Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  Had she been glaring at him, he might have sprouted antlers too. “Do not patronize me, you hellspawn, or I shall tell the world this instant you are my husband.”

  “You truly want that?” he scoffed, with a sweep of an arm as if he was explaining the symbolism of the squirrel in the hazel bush behind Actaeon. “Surely you want to be free of me? Look at the tassels!”

  She stooped to study the decoration that dangled along the lower border. “Of course I do.” That was said with bushels of feeling as she straightened. “Diana had sense!” she muttered. “Perhaps I should put horns on your head.”

  He fingered a woolly thistle. “Dearest, darling Heloise,” he began, his tone nice as poisoned honey, “if you are here to ensure that Holy Church never severs us, I will make your life with me so delightful that you will wish yourself beset by all the plagues of Egypt—simultaneously! Now buzz away. We have been standing here long enough.”

  Heloise bit her lip and managed to stanch her temper, convinced that she still held the upper hand. Surely he would have unmasked her otherwise. He wanted his freedom and she was sure he wanted his horse. “And Traveller? I have looked after him for you, and saved him from being sold. Give me fair hearing and you shall have him back.”

  He feigned indifference but Miles did not tell her he would whistle outside every stall and byre from Brecknock to Hereford if need be to find his beloved horse. “Lady, I have already replaced him and I shall certainly replace you.”

  Ten

  “His grace is asking for you, sir.” Heloise let her breath out as a young henchman interrupted them. With an officious nod, as if he had merely been speaking with her out of duty, Rushden paced off to the great chamber and she was left with a boyish knight whose exuberant grin through straw-colored hair reminded her of Ned’s puppy. A possible ally?

  “Sir Richard de la Bere.” He introduced himself with a flourish and pulled a waggish face at the tapestry. “Poor old Actaeon.”

  Heloise cocked her head to one side. “No, pity the unfortunate goddess.”

  “Why?” He hailed the panther and ordered a cup of perry for her.

  “Why, Sir Richard? Because Diana must stay chaste now. She has cut off her nose to spite her face, for Master Actaeon is a handsome lover and she has spurned him.”

  He laughed. “I say, that’s a refreshing philosophy, Lady Haute.” With a kindly arm, he led her to the fire. “Good health, my lady! How was your journey here?”

  She was telling him about Hoel’s foibles when the duke came down into the hall with Rushden at his side. The pair of them strode off purposefully out into the bailey like two dogs off on a night scavenge. It was tempting to linger with de la Bere but somehow the conversation had turned to hunting—clearly his passion—and the servants were pointedly snuffing out the candles, so Heloise pleaded weariness. Her new friend—involved in tracking a hart through Stockley Wood—looked disappointed that she did not wish to hear of his final triumph, but let her go.

  Compared to Middleham, Brecknock’s stairs and passages were meanly lit and Heloise took care climbing the spiraling stone steps to the next floor and cautiously contemplated the evil passageway. The night before, a rat had raced ahead of her. She was reminding herself to always carry a taper when a gloved hand swooped across her mouth and a relentless arm dragged her struggling into a small hidden chamber behind the arras.

  “Hold still, damn you!” her legal owner snarled after she jabbed her elbow fiercely into his chest. Physical fear subsided into healthy annoyance but her heart was still galloping like a horse stung by a gadfly and her skirts were so intimately entangled with a stool that she was forced to cease trying to kick Rushden’s shins and hang on to his sleeves instead. He let her go with an oath. A flint rasped and the room about them flickered into detail as he lit a single candle set in a wall cresset. They were in a small, paneled chamber off the chapel; Heloise caught a glimpse of the shrouded altar before her captor locked that entrance and dropped the key into the fringed purse on his belt. Then he set the bar across the door he had just hauled her through and surveyed her with the satisfied expression of a dragon that had returned to a cave to gloat over its hoard.

  “When I mentioned we needed to talk,” muttered Heloise, tugging her bodice straight, “I did not anticipate it would be such a struggle.” With her headdress looking like a dislodged chimney pot and hair tumbling down over her right ear, any attempt to look grave and earnest would not wash. “Are you expecting me to kneel and confess to horse theft and extortion?” She indicated the prie-dieu, the only other furnishing in the room, save for the toppled stool and a crucifix on the wall.

