Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  An instant later, he set alight the bundle and hurled it flaming from the casement—dear God, he meant it for the kindling stacked outside the kitchen! Then he hauled himself out onto the roof.

  Heloise was hoarse when the key finally turned. Old Hubert, three sheets to the wind, staggered in, with Dionysia at his heels. As tipsy and useless as windfallen apples, the Ballaster servants, shooed from the feast, rolled into the courtyard. Heloise—once they cut her free—ran out barefoot, shouting for fire brooms. The kitchen was in flames.

  Seven

  Her father threw aside the rod and stood, arms akimbo, glaring at his weeping daughter.

  “If you had done your duty, Rushden would be eating out of your hand. Pah, you do naught but cost me money, girl, and for what? Your reputation rent beyond repair, the kitchen burnt to ashes, us cooking in the open air like heathens, the man beyond our reach, and his devil of a horse kicking everyone who goes near it.” He paced and turned. “And the whoreson thinks he’s won, I’ll wager. Well, I shall write to the king’s grace and my lord of Gloucester this very day.” He beat his palm into his fist resolutely. “Aye, and you shall confront Rushden in the common gaze and make him acknowledge you.”

  “And he will deny it,” Heloise whispered, knuckling away her tears. “I will not crawl to such a man like Rushden. He says I must never come near him again.”

  “So he can annul the marriage, you daft fool. Oh, stop your snivelling. Listen to me!” He grabbed her chin. “We saw him examining the goods. He fancied you and so he might again.” She tried to pull away, detesting the flared nostrils, the angry broken veins that ran beneath his skin. “What choice do you have, girl? If the Rushdens will not have you, you are little worth to me.” Letting go of her, he strutted to the window. “To be plain, Heloise, it is your choice whether you starve. Obey me and you leave for Wales with servants. Disobey and you leave alone and penniless.”

  “You would disinherit me?” Her body hurt as she struggled to her feet, staring at him in horror. “For my sweet mother’s sake, you cannot—” Be so cruel? Oh, he could, she did not doubt it. What argument would move him to be merciful? “God’s truth, sir, can you not see that Miles Rushden is hungry for far more than Bramley? It was not my looks last night that he rejected but my blood. We are beneath him, sir, can you not understand that? The Rushdens want nothing to do with the likes of us.”

  His fists hit the sill and he turned abruptly. “Never, never let me hear you talk that way, babbling like a loser! You grab what you can, girl. You drive your fist in the teeth of the world and you win. He has his price.”

  “Money does not buy respect or love,” she exclaimed defiantly and held her breath. He had never given her either and nor would Rushden.

  “Love,” he sneered. “Love is silk, love is velvet, love is extra. You have too much of your mother in you. Dionysia would see this matter differently. She would hunt Rushden down.” Reaching the door, his hand paused at the ring handle. “Martin shall see you to Brecknock. You may take a maidservant, your mare, and a pack ass, and the young cur’s stallion can go on market day to meet my losses.”

  Rushden’s horse? What had he called it? Traveller?

  “Give it to me.”

  “Not on your life, girl. That beast is worth a small fortune. Now, pack! For by my life, I wash my hands of you.”

  MUST SHE GROVEL BEFORE RUSHDEN LIKE SOME HEATHEN concubine and beg him to bed her? Never! She had some courage left.

  After her father had gone, Heloise sat miserably, her fingers clasping her forearms, cursing him for his heartlessness, then she bestirred herself and bathed her tear-swollen eyes. Her hands were clumsy with cold for she had been denied coals for her chamber as punishment.

  This was hard, to struggle against the despair dragging at her like weights. She swore she would not sink into a deep well of self-loathing. Beggars and lepers had worse lives, she told herself, and what of the damned souls facing the Devil’s pincers in Hell for the next millennium? There had to be a safer path for her to follow, one that led her from her father’s hatred. If only she could return to Middleham. Facing the chaplain would be easier than pleading with Rushden.

