Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

“Are you the creator of all this?”

  “I wish I was, sir.” Her sister dimpled and sat back on her heels. “I have not seen you here before. You do not talk like a northerner.” Dionysia’s dab of Yorkshire dialect making fun of the White Boar men delighted Buckingham.

  “If I spoke like where I live, mistress, I should be encouraging you to plant leeks, see, fy mgeneth.” The Welsh lilt was perfect.

  “Ha, one of Buckingham’s retinue, yes?”

  He took the trowel from her and Dionysia protested: “You will get your hose dirty and your lord would not like that.” The impertinence! Dear God, Heloise thought, folding her arms, one day her sister would charm the Devil to let her out of Hell.

  “No, mistress, his grace would not.” The hour bell sounded and he rose, dusting the soil off his knees. “I wish I had time to stay longer, demoiselle. Believe me, this garden is a little haven.”

  “Only when the sun is shining, as it is now.” Dionysia’s smile flattered him before she lowered her gaze in sultry fashion. The troweling began again. He was dismissed.

  His embarrassed gaze recalled Heloise’s presence and he touched his hat to her. They heard his boots crunch upon the path, hesitate, and then they were alone again. Dionysia looked up, sucked in her cheeks, and gave a familiar, irritating, knowing smirk.

  “Didie! That was blatant! How could you?”

  “We all have our ambitions, sister. If you think I am content to wed some boring braggart who thinks of naught but hunting, and expects me to whelp babes year after year . . .”

  “You would prefer to be a courtesan? Oh, Jesu, Didie, not Buckingham, please, no.”

  “Yes, Buckingham, and do not try and stop me, either, Heloise, prattling your foolish warnings like a Cassandra.”

  It would be like telling the sun not to rise, sighed Heloise. Useless, then, to warn her that women were no better than food or drink to the man.

  “And here is your pitted millstone bowling towards us, sister. Does he hang heavy upon your neck?”

  The loan! It was too late to ask Dionysia what she had meant and now Rushden would barrow her back to Baynards until the next time he felt like taking her down from the shelf to be revalued—or discarded. Pitted millstone! she thought angrily as Rushden came towards her, reveling in the power in her husband’s mien and lordly bearing. How dared Dionysia be so insolent? Pique, no doubt, because Rushden had not dirtied his knees slavishly with all the rest.

  “Heloise?” Her husband’s silver eyes smiled down into hers, the question a command to leave. She would miss these squirings and jaunts, his hand in the small of her back, the freedom in his company, the friend looking out for her safety.

  “I shall see you soon, I expect, sister,” she exclaimed, setting her hand in Rushden’s with a sunshine smile. When she looked round, she discovered Dionysia had gone.

  Rushden was leading her not to the outer courtyard but past the hedge that lay beyond the mede to a bench within a honeysuckled arbor. She wondered painfully what he might have to say. Had he spoken with Stillington about the annulment?

  Miles was thinking how Heloise’s ethereal quality reduced her sister to a mere spangled creature. The princess-elegance of her damask, the covered curves, firm and young, pleased him more than the displayed flesh, the opulent breasts.

  “This garden is one of London’s treasures.” Miles made himself comfortable on the wooden seat, and set an ankle across his knee, appraising his wife as though she were a concubine sent for selection. He patted the seat and she sat down, wriggling her toes out from beneath her hem, suddenly shy and maidenly.

  “I have spoken with Stillington, just as you have.”

  So this was the reckoning, thought Heloise. A cock robin and his more reserved mistress landed hopefully in front of her.

  “How do you see . . .” No, not see. With Heloise, Miles must make it doubly clear. “How do you desire your future, Heloise?”

  Tossing her veil back, she answered uneasily: “Wishing is one thing—” Her unspoken words were bitten back as he shifted to face her. She was terrified of Dokett but she did not dare raise her fears again. How could a man as self-assured as Rushden come close to understanding?

  “Tell me.”

  As if uncomfortable at his closeness, she stood up abruptly. Miles watched her step into the dappled shade, and waited as she searched for words to light her future.

