Heloise held her breath as he leaned upon his elbow, his face above her. This was a Miles Rushden with armor abandoned. The desire in his darkened eyes excited her and the lawful mastery he held over her alchemized Heloise’s whole being to molten fire. His mouth came down on her lips, questioning and yet unable to take denial.
Soft and trusting, the girl raised her arms up shyly to scarf his neck, curving her body against him. Miles knew he wanted her now beyond all reason. His right hand rose to fondle her firm little breast and encountered the sheath of velvet. Ruthlessly his hand slid up beneath the shoulder of her gown and down beneath her collar to fondle and coax forth that delicious—
“Ahem! . . . I said, ahem!”
The earth stabilized itself again. Two sandaled feet in darned stockings, lapped by the dusty hem of a black houppelande, were waiting for him to abandon the chase of love.
“Who in hell are you?” Miles growled, not bothering to turn his head.
The shadow on the wall before him fidgeted. “Oh, no one in particular, merely the priest of the parish. I have an aversion to people fornicating between the graves.”
With a stifled oath, Miles rolled off Heloise and glared up at the man who had both spoilt his pleasure and restored him to his senses.
“We were not fornicating. We are married,” he drawled.
“A likely story! You should be ashamed of yourself, young man. We do not want your lewd court habits here. Northampton is a respectable town.” Hands tapping on forearms, he clucked in disgust. “Befouling St. Catherine’s! In broad daylight too! Be off with you!”
Color high, but vastly amused, Miles climbed to his feet and helped Heloise up. Godsakes, she was shaking with laughter.
“Good sir, I assure you we are married.” Desperately trying not to splutter, Heloise stanched her bittersweet hilarity—Rushden finally admitting the truth! He was squeezing her hand, drawing her close behind him so she might hide her face. They had offended the fellow enough already.
“Married! Aye, no doubt,” retorted the priest. “To others. I pity them. Get you gone!”
He dogged their heels as they zigzagged between the graves to the pathway and latched the graveyard gate noisily behind them, leaning upon it lest they should have second thoughts.
They walked with dignity round the closest corner to reel against the daubed wall of a merchant’s house, surrendering to an emotion less perilous than lust.
“Court habits!” giggled Heloise, mopping the corners of her eyes and patting his chest playfully. “I wish I might take y Cysgod to task so thoroughly. Is the priest still there?” She dared a glance around the corner. “Lord, yes. Like a mastiff.”
Miles hauled her back to safety. “Behave!” he admonished affectionately. “Shame on you, Heloise, that contraption looks as though it has been struck by lightning. Come, let me help you.”
Fearful as ever of her silver hair being seen, his erring wife glanced about her before she let him remove it and repin the strap that went beneath her chin to hold the cone firm. To his amusement, she stood still like a small girl until he was done. “The veil will need stiffening again.” He gave up trying to discipline the abused gauze and untangled a snagged clover burr instead. “I am afraid you look as though you have been tumbled, changeling.”
“I believe I nearly was,” she said huskily and flirtatiously peeped up to see if her remark had found a vein.
“Am afraid so.” He tugged emphatically at the front and back edges of his doublet and risked a wicked smile. “I beg your pardon.”
These last few weeks she had taken every care not to encourage him lest he think himself seduced. Now she was left with little choice but to be gracious still, as if he had been the only one out of control.
“If word of this should spread . . .” Yea, like ripples until it splashed her father.
His smile was rueful yet wondrously shameful. “I know, we are undone. Cheer up! I will wager that the cleric will not gossip. We shall merely be part of next week’s sermon against worldliness and sinful lust.”
“It was lust, wasn’t it?” It was more a statement but it should have been a greater question and Heloise, confused by herself and him, was not sure what answer she wanted.
“Yes, but technically not sinful.”
Her glance rose, embarrassed, to discover the man she was handbound to studying her face, and still in surprisingly good humor, but it was necessary to be pragmatic. She had imagined her father still at Bramley but he must be back at their Northamptonshire home.
“My father—”
“—will expect a reckoning. A sale or the merchandise returned unopened.” His gaze fell admiringly upon her neckline but she was determined on being serious.
“Returned? God forbid! Oh, Heavens, what if he is here to make mischief for you!” She stared up unhappily at the jut of oaken joist above their heads. “H-he will order me to . . . to be examined.”
