The hall usher was placing the knights and men-at-arms but there was not a gentlewoman to be seen.
“Lady Haute?” The duke’s chamberlain, Sir Nicholas Latimer, introduced himself. “From now on you are to be seated there.” He pointed his wand of office to a place not far below the dais. “But his grace will speak with you in the great chamber first.”
Interested faces watched as she was conducted through the hall and up the steps to the door behind the dais. She had hoped she would be scarcely recognizable as the emburdened nursemaid, but one of the esquires giggled and said, “Woof,” and a knight gave her a wink and a friendly, canine “Grrr.”
She should have had her hackles raised. His grace of Buckingham, with his leather-slippered heels resting carelessly upon a small table, had already chastened a weeping Bess and was primed like a crossbow to shoot bolts into her self-esteem as well. The younger girl drooped before him like a penitent, tearful-eyed and hands piously clasped. Sir William was there too, standing akimbo at the casement, his back huffily turned and thumbs a-twiddle. Had his grace been berating him too or was it the well-stacked fire that had heightened the older man’s color?
“Lady Haute.” The tone was mocking. Ringed fingers directed Bess to step aside and make room for the new prisoner. If this had been Middleham, his grace of Gloucester would have taken Heloise’s hand courteously; this duke remained seated. She curtsied; it was one of her best—and wasted, since he did not acknowledge it.
“You are younger than we expected.”
“I have sufficient grey hairs, so please your grace.”
Buckingham’s expression remained inscrutable at her impertinence and he rose irritably and paced to the hearth, fingers slapping against knuckles behind his back. There was a sense of player about him, Heloise realized, and wondered how long he expected her to quiver in servile trepidation before he turned to deliver a coup de grâce. “I believe, however, that I have established a satisfactory understanding with your son, my lord,” she informed his back in her most cheerful manner.
“Satisfactory understanding,” he echoed scathingly, swinging round to face her. Heloise waited for the blast and it came with excellent timing. “Taking my son where there is risk of infection.” He let that sink in and continued in chilling tones: “Wasting good money on trinkets and some pesty cur when our castle is overrun with a plague of puppies already.”
“That may be true, my lord,” she countered, “but Lord Stafford did not wheeze a single time at the market and Bess has bathed the little dog most diligently and combed out all its fleas. Has Ned spoken with you yet? He was most anxious to tell you about the sword swallower.”
A swift sideways glance came at her; Sir William sucked in his cheeks and displayed a sudden artistic interest in the gilded ribs of the ceiling.
“Sword swallower!” Buckingham folded his arms, intending, no doubt, to stare her down. “Would you by any chance be telling me my business?”
“Yes, your grace.” Investing in another curtsy, Heloise raised candid eyes to discover that he was not looking at her.
“What do you say, Miles? Shackle the lady in our best dungeon with a score of Brecknock’s largest rats?”
Her husband left the doorway and stepped past her skirts. The smooth cut of his unembellished grey doublet made Buckingham’s hectic brocade and glittery buttons fulsome. “Oh yes,” he answered dryly, “as many as will make her merry,” and half-seated himself upon the table, one of his splendid hanging sleeves almost touching her knees.
“Rats have feelings too, your grace,” answered Heloise recklessly and stood up unbidden. “Do you need to punish them as well?”
But the duke’s amusement had been merely stubble deep. “Dear God, my lady, are you seriously expecting me to surrender my son into your seditious keeping? You will have him wishing to be a silly ploughman.”
Heloise shook her head. “I did consider ploughing might keep him occupied for half an hour but no, I do not think that is a good notion, so please you.”
“Ploughing,” echoed his grace ambiguously, exchanging looks with her husband. Sucking in his cheeks, he turned to face the fire again, leaving Heloise confused as to whether she was being indulged, condemned, or merely laughed at. It also left her almost nose to nose with her enigmatic husband.
