Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “My lady.”

  Heloise nearly dropped the pan in the fire.

  The old harpist, Emrys, was standing in the doorway, enjoying the fact that his sudden appearance startled her. “Your voice, arglwyddes, was given as a blessing,” he declared, stepping in unbidden, making no apology for finding her with a wrap over her underkirtle and her hair plaited for bed. Before she could stop him, the man set his harp down and prowled straight through into Ned’s bedchamber. She followed anxiously but he merely cast a glance over the child and the other two sleepers, his creped smile soft and ambivalent.

  A finger on his lips, he drew her back into the nursery, closed the inner door, and perched himself on the three-legged stool beside the hearth. Then, without a by-your-leave, he began to tell her in a voice, beautiful and undulating, of his beloved Welsh music, of the broth of the cauldron of the goddess Ceridwen whence came the powers of Taliesin, and his people’s dreaming. So entranced was Heloise by the legends that an hour passed swifter than clouds across the moon’s face, before the old musician took up his harp and played for her.

  Emrys’s singing voice was cracked with age like ancient glaze but once it must have been strong and a delight to man and maid. He began to teach her, speaking slowly in his own tongue, then singing the phrases and bidding her repeat them. It was impossible to remember the Welsh at first but he coaxed each verse from her over and over again and then he sang with her, and Heloise wove a descant over and beneath his melody.

  “Arianlais, there’s nice it is,” he said finally, his eyes misty in the light of the sputtering candle stub. “Indeed it is a pity you are not Welsh and a male child, for indeed I could make a bard of you. The great Taliesin himself would have written gladly for such a voice as yours.” He rose. “The hour is late, see, but can you come to the town tomorrow even? You shall hear such music.”

  “The town, Master Emrys! I fear permission would not be granted.”

  Wiry thick eyebrows came together in a frown. “There are other ways to leave this place. Say you will come, arglwyddes. We have a visitor coming to the town, one who wears the mantle of the wondrous bard Dafydd ap Gwilym, and a wreath of oak leaves upon his brow. Lewis Glyn Cothi, my lady!”

  Clearly she was supposed to be impressed. “But is the great Lewis not coming to the castle?” she countered tactfully. “I am sure her grace would be pleased to hear him.”

  “Ah, no, Lewis will not play for the English, not since the men of Chester gave his hide a drumming. Not forgiven them, he has. Though mayhap he will come when the lady Myfannwy weds, for he is supposed to keep a reckoning of lineage and play at such feasts.”

  “Myfannwy?”

  “Aye, Rhys ap Thomas’s ward.” Another name that was supposed to strike her with awe. “Our noble Rhys is coming to discuss her dowry arrangements. But, tomorrow night, bach. Surely you can leave these swaggering English bullies and the child for a few hours? The tall wench can mind him. Why not, a little adventure, see? Oh, come, arianwallt, and sing what I have taught you tonight.”

  “What was it?” she asked with good-natured suspicion. “A lament?”

  “Of course, for a land that is flattened beneath the heel of the saeson.”

  “Saeson?”

  “It is our word for Englishmen.”

  “Englishmen! Of course! That is what the people were muttering when the soldiers came to fetch me from the town.”

  “We will have you speaking Welsh in no time.” He pinched her cheek with an old man’s mischief. “Come and hear our fine music. You shall be safe from fumblings, I promise you. I shall not quit your side nor leave you to be plucked by sweaty lads, though they would make a fine woman of you.” And what was that supposed to mean?

  “I cannot afford to anger his grace.” But it was tempting to leave the castle again.

  “Nor shall you. We honor such gifts as yours in Wales, arglwyddes.” The crinkled gaze dwelt on the silver fibers scarifying her shoulders. “Ask the tylwyth teg and send me your answer.”

  Heloise stared at him in utter delight and felt the soft tendrils probing at her thoughts.

  “Never run away, arglwyddes, see, else you will never find your heart’s desire.”

  “SIR.” MILES SWUNG ROUND AND FOUND IT WAS THE COLTISH nursemaid, risen early, curtsying to him. Bess drew herself up gravely, tossing back her nut brown braids. “I am not one to blab, sir, but I think you should know that Master Emrys came and played for my Lady Haute late last even. I heard him ask her to visit the town.”

  “Did he now? And what did she answer him?”