  “Which path must I take?” she sighed to the faery folk and unfastened the window to let them through. Only the piping of a winter robin busy in the hedgerow answered her. Swallows might leave like summer traitors but old Rob endured the cruel rains of winter and kept Yuletide in England. Surely she had as much courage as such a tiny bird?

  At least the key was not turned upon her now. Trying to keep her poor bruised back as straight as a battle standard, Heloise walked stiffly down the stairs, drawn in loneliness to the stable, to seek the other creature that was the scapegoat for her father’s wrath.

  “Mistress.” Martin looked up from examining a cut on her mare’s back fetlock, wiped his hands on the backside of his jacket, and came round to greet her.

  “Christ ha’ mercy, Martin, what is wrong with your face?” But she realized as she spoke. Dear God, was there no end to the damage Rushden had done to her and hers?

  “I dabbed on honey liquid, like you allus said, and ice from the water butt. We chased young Rushden into the orchard, mistress. ’Ad him cornered nicely but then ’e whacked off one of your bee skeps with a trellis pole and toppled the rest of ’em. Bees flew at us, they did, like bloodthirsty Furies, and ’e got clean away. Won’t be no honey this year.”

  “My poor bees.”

  “Aye, dead from cold or stinging.” He unhooked a plaited wisp as he spoke. Her mare, Cloud, shook herself at the prospect of her winter coat being brushed and gave a frightened whinny as the horse in the stall at the far end kicked fiercely against the wall. The building shuddered so much that one of the hackneys knocked into his manger in distress. Even the placid sumpters shifted fretfully. Last night’s smoke must have made them all unsettled, thought Heloise, hushing her gentle horse.

  “I hear you did not fare so well, either, mistress.” The groom’s glance slid furtively to her back. “By the by, Sir Hubert let Rushden’s men go, mistress. Leastways I suspect so, only don’t go telling Sir Dudley. Old fellow unbarred the cellar. After more liquor, I suppose. They must have sneaked off during the hurly-burly with the fire. Dangerous man, Rushden, not for a gentle soul like you, Mistress Ballaster. I don’t like to brag about bein’ right, but I allus said you ought not to ’ave gone to Potters Field an’ now see what’s come of it.”

  “Rushden’s horse, Martin?”

  “That’s ’im now, mistress.” Hooves slammed again. “Angry, aye, and hungry. Won’t let any of us come near ’im.” Just like Rushden at the bridal feast. “The master says ’e’s to be taken to market. We shan’t be sorry, neither.” He led Heloise down past the stalls. “Put ’im in the far one, we did, to prevent young Rushden taking ’im.”

  She was not disappointed. Like its owner, the stolen stallion was in its prime and just as touchy. True, Traveller was a little untidy with winter shagginess, but his steel grey coat gave promise of becoming as snowy as the Duke of Gloucester’s destrier, White Surrey. Being a palfrey, he did not have the height and breadth of the duke’s horse, but to Heloise he was just as magnificent.

  A bold yet not unkind eye bid the groom keep his distance, then the huge lip curled and the nostrils flared. Martin grabbed Heloise to safety as the animal reared and brought its hooves crashing against the shuddering barrier.

  “It’ll be a fool or a brave man who tries to lead that one out.”

  “Let me speak to him alone.”

  “No, mistress, see ’ow dangerous ’e is. I know you’ve a way wi’ creatures but this one’s a devil in horse skin.” Seeing as how she was adamant, he finally ordered away the stable hands who had gathered round them.

  “Traveller?” Heloise took a step closer. “Traveller, I have to talk to you.”

  Wary but intelligent eyes watched her. She burrowed a hand into the manger and held out some oats on her palm. The stallion shifted his wei
ght onto his back haunches, ready to spin out of her reach or to rear, but curiosity urged him at the same time to take a step forward and stretch his neck out almost within touching distance. It took a little while to explain to him what her father intended. In an unhurried voice, continually holding the stallion’s gaze, she told him what he must expect next day at the markets and what she feared might happen to her.