Why had he not denounced her? Was it because he feared for Traveller or did he believe she would tell his duke about their marriage? She raised an eyebrow at him as much as to say, If you are going to set a noose about my neck, make haste; but Miles Rushden was not studying her like a highway brigand waiting to commit an assault. There was confusion behind his cold grey eyes, as if he were trying to make sense of her, to find evidence of the slattern. He had not seen her dressed like a lady before—but then she remembered her wedding gown and blushed. His chin rose in triumph as if he had drawn blood, and she stepped back, abruptly sensing not just his lazy enmity. Her eyes cursed him, but the musk he wore pricked her senses as he drew his gaze slowly up from her feet, sliding over the damask like a hand finding a path upwards, touching but not touching. She was waiting as the shadow reached her lips, and her body stirred unforgivably at the game he was playing to insult her.
The duke turned, fingers rubbing across his well-shaven chin. “You are pardoned this time, Lady Haute. Obviously Sir William and the nursemaid here did not make my orders clear.”
Bess hung her head and Heloise reached out, drawing her close, but Buckingham was unimpressed by the show of female unity. “Miles, in God’s name, find some means to imprint it on these silly creatures’ brains that certain measures have to be observed for the safety of us all. Let us be very clear on one thing, my lady governess. You are not to take my son from the castle without my authority. Mine or Sir Miles’s.” His ringed hand clapped Rushden’s pouched shoulder. “Do you understand me, madam! You put my son at considerable risk taking him into Brecknock. Is that not right, Knyvett?”
The older man coughed, nodding at the verbal jab. “Aye, not wise of me to permit it. Plaguey Welsh!”
Did it not depend on how the Welsh were treated?
“I assure your grace the English and Welsh stallkeepers seemed very happy to do business with us and . . .” Heloise faltered as the duke’s cynical gaze told her what a mirror did not—that any young woman of reasonable looks could gain attention.
“How long have you been at Brecknock, Lady Haute?” Rushden took his turn at scything her self-confidence.
Her chin lifted. “A week.”
He unfolded his arms and moved round to flank the duke. “Then, of course, you are omniscient on Welsh affairs, my lady. Our pardon for trying to correct you.”
Her telltale skin flamed crimson in the uncomfortable silence but then Bess’s stomach noisily pleaded hunger and the duke wearily gestured them out. “Take your places in the hall, mesdames. I find you amusing, Lady Haute, but learn to accept advice.”
Rushden followed Heloise out onto the dais with an indifferent face but his words were aimed to irritate. “How many children have you had, my lady? Six, is it not?”
Heloise glanced sideways at him as she reached the edge of the dais; he was baiting her.
“Enough babes to know that Lord Stafford needs both love and an understanding of when his behavior is unacceptable,” she retorted, sweeping ahead. “But I am sure you at least try to set him a good example, sir,” she added witheringly. “Come, Bess!”
Supper—especially as she loathed eels—was a torment. In respect of their returned master, the servants Heloise had become acquainted with no longer jested as they served. Bess was clearly awed by her superior’s courage in answering the lords of the castle in their own coinage. The younger girl made a noble effort with gossip, running her memory along the faces who sat opposite as if they were a row of rosary beads. Heloise tried to give a semblance of being entertained but a few covert glances at the dais told her that her forward demeanor was being discussed by the men who sat there. Under their scrut
iny, she ate very little and spoke even less.
At least her husband had not given her disguise away yet; she was sure of that. Thrice she discovered him watching her, and swiftly looked away, her breath catching. It irked her to be so dependent on his concealing her true identity but she must win more time. It was not just her own security that she feared to lose; Ned would feel himself betrayed if she ran away and she wanted the duke to see the new cheerfulness in his son.
After Buckingham rose from the board, the hall slowly emptied. Instead of Rushden following the duke, he came down to where the women sat.
“Attend me, mesdames,” he ordered officiously and strode off down the hall, expecting them to follow.
“That man is trouble with an illuminated T,” muttered Heloise, snagging her gown on the edge of the bench as she rose. “Is he aught but a knightly page boy to the duke?”
Checking to ensure no one else had heard, Bess giggled at her outrageous disrespect but sobered swiftly, her fingers working to unsnare the fabric. “Pray do not be crossing swords with him, my lady, and we’d best not tarry. He is the duke’s sword arm. Y Cysgod, the Welsh call him.”
“E Shisgod? And what does that mean?”
“The Shadow, my lady, and he is to be feared.”