Miles cursed. Her delicate body probed by a midwife’s grimy fingers behind a curtain while some lewd cleric eavesdropped to see if he, Miles Rushden, had used her and, yes, he almost had—until God intervened.
Anguished eyes beseeched him; fingers twisted, tormented, against her embossed leather belt. “I vowed I would never let him bully and beat me ever again.” Irresistible tears sparkled on iridescent lashes. “Could you speak to Buckingham for me, tell him the truth and ask if he will permit me to remain as Ned’s governess? Please.”
“You dream, changeling.” Miles tucked a wild wisp of hair behind her ear and wondered how long they dared delay. Two housewives passed, twitching their frieze-skirts and glaring as though he and Heloise were ribalds. Was there nowhere they could speak without the world’s condemnation? “And I doubt that Harry would give your father audience. He knows about the feud over Bramley.”
“Father may speak to Gloucester, though, and my lord duke has already offered to find me another husband,” she muttered. “Sir Richard Huddleston told me so just now.”
“Huddleston! Christ, Heloise, did you confide in him?” His fingers bit into her shoulders. “And, Godsakes, what plaguey concern is it to Gloucester?”
“Because I was in his household, you see.”
Miles let her go and furiously slapped the wall. “Christ Almighty, woman, why on earth did you not tell me this before?”
She hung her head. “It was not your business.” The euphoria of the churchyard had evaporated. Y Cysgod was back in command of himself.
“Everything about you has become my business. There is only one thing for it,” he muttered, straightening his hat, his expression resolute. “I need to see Gloucester, God willing, before your father does.”
“What will you say?” She hurried after him, setting an anxious hand upon his sleeve, but he would not tarry.
“I do not know. I am hoping for divine inspiration. Go back to your inn, and bar yourself in your bedchamber lest your father come for you. Plead indisposition or whatever womanly excuse you can until you hear from me.”
“But I should come with you, sir,” she gasped.
“No. This is better dealt with without any women’s interference.”
“Oh, come, how dare you say so! It is my life and liberty.”
“And mine!” he muttered. “Go to your inn!”
Heloise, almost tripping, swore. Men were a curse. Damnation to the lot of them! “I hope the Devil reserves a row of toasting forks especially for you.”
“I have felt the prongs already, Heloise,” he tossed back grimly. “Trust me.”
“SIR MILES!” HE WAS ALMOST WITHIN A STONE’S THROW OF Gloucester’s inn when Ralph Bannastre, sweaty with exertion, halted him, gasping. “Oh, sir, his grace of Buckingham is asking for you.”
“I cannot come now.” Miles scowled, anxiously scanning the throng of petitioners outside Gloucester’s lodging to see if Sir Dudley was among them. “Make some excuse, man, tell him you could not find me. Ralph”—he set the servant aside—“get out of my way!�
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“But, sir,” Ralph insisted, hurrying after him, “he’s in a right pother.”
“So am I! What is so poxy important?”
“Something to do with the prisoner Haute, sir.”
“Oh, Christ!” That brought him up short. Which damned duke should he deal with first? And now, that cursed meddler, Huddleston, was striding purposefully his way with two pikemen in White Boar surcoats at his heels. A pox on it! The last thing he needed was to be rounded up like a missing bull and led into the sale yard.
“Get out of here, Ralph! You could not find me!” He crossed the street towards the hunting party.
“Sir Miles.” Gloucester’s velvet-voiced trouble solver blocked his way.
“Sir Richard,” he echoed the dry courtesy.
“What a much-sought man you are.” An embroidered unicorn stitched in silver thread glinted upon Huddleston’s glove as he gestured to the guards to fall in behind Miles. “You can guess what this is about.”
“Kissing among the graves?” Miles retorted flippantly, striding alongside Huddleston. Some score of faces were already gawking. He was not going to march in behind like a traitor brought for questioning. “Can we dispense with the pikemen?”
“But they like to feel useful.” The crowd parted. “I heard it was fornication on a grave.”
“Wait a minute.” Miles grabbed his pouched shoulder before they reached the doorway. “Are you telling me this is about this afternoon?”