  He was listening, watching her fully. One of his companions wickered in the next stall but Traveller’s concentration never left Heloise. As the soft, even cadences comforted him, he bowed his head and took the oats. Heloise leaned forward and blew very gently into his nostrils and a huff of breath came back at her and a gentle touch, soft as fustian, brushed her nose. She slowly straightened and set her hand upon the splendid forehead, smoothing him beneath her fingertips, up to the base of his ears and gradually down to his nose. He was still tense, uncertain. She told him she understood his panic and that she had felt like this last night with his master.

  In a soft whisper, she assured him he was beautiful. With her other hand, she felt for the bolt and drew it free, never withholding her stare as she stepped inside his stall, praying he would not sense the thin ache of fear beneath her hope. He turned, still eyeing her movements, facing her. Like men, stallions liked nothing better than flattery and he listened intently to her telling him how noble and clever he was as she rubbed his long nose and moved to one side of his head.

  “See how easy it is, vain one, you do not want to listen to a woman at first and then gradually you grow more sensible.” With gentle fingers, she teased a long ear, running her fingers up its silken casing, and then she firmly slid her palm caressingly down, under his gorgeous mane, up his withers, and across his back. The great head swung. Soft horsy breath huffed in her ear and a velvet nose nuzzled her neck with a whinny.

  Stroking him, she sang the sad words men said Charles of Orléans, imprisoned in the Tower of London, had penned in lonely exile. The plaintive farewell was for a beauteous lady or maybe his beloved homeland of France. Heloise improvised for Traveller and made up or hummed the phrases she could not recall.

  “Farewell now my darling dere,

  Farewell most wisest and so manly,

  Farewell my love from yere to yere,

  Farewell kind, courteous and true.

  However I fare, fare well you,

  I take my leave against my will.”

  Her cheeks wet with tears and she knuckled them away. The horse regarded her thoughtfully, as if he sensed his happiness depended on her.

  “I am not going to let my father sell you,” she whispered with sudden conviction, sensing the faeries had crept along the rafters to listen. The moment had become special and magic, and she must listen to her heart. “No, I shall take you with me. We shall go out into the world together.”

  She had fallen in love with Rushden’s horse. At least it was a beginning.

  “Heloise!” Dionysia hurried towards her. “We have a visitor! Lady Huddleston, her grace of Gloucester’s sister. She has been in Somerset visiting her manor at Sutton Gaveston. And, Heloise, she says I may journey north to Middleham with her straightway and Father has agreed. Oh, Heloise, be happy for me.”

  “I am, truly.”

  “Maybe she can help you—you know, intervene with Father.”

  “Does the sun rise in the west, Didie?” But silently Heloise raised her face to the rafters where the faeries were hiding. Maybe her prayers were answered.

  “IT WILL NOT WASH,” MARGERY SAID SOFTLY. “OH, MY DEAR Heloise, even if I could take you back to Middleham with us tomorrow, your problem will still be out that door waiting for you.” Yes, male, hostile, and likely to kill not kiss. “I have never met any of the Rushdens. I believe the old lord was pardoned for fighting for the House of Lancaster and has kept his nose out of trouble since. They are certainly of very noble lineage.”

  “And they do not want a crossbow merchant’s daughter ruining their purity.” Heloise set the bedcover back. “Thank you for listening, my lady. I have been cudgeling my brain to think of a way out of this, some means to survive, but I had best let you get some sleep.” It had already been impertinent of her to knock on their visitor’s door after the rest of the household had gone to bed. She had been sitting in her friend’s bed since nine of the clock explaining.

  “No haste,” Margery replied, shifting her pillow and easing her honey braids free. The young hound sprawled across her feet upon the coverlet rose from its slumber and came to lick Heloise’s wrists. “Look, you are no coward, Heloise. I think you really should demand some help from Rushden.”

  “I expect he thinks I bewitched him.” Heloise tickled the dog’s back above its tail.

  “Did you?” No malice, merely curiosity and good humor laced Margaret’s question, but it warned Heloise that others might ask with less goodwill.

  “No.” She laughed. “But it was strange, the morning after the fight at Potters Field, I was thinking how satisfying it would be to be revenged on him and suddenly he was standing in the orchard as if I had summoned him.”