THE BAILEY, DUSKY IN THE TWILIGHT, WAS HAZARDOUS; THE grooms had not finished shoveling the yard clean and it was necessary for Heloise and Bess to choose their path with care, for the windows of the hall, lit from behind, gleamed magically but offered little illumination. Rushden was waiting, arms folded, his whole stance impatient and imperious. Beside him stood a servant with a flaming torch held at arm’s length so that no sparks would fall upon their clothing.
“Dear me, Sir Miles, are we to have a tour of the dungeons to sober our silly heads?”
“A ducking stool might be more appropriate. Over here, if you please, mesdames.” He indicated an empty two-wheeled cart, and frowned as a cat, black as coal save for the splash of white down his muzzle and shirtfront, sprang up to mew for attention between the wooden banisters. “What do you see, madam?”
It was not easy to notice anything in the flickering light. Heloise picked up Dafydd and arranged him purring against her shoulder as she examined the shafts. “What are we looking for, sir?”
“Deliberate damage.”
Heloise stooped and instinctively ran her fingers over the nearest wooden spoke. She heard his hiss of breath as she fingered the saw cut but fearing it might reinforce his suspicion of her sorcery, she deliberately explored the other spokes before she returned to the damage. “Here.”
“Aye, that is the Welsh for you. God knows how far it would have got before it tipped its load. There is more.” He dismissed the torchbearer and led them into the lower floor of a tower, some sort of harness store. A pair of servants dicing by a brazier sprang up to salute him, rapidly pocketing the dice. Rushden ignored them and they thankfully slunk back out of sight.
“See this.” The duke’s friend grabbed a handful of leather girth straps set aside for repair and carried them into the light of the horn lantern.
“All hacked through,” whispered Bess. “By our Lady, sir, I had no notion.”
“It is only eight years since the last rising. So, you can see how well they love us, Bess. Now do you understand why Lord Stafford must not be put at risk?”
A mutual concern. Heloise nodded gravely, meeting his stern perusal. No doubt he had been expecting some feckless answer, for his expression lightened for an instant, and Heloise remembered their confrontation in the orchard with a sense of loss. If only her father had not intervened, they might have become friends instead of enemies. Dionysia had dismissed Miles Rushden as pockmarked; something that Heloise had hardly noticed. Goodness, in the poor light now, the scatter of scars hardly showed at all. She saw instead the strength of purpose in that jawline.
Rushden’s fingers slid meaningfully along the strap, raising his voice so that the men might hear. “If it is someone from the castle, the consequences . . .” There was definitely something attractive about men who enjoyed power, maybe it was that edge of danger in challenging such a man’s intelligence and authority. “Lady Haute, are you listening?” Rushden’s supercilious look had been replaced by an anxious scowl as if he feared she was going to announce some dire revelation like she had at Bramley.
“Yes, indeed, sir. But why would anyone bother to wreak such mischief?” she asked as he tossed the leather girths back on the pile. “It is not as though Welshmen will ever gain their independence now and I cannot see as how they are hard done by.”
“The prophecy of Myrddin. Merlin, in our tongue.”
“Merlin? King Arthur’s Merlin?”
“Certes, my lady. The Welsh believe greener grass grows apace in Brittany. Some Welshmen see Tudor as a second Arthur who will lead them to a golden age.”
“Tudor, you mean Henry Tudor?” Heloise owned to amazement. The descendant of the bastard line of Lancaster! Surely it was unthinkable. “But Tudor is a child still.”
“Not anymore. He is only a year or so younger than his grace our duke.” Rushden allowed his words to sink in then added, “And Ned, mesdames, is of Plantagenet stock. After the king’s kinsmen, he has a claim to the throne and must be protected.”
“Well, no harm came of today, sir,” muttered Bess. “Lady Haute had two of the archers with her. Your pardon, but I must needs say, sir, that since my lady’s coming, Lord Stafford has been as good tempered as a dog with a bowl of bones to gnaw.”
“So long as the bones are not poisoned, Bess,” Rushden answered sternly, and held open the door for them to leave.
Heloise lingered. “I promise you, Sir Miles, I shall guard Lord Stafford as though . . . as though he were my own son.”