His escort’s smile was cryptic as he languidly pushed aside Miles’s hand. “I think it is about a lifetime.” Letting that sink in, he cleared the way through the cordon of Gloucester’s bodyguards. “I would be circumspect, if I were you. Your lady does not lack for friends.”
Circumspect! Miles could do with two curtain walls and a ten-foot moat to protect him, for Sir Dudley Ballaster was sitting at the trestle on Gloucester’s right hand, with a tankard at his elbow and a smirk a mile wide.
“Be thankful they are both sitting down,” Huddleston murmured cryptically and with a soft laugh turned to latch the door.
“Rushden.” Gloucester leaned back, rubbing jeweled fingers across his chin, his expression sea calm.
“My lord.” Miles removed his hat, wondering if a two-knee genuflection might be interpreted as guilt. He was beginning to sweat beneath his leather doublet.
“Is this the man, Father?” The duke’s chaplain, Dr. Dokett, led forward the priest of St. Catherine’s.
“Indeed, it is. See, his hose is grass-stained.” They all stared pointedly at Miles’s calves and Gloucester, sucking in his cheeks, gestured for the witness to be removed.
“You have been busy, Rushden.” The duke’s fingers found a quill to play with. At his side, Ballaster set a hand upon his belt and leaned back like a man who already owned half England. It was not a pleasing sight; neither was the church court smile glued to the chaplain’s visage.
Miles waited. He knew the timings and the twists of interrogations, the deliberate control, the sudden smash of anger.
“I am hearing complaints about you from all sides. They boil away to one matter. Whether you are betrothed to a Welsh heiress or married to an English one. What do you say?”
Fixing his attention on Gloucester like a mariner on the polestar, Miles shook his head. “Your grace, until I hear from his holiness in Rome my hands are tied.”
The Ballaster fist unwound at the edge of Miles’s vision and its owner perused his fingernails. “But other parts of you are not, man.” Sir Dudley’s crudity was calculated. “Same old story, eh, boy?”
“I find myself between Scylla and Charybdis, your grace. My lord of Buckingham—”
“Scylla? Charybdis?” Ballaster sneered. “Forget the learning. Which of ’em do you want?”
“My lord of Buckingham,” repeated Miles doggedly, “has been at pains to negotiate an alliance with Rhys ap Thomas over the last year.” Good, the brief flicker of Gloucester’s eyelids implied interest and my lord protector needed Harry’s goodwill at the moment. Harry still had the numbers in Northampton; if he suddenly changed allegiance and let loose the Woodvilles on his terms, Gloucester would be on his knees.
“Upping the stakes, are we?” Ballaster missed little.
Gloucester cleared his throat and tossed aside the quill. “It is important that we reach a satisfactory solution for all parties, especially Mistress Ballaster. If an annulment is granted, I will undertake to find her a husband who will cherish her particular virtues.” He knew. Gloucester plaguey well knew about her premonitions.
“May I speak, your grace?” asked the chaplain. “In my humble judgment, this is hardly a civil dispute. Seeing as the alleged marriage took place within the diocese of Bath and Wells, it is a matter for Bishop Stillington and it would be good to have his counsel; but unfortunately his lordship, God keep him, is not in his right mind, so—”
“No, he’s not, and I’m not waiting for the slimy Italians to interfere either,” ground out Ballaster.
“—perhaps we should send to Lampeter for Bishop Langton,” persisted the chaplain, adding swiftly, “There is also the question of heresy.”
“Heresy!” Both of Ballaster’s fists hit the table.
“Or something more sinister,” the churchman added. “I am trying to keep a lid upon this pot.”
“Confound you, Dokett, whose side are you on?” Aggrieved, Ballaster looked to the duke.
The churchman had his teeth into the bone. “Let me finish, Sir Dudley. Your daughters are immodest mischief-makers and your eldest—”
“May I say something, your grace,” demanded Miles, “before this digresses into utter ridicule?” He had a sense that Gloucester was listening with godlike amusement. “Yes, sir priest, Heloise is different but there is much virtue in her. God’s truth, your grace, if I had not been forced at swordpoint to marry her, I would—” Words failed him. “It is just that . . .” he faltered, “that there is no enmity between us. We just wish to be severed, that is all. And Heloise is as I first found her, Sir Dudley—unviolated.”