  “Now that would be a wonder,” Rushden answered, leaning back against the door. “You have only a few moments to state your case before my patience wears through. I advise you not to be wasteful.”

  “Is this tête-à-tête not unwise, sir?” She righted the stool and picked up a fallen prayer book, smoothing its bruised pages regretfully before she fastened the clasps back together. “It takes few moments to conceive a child. I should have thought you would have engineered a peacock tail of eyes to witness our argument and keep our conversation chaste.”

  That ruffled his tail feathers no end. “I am waiting, Mistress Ballaster.”

  “Well . . .” She replaced the book on its oblique shelf, marveling that her weariness had so swiftly abated. “In a nutshell”—she steepled her fingers—“I have been banished from Bramley and now have neither income nor prospects outside these walls, thanks to you and my father.” Pacing to and fro like a lioness in the king’s menagerie, she added, “And I would be the last person to deny Dionysia her chance to find a worthy husband, so when—”

  “The point of this,” he interrupted tersely, slapping his hand on the top of the prie-dieu.

  “The point is that my father sent me here against my will, and before I knew it I was installed as Ned’s keeper complete with keys and napkins.”

  “Just like that?”

  “More or less.” She sat down upon the stool. “Sir William Knyvett would have bussed me heartily he was so pleased to see me.”

  “I can believe it.” A priest might have granted her absolution by now but Rushden was hardly likely to send her out with a benediction and a few Hail Marys. “You still have not told me how you dispensed with Lady Haute.”

  “Well, it was marvelously fortunate. The poor lady wrote to say she was indisposed with the measles. You see, fortunately, dear Sir Thomas Limerick sent me up my . . . well, her . . . unopened letter.” She peeped up cautiously. He was looking surprisingly mild-mannered but that was a sunny day that would not last long. “You really must appreciate, sir, that had I explained who I really was at that precise moment, it would have made things extremely difficult.”

  “For me?” he offered sarcastically. “You were so unselfish, thinking of my sensitivity in such matters.”

  “Yes,” she agreed helpfully. “I realize that this is putting you—”

  “I seem to remember before we last parted in such, shall we say, inconvenient circumstances, that I hinted to you that I never wanted to set eyes on you again.”

  “And here we are.” Her dimpled grin was only skin deep.

  He was smiling too, his laugh a politeness. “And here we are.” He straightened up from the prie-dieu and his expression changed so rapidly that Heloise sprang up from the stool and stepped back, her heart thumping.

  “So what are we going to do about this?” he asked, advancing with dragonlike purpose.

  She shrugged helplessly as she read the desire in his eyes to incinerate her. “Nothing, sir?”

  “Nothing!” That halted him. His gaze smoldered at her nonchalance, but to her relief he paced away from her and set his hands to the bar. For a moment she thought the interview was at an end but he was merely bracing himself, as if touching the tangible solid wood might bring comfort and restore common sense.

  “I seem to recall explaining to you”—he swung roun
d to confront her like a lawyer arguing his case before a jury—“that it was essential that we never spend a night under the same roof until the annulment was granted.” He gestured to the excess of painted stars above their head. “Yes?”

  Heloise nodded apologetically, giving the ceiling a cursory glance. “But this is a rather large roof,” she pointed out, including the entire castle in her remark. The man gave a hiss of angry breath, but she pressed on: “Sir, you only spoke to me at all tonight because his grace commanded you.” True, he had little choice; if he avoided “Lady Haute” like a plague-ridden village, some tongues might have wagged, but that observation was better stored away. Instead she continued quietly, “So you see, I imagine it is possible for us to avoid each other completely with almost no effort.”

  His quicksilver eyes regarded her scathingly. “Are you such a simpleton? If you remain here, mistress, I have access to you.”

  The meaning drew the blood into her cheeks and, as if to thrust the words fully into her mind, her husband coldly let his glance rise from her little pointed toes, hover in unseemly fashion upon her breasts, and halt upon her lips, which she parted unwittingly beneath such scrutiny. Something which seemed to begin beneath her ribs like a slow vortex was whirling downwards to her thighs. This man knew too well what lay beneath her clothing. She turned away from that insolent study before she was tempted to stare and give him brazen coin for coin.