The wall cresset flared momentarily betraying a sudden sensitivity in his face as though her words had pained him, and then the pewter gaze turned quicksilver. “Perhaps I speak out of turn, but should you not be home in Kent, providing your lord with sons, madam, or have you given him an heir and a second son besides?”
“I trust I am here with my husband’s blessing, Sir Miles, but, in truth,” she continued with a sigh, including Bess in the conversation, “I wish most heartily that I might speak with my husband this very instant, and tell him how it is with me.”
“Sometimes we cannot have what we should like.” His double meaning might have gone unmarked but as Bess looked back at her with compassion, Miles Rushden indulged himself by bestowing upon Heloise a summer gaze that spoke of a shared bedchamber and a licensed view of her nakedness.
How dared he! She was no wanton harlot! Why would he not let her speak with him and explain? Or did he plan to keep her in torment like a caged wild bird? She must have trembled with anger and shame, for the younger girl’s arm came about her. “There now, my lady.”
“I am well enow, Bess.” Her heart frantic, she leaned back against one of the upright beams and saw now that she had Rushden anxious. Did he fear she was having another premonition? Within his sleeves, the man had his fingers crossed against her but his eyes were also on her belly as if he feared she had come to Brecknock to foist a by-blow upon him. Surely he did not suspect that she had taken a lover since their unhappy wedding night! It was definitely time she sorted matters out with him.
“I thank you for your time in explaining the need for vigilance, sir. Come, Bess.”
MILES TARRIED LONGER ADMONISHING THE DICE PLAYERS, BUT when he strode out into the bailey, Mistress Ballaster was still there. “Pray go on to the nursery without me,” she was saying, “and make sure Ned is abed, not tormenting poor old Benet.” Bess unfortunately did not dally.
Miles scowled. Now what did Mistress Ballaster have in mind? A promise in some out-of-sight corner? Weeping or seduction? At least a grovel?
He called out, “Lady Haute, I thank you for your assistance tonight. Good night to you.” With a desperate longing for a score of torches and an audience of hundreds, he kept a healt
hy distance between them, gave his sorceress a curt nod, and headed for the steps of the great hall.
She hurried after him. “Sir! I have a further matter to raise with you.” Yes, he knew what that was.
On the bottom foot of the steps, where there was more traffic, he half-turned, his dark frown warning her to stay away from him. “There is nothing to be raised, I assure you, madam.” Color suffused her cheeks at his insult but she stood her ground.
“We have to talk. You must understand. . . . Please. I want to explain.”
“Enough, madam!”
Heloise sped after him, overtaking him on the top step. “Sir, you can at least—”
Her husband did not turn until he had reached the great hall where they might be observed; only then did he pause. Heloise let go the fistfuls of her gown, smoothed the damask and her temper.
“Will you give me a hearing at long last?” she asked him, smiling as if they were sharing amiable banter.
His mouth curved slightly but his eyes were hard as lodesterres. “Admire the tapestry, madam.”
“Oh.” His meaning caught; she gazed up at Diana changing Actaeon into a stag. Sensible goddess!
“Now suppose you tell me how much money you intend to extort from me.”
“Are you worth so much?” She stared pointedly at the bee harvesting the forget-me-nots and then lifted her gaze to the oak tree where a nightingale perched, the symbol of cheerful, industrious womanhood. “I would like to remain as Lord Stafford’s governess.”
“You, a nightingale! Keep looking at the tapestry! Godsakes, so that is it. Inveigle yourself into everyone’s good graces and then expose me as a heartless cur.”
“That is a monstrous suggestion.” She turned from him, as if about to flounce away, then changed her mind, and swept back to his elbow, her fingers daintily masking her lips as she said through her teeth, glaring at the crouching Actaeon, “I do not blame the Welsh for wreaking what petty havoc they can.”
That drew blood. He was conscious of them being watched. “I remind you, madam, if you cannot manage to obey our rules, you had best . . . leave immediately!” He saw her right hand clench but she was too wise to make a spectacle of the pair of them. The fingers straightened. “That is sensible,” he added in a calming voice, treating her like he would Traveller. “Keep your anger sheathed.”
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