  “How can I answer you?” Heloise replied. “After the annulment, unless I chose to shut myself away from this world within a holy order, another husband will be found for me. And . . . and he will want to blow the candle out at night so he cannot see my hair and he will take care not to wake beside me lest he hear my dreams in the morning.” Slender arms rose to cradle her heart; her hands fled to the taffeta refuge of her sleeves. What was the use of this? She had no more say in her destiny than Traveller. “I do not think of myself as a beast to be sold at market, and yet it is so, save that marriage bargaining is more discreet and done out of the common hearing. If women—” She faltered.

  Her answer devastated Miles, bombarded the battlements he had built two years ago. He could not let Heloise go. No! Not to some cur who would not protect her nor to the torture either. He no longer minded her silver hair. He liked it, liked her being different. He not only wanted to savor the candlelight shining in her eyes, he wanted to wake beside her and feel her hair like gossamer across his pillow, touching his cheek.

  “Go on,” he prompted huskily. “If women . . .”

  Heloise, seeing the midnight head tilted, his mouth stern, was astonished that he was still listening. “What use to continue, sir? Must I be meek to be a woman? I fear you mock me by even asking me to dare to dream.” As if she expected him to argue, she hesitated, then, emboldened by his silence, continued wryly, “Even if the queen was esteemed as much as my lord of Gloucester, you still would not accept her as regent, would you, because of her gender? It would be setting a perilous precedent.” He nodded, and as if she feared her time was run out, she shook her head with a little shrug. “Even a queen has no say in her future. Anyway,” she whispered and sank down defeated upon the bench, her head back, “there is my answer.”

  “That is no answer, changeling. I thought for once that I had asked the right question.”

  “Asking does not change things.”

  “Then it would be a waste of breath to argue with you, Heloise.” He sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Besides, changing the way the world thinks may take centuries and we have but a little lifetime.” As if to underscore his thoughts, the bells began to ring the new hour in. He stood and, staring at the honeysuckle with its adoring bees, redirected his life. This woman, of all the women he had made love to, needed his name and protection against a hostile world. She had not gone to Brecknock to force him to acknowledge her, she had fled to him out of desperation. Nor had she demanded aught save friendship. Maybe that was all she wanted. “You do have a choice, Heloise.”

  Aware of her stillness, her breath held as if she feared more words from him might snatch back the gift, Miles waited a few heartbeats and then could no longer resist turning for her reply. She was gazing at him as if he had just rid her of a crutch. Gentler now, her eyes were cleared of the brief glaze of tears, but her chin rose questioningly.

  “Are you saying that I can choose whether to stay wed to you, that it is for me to decide?” Incredulity rendered her as sweet faced as a surprised kitten.

  “Upon my very soul.”

  Heloise bit her lip. Was this out of contrariness or charity? Oh, he thought himself magnanimous, did he? A choice? When she was frightened to her very soul that pious Gloucester would not save her from Dokett’s determination to break her?

  If I wrap a silver bell about your neck, sir cat, and send you forth, there may come another cat in your place.

  Rushden was waiting, fingers plucking at his tight cuff, the dark lashes moving patiently. His tarnished face pleased her; the black hair and steel eyes
that had almost stolen her courage on the tourney field now robbed her of breath. Did she have a choice? Her destiny lay with him. The dream of him at Yuletide had told her so and yet here was no gentle husband. When he was in good humor her heart danced with happiness, but there were dark rivers running in him that she wondered if she had courage to cross. Was it the Ballaster wealth that was making Myfannwy weigh too light now in his balance?

  She would not make it easy; aloud she answered, “If it content you, sir, I had lief our marriage stand.”

  His chin rose with his usual touch of arrogance, or conquest, maybe, but if he was astonished or pleased, he gave no sign. She made no curtsy on her part to tenderize the decision, no obeisance of thanks, but took her own cue from his iron control.

  “My hand upon the bargain then.” He set his heel to the ground. His expression kindled to a sagacious smile, losing its edge of laziness.

  No words of love then. With fingers that trembled as they touched, Heloise placed her hand in his. He raised it, firmly held, to his lips and she read the satisfaction in his eyes and a growing heat. What had she done? Was this wise? “Ohhhhh!”

  Strong arms whirled her up into the air and spun her round. Laughing up at her, Miles Rushden snatched her soul. This was right. It might be for the wrong reasons but it was meant. He had chosen her! He had actually chosen her!