  Access, yes. Miles felt himself tempted. This silver-haired enchantress was a hand’s-grasp away, beseeching him with waif’s eyes; her body was a tantalizing sheath to be broken, to be seduced into granting him admittance. It would be so easy, so satisfying to tug away the silken panel that lay across her collar and free those pert breasts for lovemaking. He felt himself hardening and swung away from her, gripping the prie-dieu as if it exuded some holiness that might assist him against her witchery. He had to be rid of her. Her presence disconcerted him, creating fractures in the wall he had erected against emotion. If he permitted it, her lies, her disguise, would be like ice freezing into the cavity of friendship betwixt him and Harry, pushing them slowly apart.

  Heloise guessed he was exacting a silent revenge for the shaking administered to his careful world and was sorry for it. Brecknock could give her safe haven for a little space if only the harbormaster’s watchdog would let her stay. What would happen if she did step across the pace of world that lay between them to nestle against that arrogant backbone? And suppose she trailed a gentle touch across the glimmering knuckles and up his velvet sleeve to his shoulder to tangle her fingers in the soft, black waves and coax Rushden’s face down to hers? Would he kiss her or curse her? No, she must risk nothing. Along that sinful path betwixt hand and lips lay folly and Heloise knew better than to steal what could never be hers.

  The man had turned his face to her, waiting. It was necessary to soothe the hackles down and slide a makeshift collar round his neck until she could work out the answers herself. Stroking the fingertips of one hand up and down the back of her other hand, held fisted against her breasts, she tried for an answer to placate him. It cost her, but being conciliatory was far more crucial than losing her temper.

  “If need be, I shall submit to an examination when the annulment arrives.”

  His reply astounded her: “Shall you indeed? We should both be fools to rely on that.”

  “You whoreson!” The unladylike word was out before she could leash it and it took all her power to fight down the urge to knock the Rushden hawk nose crooked.

  Seeing such temptation whorling her fists, Miles swiftly stepped back out of harm’s way. “Such fine manners, Mistress Ballaster.” He let his mouth curl haughtily. The girl’s base blood showed. “I am merely being practical, woman, if you would bother to listen. There are other ways to lose a maidenhead besides lying with a man; riding horseback for instance can rip the evidence of virginity.”

  Heloise’s defiance slackened. He was perfectly right even if the indelicacy of the man in mentioning such matters shocked her.

  “So let us be clear on this, you shrew. I am ordering you to leave Brecknock by Thursday or I shall have you taken back to your father by force, make no mistake. You may ride home muzzled in a cart for aught I care.” He did not mention Myfannwy would be arriving.

  Heloise leaned wearily back against the wall. She did not want to return to the little empire ruled by her father; she was going to have to fight with every weapon she had to keep some hold over her destiny, and she could not see beyond Brecknock. “I think you are making rather heavy weather of this, sir.” He looked fit to explode at such an understatement, but she continued, “I should like to retain my position here.” The proclamation made her feel good and she straightened up and announced the rest of it: “In fact I intend to. The duke’s son needs some affection in his life. I have seen beggars’ children given more love—”

  Laughter in the passageway outside stifled her peroration as Miles flung up a warning hand. A young woman’s inebriated giggle and a man’s soft winning tones rippled past and ebbed beyond their hearing. When the silence again lay between them, Heloise picked up her skirts decisively. “Since it is not wise to be seen or discovered conversing with you, sir, especially in private, would you mind if we end this delightful audience?” She swept to the door and stood regally for him to open it.

  With an ill will, Miles hoisted the bar from its brackets, wondering why he was giving her more time. “We shall speak of this again. Do not think yourself out of the wild wood yet, mistress.”

  Heloise ruined her triumphant departure by asking in wifely fashion, “Oh, did you remember to write to his holiness?”