“Ha!”
“Your grace, this matter is but little compared to the troubles confronting the realm. I pray you, adjourn this matter until we hear from Rome.” Why did Gloucester not answer?
It was Ballaster who dealt the coup de grâce: “I am willing to loan my lord protector here a considerable sum if you take my Heloise.”
The cunning whoreson! So that was it! Coercion of a subtler kind. Because the Woodvilles had stolen the treasury, Gloucester would need coin in hand to keep London licking his toecaps like a friendly cur. No wonder the duke was silent.
Miles leaned forward, grasping the board. “Ballaster, you can offer me Jerusalem and all of Christendom but I will not be bought.” Nor his allegiance either! “My family have been barons since the time of Edward Longshanks and the blood of de Burgh and de Clare flows in our veins.”
But Heloise’s father had brought thumbscrews too. “I think you are missing the point. Aren’t you a bloody Lancastrian, Rushden? This could be misconstrued.”
Miles could have hit him. “My loyalty is to Buckingham and his to you, your grace,” he exclaimed to Gloucester but the duke’s head was bowed.
“And do you imagine Buckingham will thank you, Rushden?” Saliva flew from Ballaster’s lips. “My God, he can have a loan as well! God’s truth, man, do you people want England or don’t you?”
“I . . .” Miles took a step back, glancing towards the chaplain for support.
“And another thing,” Ballaster left the bench and advanced towards him. “You want some other man to tup Heloise, eh? Like her, don’t you?”
“I am . . . betrothed to Myfannwy.” The humiliation endured at Bramley came flooding back.
“But is it what you really want?” Loathsome red-veined eyes bored into him.
“I . . . I am marrying Myfannwy and . . .” Miles retreated. Oh, God, he did not want to lose Heloise but he could not stomach her bully of a fa
ther. “I will not be bought!” he shouted and, shoving Huddleston aside, he wrenched the door open and stormed out . . . to find himself face-to-face with Rhys ap Thomas.
“You bloody liar!” roared the Welshman. A mighty fist drove at him. Miles ducked and heard the thwack of bone on bone and a sickening echo. Sweet Jesu!
Turning, he found Duke Richard’s horror reflected his. Between them, slowly sliding down the blooded doorjamb, was Dudley Ballaster.
Sixteen
Would Rushden acknowledge her? Heloise paced impatiently. There had been such a wondrous alchemy at work this afternoon—desire, yes, but affection too. She wanted this marriage more than anything in her whole life. Oh, a curse on the priest for his intervention! Please, she begged the faeries, please.
The rattle of armored heels and rough knocking on the door cruelly jolted her. “Mistress Ballaster? Open up! The lord protector’s orders.”
She never expected what awaited her, her father’s corpse beneath the fine scarlet cloak he took such pride in. What use was his riches or his blustering now? And the inn was full of faces floating in and out of her vision like wraiths: Rushden’s pale as ivory and Rhys ap Thomas’s drained and bloodless. Stunned, she had no voice as Sir Richard Huddleston, with a brotherly arm about her, led her past them through a doorway, and his grace of Gloucester came round the table of the inner room and drew her to a settle by the fire.
“You will forgive me if I come to the point,” he was saying. “Heloise?” His voice was soft with kindness. “You must listen, my dear.”
“Your grace.” Guilty of wishing her sire dead an hour before, she forced herself to pay attention, looking up into Gloucester’s concerned face.
“I have sent a messenger to your stepmother and arranged for you to leave straightway. You should be with your family by nightfall.”
“Your grace, you are very kind.” She sighed. “At least I do not have to take him as far as Bramley.”
“No, there’s that.” He sighed and turned back to the hearth. “I deeply regret your father’s death for many reasons, Heloise. He was a good friend to the House of York, and the blow that killed him was . . . was not intentional. We all of us pray to die in a state of grace in our beds with our families about us and I am sorry that this was denied him.” He paused and glanced round at her pensively, twisting the ring on his little finger. “You must not be concerned about your future. In short, I have decided that you and your sisters are to become my wards.” Wondrous news. “I see you are pleased. I am glad.” Clasping his broad furred collar in advocate fashion, he continued, brisker now: “As to this business of your marriage, Heloise. I have yet to hear your feelings in this matter.”
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