then he added, “Mistress, I have said some very hateful things in your presence. You are intelligent enough to understand why. Can we at least be honest with each other for a little space?”

  Of course, Miles decided, he could put her to the test, hold her wrists against the pillow above her head and discover the answer. What, and come near ravishing her? No, touching must be avoided at all costs and he meant her no harm. As if she read his thoughts, the girl slid a hand beneath the sheet and withdrew a rondel dagger, which she must have hidden earlier beneath the mattress or bribed a servant to do.

  “Lay a hand upon me and I will make a eunuch of you,” she snarled, then spoilt the effect by adding in astonishment, “Why do you laugh at me?”

  Knotting the wretched blanket tighter, he walked across to the spy hole in the wall and languidly leaned into the tiny embrasure that squinted down upon his feasting enemies. “Not drunk enough, I fear.” He looked back at her across his shoulder, his mouth still twisting in amusement at the weapon in her slender fist. At least she held it properly. “What if you had lain on my side of the bed?”

  The lady’s lower lip quivered but her grip tightened. “I—I should have thought of some way to obtain it. Rolled on top of you and seized it that way.”

  Her innocence had Miles doubled with laughter. “You are a virgin,” he asserted cheerfully, relieved that no one had defiled her, and watched her lips part in pretty indignation. “Yes, Mistress Ballaster?”

  Heloise nodded sulkily, wondering how he had deduced it.

  “Well, that is a relief. We shall obtain our annulment after all. You could have spared me the bother of guessing.” He kicked aside his ridiculous train and tried to lecture her as if she were an army. “Now attend me, mistress. For the future, we must ensure we neither meet again nor compromise each other in any way until an annulment is received.”

  “And for the present?” She lifted an impertinent eyebrow. Tightening the sheet about her only emphasized her breasts as she reached out for
another savory. “My father says that you will not—”

  “—be given my clothes back until I have pleasured you.” He served her up a roguish smile that had thieved hearts. “Yes, how do I avoid that dilemma?”

  “Geld you?” teased Heloise, waving the dagger like a fan.

  “Ravishing you is a sweeter prospect.” A delectable proposition, if only the wench were daughter to a Welsh baron, not Ballaster’s spawn. “Do you think you could put that thing back beneath your pillow? I know you enjoy the weapon in your hand but it unmans me.”

  “Good.” Heloise grinned at Rushden as if he were a friend, but it was most unseemly behavior to speak so—especially to a man. Or could one do that with a husband? Was this what marriage could be like? If so, she rather liked the prospect. The wine must be addling her common sense, she decided, knowing that if she seduced Miles Rushden, he would probably strangle her before morning. “I think the wine is getting the better of me,” she admitted, spiking a piece of cheese with the blade. “I have eaten nothing these last three days. I—I was locked in my chamber.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.” Rushden was running his hand along the casement sill, noting the lock of the door, the thickness of the panels, eyeing the ceiling. “There has to be a way.”

  “Try the chest.”

  He threw back the lid. “I was hoping. Pah, it is all sheets and coverlets. Some of them laundered by you, judging by the blush of them!”

  Heloise ignored the taunt. “We might knot them to make a rope and anchor it to the chest. I should not trust this.” She shook the nearest bedpost. “We had to replace these because of woodworm and I doubt the joints would hold. Knowing my father, he will post a half dozen sentries. Could you make a skirt of sorts and pass for a woman?” The look she received was not happy.

  “Upon my soul, woman, are you crazed?” Miles had forgotten her unworldiness. The solemn almond gaze questioned innocently and he clenched his jaw and turned away. His covering was loosening and he retrieved it hastily with a curse and tucked it methodically about his waist so he looked less like a younger version of Elijah and more like a villein competing in a summer sack race. The folds threatened to trip him. “Oh, the Devil take the thing!” he yelled and sat down heavily on the bed, feeling as sulky as the brother of the Prodigal Son. And then the bed threatened to heave him off.

  “Mistress, what in—?”

  Taking advantage of his distraction, Heloise had burrowed beneath the sheet, trying to free its ends so she might not be confined to the bed. It was no use, especially with him anchoring half of it. She struggled to turn beneath the cover and emerged bedraggled and red-faced from her exertions.

  “If it is not too much trouble, sir, would you kindly loosen the sheet so I, too, may have some freedom?” He had an unholy grin, she discovered.

  “Of course. Try now.”

  Glowering at him, she eased up the sheet, still trying to keep herself modestly covered. She sternly gestured him to turn his back.

  “Is there likely to be needle and thread in the chest?” Miles asked, once her maneuvers had been completed. “You could sew me something.” Now the rustling had ceased, he glanced over his shoulder to see how she had taken the suggestion. He needed her compliance and of a surety she had been trained in such skills.

  “What are you expecting? A houppelande with lined sleeves?”

  “A tunic?” He wore his most cajoling expression, one that had earned him a few exquisite adventures in haylofts.

  “You jest. And, no, there is no needle here.” She had managed to stand but the sheet was so tight about her that it hardly rendered her mobile, and he saw that the dagger had not been sheathed. It took him a swift stride and a sharp, painful twist to seize it.

  “Now, mayhap, we can put it to less bloody use.” He tossed it on the bed, jerked the blanket from his waist, and spread it like a cloth upon the floor. “Stand on it!”

  His bride was rubbing her wrist. No doubt she would have been eyeing him sourly if she had not been so inhibited by his nakedness for her face and pretty shoulders blushed rosily.