  “No, I might manage it in a year’s time,” he exclaimed witheringly, his fingers still controlling the door latch. “Of course, Pope Sixtus and Bishop Stillington and my lord of Canterbury. Anyone I have missed? The king? The Ottoman emperor? Yes, now, there is a thought, and the poor heathen fellow has a different wife each night while I have difficulty dealing with the one foisted on me. Good night, madam! Forgive me if I follow you at a distance but I wish to ensure you find your way to your bedchamber unravished.”

  “So considerate,” purred Heloise, grateful even if it was self-interest rather than gallantry which fueled his thoughtfulness. She waited while he robbed his purse of the chapel key and lifted the candle free.

  Keeping a cautious distance like an assassin, Miles followed her. She went the wrong way twice and had to be whistled to and signaled with the candle so that by the time she reached her door, he was ropable and close to suspecting her of leading him on a tour of the entire living quarters out of sheer revenge.

  He plundered an ambry and drank a cup of muscadelle, angry that he had been drawn into the wretched girl’s conspiracy. Moths had more sense; at least they investigated a flame before it consumed them. And he was the one person in the entire household who had claimed any recognition of Lady Haute. If the real widow arrived, Harry would want to know why Miles had deceived him. And Lord Rhys ap Thomas was arriving on Thursday. Damnation upon it! Curse her! Curse everything!

  His bed was occupied when he finally flung himself down on it. Dick de la Bere amiably rolled out of his way and asked whose skirts he had been lifting.

  LIKE A DOG WITH A BONE TO BURY, RUSHDEN WAS CERTAINLY trying to be rid of her as discreetly as possible. Next morning as Heloise was leaving the castle chapel after mass, the porter, having taken great pains to make the delivery himself, handed her a letter. She tucked it briskly beneath her belt, whisked Ned back to the nursery, and locked the letter into her jewelry coffer.

  Thank all the saints she did. When she finally snatched a few moments’ privacy, she read the letter and discovered it purported to be from Lady Haute’s husband, requesting his wife to return at once. The orange seal on the parchment was different from the previous one and rather indistinct. Yes, she realized, it was a letter from a husband: hers! “Rogue!” she muttered and tossed it on the nearest fire. She was not going to sp
in away when Rushden cracked his toy whip. God smite him! How long would this game endure?

  And what was worse, she had been commanded to take Ned to breakfast with his sire. To hear about the sword swallower? The duke’s interest in his son was the only glimmer on a dark horizon, for she guessed that dear friend Rushden would be listening, too, and sending vengeful promises to her across the trenchers and the Paris napery.

  The duke was breakfasting at the small table in his bedchamber and Heloise, having delivered his son, was bidden to wait by the door—near enough to remove Ned if he disobeyed, far enough to be disregarded and hear nothing. She felt like a sentry as the servants came past with platters and it was embarrassing, too; Ned tucked his legs around his stool leg, blew on his pottage, and prattled happily. Several times the duke stared across at her, and her husband, dining with them and ill at ease with the child, glanced over his shoulder occasionally, but offered no pleasantries.

  Heartily sick of studying the scarlet-and-gold-caparisoned bed, the costly carpets, the pedestaled astrolabe, and the collection of lidded golden goblets studded with gemstones, marching across the cup board shelf, Heloise observed that his grace of Buckingham matched his bed. He was buttoned tightly into a scarlet doublet stitched with panels of yellow silk crisscrossed with golden cord. Yet for all his flamboyant splendor, there was an elegance in his companion that was much more powerful.

  Rushden’s black cote’s slit sleeves rustled with a lining of grey taffeta every time he set his cup to his lips. Heloise’s gaze was drawn immodestly to the lazy stretch of his shoulders, the way the white pleated collar of his shirt was half-hidden by glossy hair, black as midnight. You need a barber, she silently chided his proud profile, and then blanched as he suddenly tugged at a fingerful of hair and squinted sideways at it. This is definitely against the teachings of Holy Church, Heloise chided herself, or was it mere coincidence? Could the man be made to feel a tickling in his right kneecap? One of Rushden’s ringed hands slid down across the woolen hose of his left leg. Hmm. Then she tried to make him sneeze, without success, before she sensibly gave up. It was wrong to mock the magic; the faery realm might punish her for succumbing to such frivolity.