  “Neither aye nor nay. One of the Vaughans’ ruffians is to be hanged today at East Gate, is he not?”

  “Aye, for sheep stealing,” he answered somberly. “Emrys has no love for the Vaughans but if he pesters Lady Haute again, bring me word; and, Bess, it would be in your interest”—his fingers tapped this belt purse—“to keep an even closer eye on my lady—for her own good, of course. Let me know anything out of the ordinary.”

  Yes, a quiet word to the sentries and the porter might be advisable. It was about time he quietly plucked out this thorn in his flesh. When Lady Eleanor Haute left the castle, it would be forever. He would personally winch the drawbridge down and kiss her good riddance.

  “What the—” He looked down. A black and white mouser was rubbing against his boot cuffs. The hair upon the nape of Miles’s neck prickled as the creature purred and arched.

  “Oh, that is my lady Haute’s cat. He must have followed me down. Come, Dafydd.”

  Miles ran a finger around his lawn collar as if it were choking him. Could Heloise know they had been talking about her? Two white antennae rose on either side of the feline’s brow. Miles stepped back abruptly, and, inconvenienced, the cat stared up at him unsmiling. All cats looked so, but the moment Bess had taken the beast away, Miles untangled his small cross from the lacing of his shirt and muttered a paternoster.

  ***

  HELOISE SHOOK THE OUTER DOOR OF THE NURSERY THAT morning. She was expected at mass. Had Benet thought her gone already, and turned the key? The duke and duchess would be displeased if she was not attending Ned. Was this a trick of Rushden’s to discredit her? Might there be accusations that she feared to enter God’s house? Rustling her skirts in annoyance, she paced to and fro and then she quickly unclipped the veil wire from her ears. Detaching part of the gauze so it would not be damaged, she squeezed the wire together and slid it into the lock. It took an eternity of jiggling and a variety of attempts before the tongue drew back and she was free.

  The entire household save for the guards on the towers were already in Sir Nicholas’s chapel as she tiptoed in rosy-faced, her butterfly veiling less than perfect. Whenever the congregation rose or knelt, she zigzagged her way between the throng to Ned. Her thoughts were on anything but God.

  “Where were you?” Ned asked in a whisper that could have raised an entire graveyard.

  “Hush!”

  Rushden glanced behind him and for an instant looked as startled as a disturbed thief.

  The chaplain announced he was calling the banns for the third time of the marriage between Sir Miles Rushden and Lady Myfannwy. “And if there be any reason why this man and woman should not be wed, let him give forth his arguments.”

  Oh, Jesu! As Heloise took a deep breath, the woman next to Rushden screamed and a large spring toad, no doubt hired at great expense, scattered the front rank of notables. The chaplain’s Latin accelerated as the servants set up a hue and cry and the poor cleric looked extremely relieved to bless and dismiss the pack of them, including the toad.

  “Did I ever say life at Brecknock was tedious?” muttered the duke. “Lady Haute, remove Lord Stafford and have Benet use the rod on him.”

  “No! No! It wasn’t me!” bawled Ned.

  “Of course it was not,” exclaimed Heloise, anxious that he should avoid a breathless fit, “and I should like to know who locked me in.” Her glance flickered across Miles Rushden’s face
as she looked about her challengingly but all save her husband had already found Ned guilty on that as well.

  His help came unexpected though exceedingly suspect. “I believe we should trust the word of a future duke, my lord.”

  His grace’s eyebrows rose, as if he was surprised by his friend’s sudden championing of the child. “If it was not Lord Stafford . . .” With an iron stare the duke examined the faces of the other children, including his daughters. “I expect the culprit to make a full confession and apology to the chaplain, and if anyone else makes a mockery of God’s house, the punishment will be severe.” If he was expecting his duchess to endorse that sentiment, he was disappointed. “Come, madam!”

  With a permissive glance from her grace, Heloise crouched down and coaxed Ned from his mother’s skirts. With tenderness, she trickled a friendly finger down his scarlet face and poked the tickly spot beneath his arm before she rose and declared: “This morning we are going to learn about approaching difficult beasts. Sir Miles! Perhaps, sir, you would grant Lord Stafford a few moments of your time.”