  “Hmm . . . are you sure you could not bring him to heel as a husband?” Margery murmured with the sleek smile of a woman blessed by love. “You know, I ran from Richard Huddleston for a very long time but he was always there like the Devil waiting for my soul.” She heeled the heated brick across to her friend.

  It was not extra warmth that drove betraying color into Heloise’s face. “I had rather be damned than to beg for crumbs from that knave’s plate.” Rushden would probably haul her out to a woodpile and light a fire under her. “Oh, my lady”—her fingers twisted in her despised silver plait—“I was hoping to return with you and throw myself on their graces’ mercy, but I suppose the duke’s chaplain has convinced them I am a freak who consorts with demons. . . .”

  “It sounds like you nearly did.” That brought a bitter smile. “A moment.” Margery rose and, to Heloise’s surprise, opened the bedchamber door briefly as if she feared an eavesdropper. “One must be careful,” she declared, coming back to lean over the cradle where her tiny son was sleeping. “And what I have to say may shock you and I should not like it repeated. We need not worry about Alys here.” She twitched the blanket higher over her maidservant, who lay snoring on a trundle, before she pushed her dog out of the way and slid back into the bed. “I think it might please their graces better—and the king also—if you went to Brecknock and forced Rushden to acknowledge you.”

  “The king!” Heloise stiffened.

  “Not only because Rushden is now your lawful husband but because it would be, well, interesting to have an intelligent gentlewoman in Buckingham’s household.” She gave Heloise a measuring look.

  The king and Gloucester would be pleased if she would . . . spy for them! Heloise stared at her older friend through a different glass. “You were an informer,” she breathed. The gossip had been true.

  “I was not.” That truth was delivered sharply. “I was sent to France by King Edward in secret to deliver some special letters, and it was not immoral, I was trying to prevent a war.”

  It seemed wise not to prod for further confidences. Spy? Inform? This was a Pandora’s box. “But, madam, what use could I be in Brecknock? It is so far away.”

  “Can you not see it is common sense for any great lord to keep abreast of what is happening all over the kingdom? For my part, I know little of Harry, Duke of Buckingham. Indeed I have only rarely set eyes on him but he bothers me, the way he keeps himself apart. Is it out of pique or disinterest?”

  “I have heard he spends most of his time in Wales.”

  “Indeed, and there are Welshmen who dream of rising up against the English.”

  “And Englishmen who still hate the House of York,” muttered Heloise. God forbid that Sir Miles Rushden was one of them!

  “Exactly, and if ever the king’s enemies rally again—which God forbid—Buckingham might be persuaded to claim the throne. He is a Plantagenet, of legiti
mate royal blood; his grandsires supported the House of Lancaster, which would make him most acceptable; and he is reputed to resent his marriage with a Woodville.” She steepled her fingers, tapping them together, as if her mind was fired with possibilities. “Yes, it would be useful to know what is being said these days at Brecknock.”

  Of course, decided Heloise, it was only to be expected that Margery, who had been at the heart of great matters during her father Warwick’s rebellion, might be tempted to smell rats in perfectly innocent pantries; she probably missed the excitement. But King Edward was a strong king, so what could go wrong?

  “The realm seems quite safe, madam. Forgive me for arguing, but we have had peace for twelve years or more, and the king has two healthy princes to succeed him, not to mention my lord of Gloucester and his son too.”

  Margery sighed. “The English chronicles are full of treason. Have you ever seen the heads on London Bridge? I know all about rebellions, believe me. And it is only five years since Clarence was put to death, but I will say no more on that.”

  “B-but would my lord of Buckingham have informers at Middleham, my lady?”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  They were talking about a different England, one that Heloise had only glimpsed. One that frightened her. It was as if Bramley and the manors she had grown up on were but a little world, scarce higher than the grass, while high above her head, the giants of England, the dukes and earls, played other games. Why seek her help? Gloucester must already have an agent dining at his cousin Buckingham’s table. No, this was not her business.