  Held so, she beamed down at him with love, all her fears stashed away at last like a forgotten coffer.

  “You should have had trinkets and poems, and a nosegay on your pillow.”

  “But I have a psaltery.” Her fists crushed the velvet gathers of his sleeves. “Oh!” A rosebriar snagged the airborne damask, and her husband—yes, husband—harnessed, slid her slowly down his stomacher, his body hardening as he held her.

  “Hungry?” he asked, smiling like a successful night thief, and kissed her with such tenderness that she could have wept with joy.

  “Oh, always,” she whispered, opening her lips to him and cuddling him tightly lest he turn to vapor and vanish from her arms. “Only the household officers at Baynards may breakfast.”

  “Yes, you feel . . .” His hands gave ardent testimony. “Bird frail to me. But that shall be remedied right fast.” His hand slid across her belly with proprietary freedom. “A babe beneath your girdle, hmm.”

  Heloise gasped, catapulted from maid to wife. He was laughing at her blushes as he stooped to free her from the rosebush. Then he stilled—voices, Buckingham’s. No, she pleaded, no, not now.

  “Quickly.” Her lord’s hand took hers. “Can you run, changeling?”

  Yes! Oh yes! They sped along the path, hurtled behind a hawthorn where he kissed her again before he peered out along the path. “This way! Now!” Along the waist-high trellis they slunk low like assassins, out into the stable yard where the stable boys held Traveller and Cloud waiting side by side like faery steeds. Rushden lifted Heloise onto the sidesaddle and swiftly paid off their grooms with ale money.

  He took the leading rein of Cloud along Threadneedle Street, for his lady seemed quite unable to take charge, utterly and wondrously bewildered that she had surrendered herself to his good lordship.

  Busy Cheapside, loud with the shouts of apprentices and strolling vendors, made conversation, like Heaven, an impossibility. Heloise had taken back Cloud’s reins, letting the mare drink from a trough at West Cheap before they battled through the throng. Miles was exuberant as any bridegroom untroubled by guests and family, but the lady suddenly was brewing with something he could not fathom.

  “Where are we going?” she asked uneasily as they turned southeast towards Queenhithe. Did she fear he might immure her somewhere other than Baynards?

  “To feast, lady knight. Mayhap hen in pastry will put you in good cheer.”

  “And then what?” she asked, cynicism weighing every syllable.

  “And then I think there should be no turning back.”

  Nineteen

  Heloise nearly toppled from the saddle in shock. “You mean b-bed me?”

  She had not meant to speak her thoughts aloud. Her lawful owner cast her a smoldering sidelong glance that told her it was exactly what he meant. In fact he looked tempted to tumble her in the nearest garden. His answer, however, was disconcertingly nonchalant: “Well, it is the final way of settling things.”

  Heloise had trouble swallowing, let alone finding an answer. “I—I suppose it is,” she said huskily, growing hot and cold at the prospect of being expected to perform a wife’s duty at long last. She was glad of his silence, suspicious that he was amused at hers.

  Inn servants were grabbing at their stirrups, squabbling for their patronage. She was proud of Rushden’s wisdom in selecting a hostelry where the servants were neither sneering nor slack. They were made comfortable at a board so clean that even the most careful housewife would have approved it, and the best mead was set before Heloise as though she were a princess. Soon there were more platters than words between them, and while trying not to devour the lady that might salve his growing appetite, Miles ate little.

  “Steady,” he warned with husbandly concern. “Be not so ravenous, my Lady Rushden, they will not take your platter away.”

  “I do not know where my next meal is coming from,” she answered truthfully.

  “Yes, you do. You think I am still playing games with you?” His hand covered hers reassuringly upon the table, and he called for more mead to fill her goblet. “Why are you suddenly so afraid, changeling? It was your choice to accept the cup, but do not see me as the spider at the bottom.”

  “It is not that.” Foolishly Heloise felt like crying but forced back the tears, dismayed and happy in the same breath, desiring the comfort of his arms and yet knowing he was still fathoms deep for her. How could she tell him she wanted him to honor the marriage because he loved her?

  “Then be thankful.” He gave her a long, slow smile.

  “I am not sure yet.” It was said with the heat staining her cheeks, but she looked more like a wild creature about to bolt if he touched her.