  Rushden, delayed from disappearing in the duke’s wake, could not have looked more surprised if she had metamorphosed into a crocodilus. His answer was curt: “Talk to the marshal, madam.”

  “Oh, do go along, Sir Miles,” Duchess Catherine said irritably and, ignoring her waiting lord, swept off to the nearest stairs.

  With Ned’s hand in hers, Heloise nodded to Bess and waited for Rushden to escort them. Marry Myfannwy! Of all the secretive, lying whoresons! And he was looking as sinful as a satyr after an orgy—or so she guessed, having little knowledge of such things.

  “I wish you to take us to Traveller, sir,” she declared briskly.

  “Do you now!” Rushden’s lips were a tight pleat of annoyance.

  “Or we can go toad hunting if you prefer.” The viper was marrying!

  “Ohhh, please,” exclaimed Ned.

  TRAVELLER WHINNIED A WELCOME AND LOOKED UNDECIDED AS to where to bestow an affectionate snuffle. Perhaps for sentimental reasons, he chose his master first, with a watchful eye on the witch-girl’s purse. Perfidious beast!

  “Now perhaps . . .” Miles’s demon lady turned, with steel beneath her purring tone. “Perhaps you could encourage Ned to feed him.” With an experienced hand, she scooped a handful of oats from a sack and held it out. Oh, wounded, was she? What was this? Another trial by ordeal? “It might help to lift him, sir.” The word was icy.

  Miles took a deep breath. “No.” He wanted to run.

  It was the child that broke the impasse, stealing the last few paces from Bess to wind the knight’s hanging sleeve about his hand. “Sir,” he said, with newfound humbleness, “I should like to try.”

  For the first time since his son’s death, Miles felt small hands upon his shoulders. It should be Phillip in his arms. Phillip should have lived. Tears threatened to choke him. He swung the boy abruptly towards the wall so that Mistess Ballaster could not see his hurt, but the child had. Ned was straining back to read his face. “Sir, was it you who set the toad loose?” The winter cold between them was thawing fast.

  Miles made himself look at the little boy. “Yes,” he whispered, adjusting his grip.

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because Brecknock can be dreary. Now do not blab on me to Lady Haute and . . . and come and meet Traveller. He will not hurt you. Trust me.” A small arm anchored itself around his neck as he took a pace nearer to the stallion’s stall. “See, Bess and Lady Haute are not afraid, Ned. Lady Haute is not afraid of anything.”

  “Not even toads, human ones!” muttered his wife with feeling.

  “Will you let a woman best you?” whispered Miles. “Come on, Ned.”

  Did she have to stand there like his governess while he tried to talk courage into Harry’s child? Must she beam so sunnily at the grooms and stable hands?

  Now he had to endure the entire stable adding its pennyworth of thought and winking at the women out of turn. Thankfully the child finally managed a quick pat of Traveller’s chest and jerked back. At least the stallion had behaved responsibly, as if the horse understood the small human’s fear. Perhaps the witch would let him go now, or did she intend to create a scene that would keep the gossips busy?

  “I pray you take Lord Stafford to feed the old dun liard or one of the gentler sumpters, Martin,” she was ordering her groom. “Go with them, Bess.”

  So Mistress Ballaster intended to snatch a few words about his other wedding? Well, if she misbehaved, he would have to put a swift end to the conversation. Strangle her now while no one was looking.

  Heloise, surprised that Rushden was content to stroll very slowly along with her behind the others, was more than eager to set loose the quarrel between them. “How in God’s name can you marry?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “Ah, so this is why we are idling among the wisps and the brushes.” He idly flicked a dormant broomstick. “How did you manage to get out?”

  So this cur had locked her in. It was tempting to belabor him with the broom head; instead she sucked in her cheeks and glared at his knee-length hanging sleeves. “Have you other familiars in there? Cockroaches, lice?”

  The grey eyes narrowed but his tone was pleasant. “No more than usual.” He clicked his tongue at his spare horse as they passed. “Children teach us so much.” Then his gaze pinioned her. “I would not have let Ned carry the blame, believe me.”

  “And if his grace had not listened?”

  “I know my quarry, lady. It is what I am good at.” They were close enough to where Ned was being lectured by the marshal. Close enough and apart enough to talk privily. “Perhaps I should explain that this marriage with Rhys ap Thomas’s ward is part of a latticework of alliances to augment the duke’s power in Wales.” How very condescending of him to enlighten her.