  Trying not to imagine what the rest of her skin was doing, he grabbed her forearms and jerked her forward. “Stand there! I need it taut. Godsakes, you are married now.” Then, with an oath, he grabbed her pillow, shook free its covering, and slit half the seams. “Keep your eyes closed if you must, but hold up your arms.” She yelped as he dragged her hand from her sheet and tugged the fine linen over her head. It would have been tempting to enjoy her nakedness as the sheet tumbled round her ankles. Heloise Ballaster squeaked, opening her eyes. With a fumbling hand, she swiftly pulled the pillow cover over her thighs. He spared her modesty, turning to hack at the silk cord that held back her father’s expensive bedcurtains. For a moment he fingered the heavy fabric and then turned. “Here!” He dumped the fistful of cord into her astonished fingers.

  She looked up into his appraising eyes and felt no less naked; the fabric was tight upon her breasts and strained across her thighs. “Thank you,” she said huskily. This man was now her master; a man who wanted her yet loathed her. She held her breath, knowing that like two serpents his destiny coiled with hers.

  “A perfect Delilah,” Miles mocked and then regretted his cruelty. No, this was no sultry, worldly whore. For an instant, he let the memory of his first wedding night stir from the recesses of his mind; his bride, innocent Sioned, sweetly blowing the candle out and expecting to sleep. “Oh, God!” he whispered now, grinding his fists into his eye sockets. But this virgin was not Sioned. This was squat Ballaster’s daughter, even if she was a willowy faery maiden. “Devil take you, would you . . . would you mind standing where I put you!” It was beyond his strength of will to ignore her slim ankles and alluring legs as he tidied the fabric.

  “You are doing it wrong.” To his surprise, she knelt beside him, careful to keep her gaze upon the task, and they discussed the business as diligently as two tailors. Then she told him how to hold the wool cloth tight against the bias while she drew the dagger blade through it. It was not easy and the cut edge looked as though it had been attacked by giant moths. The man made no complaint but took the blade back from her and made a crescent rip in the center of the rectangle. “Excellent,” he muttered, sawing the blade down at a right angle while she held it taut, “all we need are a couple of sheep and we can go to Bethlehem.”

  At least he had a sense of humor. She could have been locked in with a dour, choleric lout. Heloise shut her eyes as he rose. A pat on the cheek made them snap open. He was laughing at her and he did look like a model for a Nativity painting. The tunic reached to his calves and he had belted it with the emerald cord. “It tickles damnably. I hate to imagine what a hair shirt must be like. No, I think I know.”

  Miles’s hair shirt was Heloise Ballaster, staring at him now with her fawn’s eyes. For an instant he forgot the unearthly hair.

  “Is Lord Rushden still at Monkton Bramley? Shall you go there?” she was asking.

  He remembered her warning to his father and his expression tightened defensively. Behind his back, he crossed his fingers against her. “My father has gone home. My mother . . . needed him. I shall rejoin his grace of Buckingham.” He must have read surprise in her face for he added, “Oh, were you expecting me to return with a small army at my heels? No, I shall not embroil my father, though he shall hear of this.”

  “I am glad of it,” Heloise answered gravely. “There has been enough blooding. Two of our men were injured and one of yours died for this folly.”

  The fierce intake of breath frightened her. Rushden strode to the window and slammed his hand against the wall so violently that the whole room trembled. His strong shoulders became rigid, and he lifted his face.

  “Poor Dobbe. God save him. He served me since I was a child,” he murmured, and his fingers found her dagger. She felt it was like treading on a layer of ice to wait on his uncertain temper; say the wrong words and the man’s hatred might crack his fragile courtesy. She he
ld her tongue, hardly daring to breathe. The minutes dragged before he raised his head and swung about. “There must be some way out.”

  She jumped as he violently thrust aside the curtain that hid the garderobe.

  “Jesu forbid, s-sir, you cannot go down that!”

  “True, lady, it would be like stuffing a badger down a rabbit hole and I would lief as not be mired further by your family.” Grabbing the handle of the oak chest, he heaved it across to the casement. Before she could protest, he sprang onto it and drove his heel through the window.

  The chatelaine in her winced at the bent spikes of ruined leading. Cold air rushed in to quiver the candles and pucker her arms. “Would it not have been simpler to open it?”

  “Not when your father padlocked the handles, Mistress Goose.” Half of him disappeared to inspect the roof. “A marvel! The dogs are barking but no one is willing to investigate. Brrr!” He sprang back lightly onto the floor. “This is the hard part.” He grabbed her discarded sheet, anchored it with his foot, and ripped off a small strip. Then his sable head lifted, his eyes glittering with menace, like the serpents of his house.

  “W-what do you mean?”

  “This!” It took less than a blink to bowl her back across the bed. Miles turned her, an elbow muffling her face into a dimple of the feather bed while he dragged one thrashing arm behind her back and knotted the rag about her wrist. Then letting her breathe, he hauled the gasping, disheveled girl up against the closest bedpost and tethered her like a witch to a stake. “Scream if it helps.”

  “You hellspawn!” Heloise twisted, trying to free herself, but it only tightened her bonds. The candle in the glass lamp, suspended in chains from the upper bedrails, wobbled precariously and she stilled in panic.

  “I think we need a fire to entertain your father while I escape.” Rushden laughed as he bundled bedding from the chest into the remainder of her sheet and set it upon the windowsill. “Now, if this were a troubadour ballad I might whistle up my horse and spring down upon his back, but I think that would ruin my chance of fatherhood and snap my spine.” He came across to her and lifted the candlestick from the small table. The sputtering flame menaced her. “I could set fire to the bedclothes, Heloise, my witch-wife.” Playfully tossing the dagger, he caught it deftly by the handle. “Your father cannot feed you to the dogs if you are bound, be thankful for that. Adieu, lady. And never come near me again, if you value your life.” Yet as he reached the chest, he turned, all mockery gone. “I doubt I can free my horse. Look after him, lady, his name is Traveller.”