  “Whether to be thankful?” Miles did not mind her honesty; rather he preferred it that way and it was timely, for he too had truths that needed to be stirred and set before her. “I warn you, do not expect too much from me.” His seriousness evaporated as he saw astonishment blossom in her eyes. “No, sweet shrew, I do not mean that,” he said, laughing, and then grew solemn again, and watched God’s gift of merriment still in her, too, as she waited. “There are things to be said.”

  Heloise held her breath, silent as a bird in a hedgerow sensing the storm approach. She guessed what he was going to say, but not the bruising manner of it, for the phrases tumbled past her rehearsed and far too fast; emotionless, though the hurt was there. “I think you should know that I have been married before. I was twenty. My first wife, Sioned, was sixteen. It was, of course, arranged by our families, but we were very happy together. Then, two years ago, there was a visitation of the pestilence in Dorset. Phillip, my little son, was taken. He . . . oh, Christ, Heloise!” Pain choked his voice. “He—he was only three years old. And . . . and Sioned died next day.”

  So that was it. His love had been spent and there was nothing in his purse for her. Heloise leaned away slowly, as if his sorrow was a tide washing her back upon a lonely shore, and searched the air about his head for a futile reply to such a joyless confession. “Do you mean she is still with you? I do not sense that.” Then, realizing her dreadful mistake in telling him so, she dared not look across at him, aware he had curled his right hand into a tight fist upon the table lest he cross himself.

  “Christ be merciful,” he whispered, his grey eyes hostile. “Never tell me that you can see the dead.”

  “No, no,” Heloise lied swiftly, and searched for words that he would not stumble from, “but I have an . . . an awareness . . . of people’s sorrow. Is she still with you?”

  His answer was a quiet sigh. “No.” Strong fingers rose to shield his anguished face. “I blame
myself. Perhaps if I had been with her . . .”

  Heloise, remembering the terrible vision of his suffering, reached out a comforting hand to touch his wrist. Rushden’s skin was warm, dependable, beneath her fingertips. “But is it not vanity for you to take responsibility for a decision that was God’s alone?” It was risky counsel; he might hate her for that insult.

  “Perhaps.” Miles drew back, letting his hands slide down to his lips with a deep sigh. He was almost afraid to treasure Heloise, afraid that God would curse him a second time. As if she had read his mind with damnable insight, she said:

  “But Lady Myfannwy. You agreed to her.”

  The shrug was apologetic. “Wide hips,” he answered and then regretted his crassness. “Oh, be fair, Heloise, if love arises between a married pair, it is after the wedding, rarely before. With Myfannwy, it would have been a trencher marriage, without piquancy. You cannot say that our friendship lacks that.” Friendship! So he did not want to become afflicted with love. “There is something else you should understand.”

  “Your duty to the duke.”

  “Of course, duty—and friendship,” he admitted, glad she had the wit to perceive it. “My family have served the Staffords through good and bad times. You must realize, I have been waiting years for the planets to fall into line and, yes, I mean to ride to the stars on Harry’s back, madam, and I warn you of that now.”

  A warning certainly, thought Heloise. So she was merely fourth in line, after Sioned, his son, and Buckingham. Or did Traveller have precedence over her as well?

  “And if your friend stumbles, and brings you down?”

  “It will be still worth the risk.” An unwelcome line marred his smile. “What, are you already imagining yourself the widow of an attainted traitor?”

  “Yes, I have to consider that.” If his cutting honesty could draw blood, so could hers.

  “Heloise,” Miles cautioned her, his chivalry wearing thin. The bench scraped harshly on the flagstones as he rose. “I am not a green youth.” But he could see that she spoke out of present fear, that the bright courage which he so admired had almost deserted her. “Do you want a husband or not, changeling? They come in all shapes and sizes. This one has several endorsements attached to the parchment and you have read them now.” He stretched out a hand for hers. “This is not a decision that either of us have made lightly. Nor should it be so.” Her hand trembled and he clasped it firmly. “Believe me, we should make this irrevocable.” He was going to lay his skills of lovemaking at her feet like a gift. This was not going to be a fumbling meeting of flesh but a slow dance of pleasure. Awakening his sorceress to a magic that was as old as Paradise would require patience and tenderness.