  “Oh, I see.” Heloise resisted the temptation to fold her arms and glower.

  “Do you? I hope so. The match is of importance to his grace. He will not welcome meddling.” The knifepoint was beneath the words.

  A merest shrug showed her indifference. “By all means go and beget heirs with Lady Myfannwy—eventually.” That brought his head up—defiantly. Still trying to disarm him, she added, “I still cannot see how you marrying will help the duke.”

  “By marrying this heiress, I acquire further lands in Wales and since I am his retainer, I am sworn to support him as my overlord.”

  “He wants Wales?”

  “No, he needs Wales.” Miles looked about him for some means to teach her and, with a cautious glance to make sure the others were occupied, uncovered a sack of sawdust as if he were demonstrating the quality. “Look, here is England, see!” He crouched and drew an outline. “King Edward and the Woodvilles have much strength in the south. The royal chamberlain, Lord Hastings, holds the Midlands, and the king’s brother Gloucester dominates the north.”

  The lady leaned down close to his shoulder, holding her veil back. “And my lord of Buckingham seeks to control Wales for himself?” The perfume she wore wove like a comfortable leash around his neck.

  “No,” Miles answered carefully, “in the king’s name, of course.” God willing the Yorkist ranks might one day fall asunder. He erred in looking up to ensure she understood the lesson. Her moist lips were but a sweet breath away and for an instant there was no defiance in her expression, but a grave thoughtfulness as though she were our Lady considering a felon’s prayer. The blasphemy shook him, together with the absurd fact that he had never noticed that her pretty eyes were not silver-framed but dark-lashed. He straightened up and stood staring down at her, every sense aware how fragile she was, how easily broken.

  He dared not offer his hand to help her rise but words he had in plenty. “Lady, the animosity between you and me is not a personal issue. I have no wish to see you destitute, believe me, but I am high in the duke’s favor and I do not wish to jeopardize my future.”

  “Nor I mine,” she answered stubbornly
, rising again to her feet.

  “Then as you value your safety, hold your peace and do not reveal what happened at Bramley. I am marrying Myfannwy.”

  “And . . . and if this Rhys asks you to set a day for your wedding, what is left for me—a free ride to England on your horse?”

  “No,” he answered and surprised both of them. “I cannot make you my wife but I could easily make you my mistress.”

  Eleven

  How the handle of the pitchfork managed to wham him hard in the belly before he could prevent it, Miles never fathomed. He was too busy with the pain while “Lady Haute” called for help, exclaiming he must have taken some poisoned food. If that was not bad enough, one of the grooms thrust a handful of charcoal into his mouth as an antidote. He half-choked before he could shove the fellow away. By the time he found some ale to rinse his mouth, his wife had fled, taking the child with her, and the trumpets were fanfaring the arrival of his Welsh betrothed and her guardian.

  “Where in Hell have you been?” Harry mouthed, as Miles, in a fresh doublet, made his bow in the duke’s solar. Rhys ap Thomas, accompanied by a superfluity of wet Black Raven banners and an excessive number of damp hangers-on, was already warming his hands before the hearth. Smirking, taller, and more clean-shaven than most of his retinue, the visitor gripped Miles’s hand with vigor and drew forward his future bride, the demoiselle Myfannwy.

  “Y Cysgod?” His name was spoken with sweet breath, and eyes, dark as sloes, evaluated him shrewdly. Her alluring smile showed tidy, unblemished teeth. Thank God, he thought in relief, and said something flattering in Welsh, his glance swift to note the parting of the girl’s cloak, which permitted a glimpse of tempting cleavage framed by comfortingly brown braids. It was not just the alliance that was appealing.

  It was an understatement to say that the Welsh, no doubt happy to be somewhere civilized with free ale on offer, enjoyed the banquet that followed. A parenthesis between his future wife and her guardian, Miles, too, indulged himself; Rhys’s arrival had at least damped down any fires of reprisal for the hanging that morning and the conversation was informative. Rhys took pains to point out that Myfannwy’s hips and dowry were both ample, and that her husband would become the owner of considerable flocks. Since Welsh wool was funding the spires on English churches, he suggested Miles should please the Church in similar fashion and earn himself a discount in Purgatory.