Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “He seems to have developed a sudden enthusiasm for loitering in gardens,” muttered Miles as they rode out of earshot.

  “Always had an interest in plants.” Sir William stroked an earlobe thoughtfully. “Used to sit in the gardens at Westminster and draw ’em when he was younger, until Lord Rivers made an ass of him over it. Are you listening to me or not?”

  “Definitely not. I was thinking we might take Heloise to see the lions.”

  “What, add an extra innocence to our visit, eh? I warrant you would prefer an afternoon’s dalliance in bed, young Miles. A hit, eh? You should see your face, lad. Poppy scarlet, you are. Let us go and fetch her, then.”

  “IN THE DUMPS, ARE YOU, HELOISE? WILL YOU NOT CONFIDE in me?” Miles chided lightly, as he waited with her in the courtyard at Baynards while her mare was saddled. Heloise felt as tetchy as Cloud when her girth band was too tightly buckled. “Are you displeased because there is no place for us at the Red Rose yet?”

  She cut to the core. “What is amiss with his grace of Gloucester, Miles? What has Stillington told him?” and watched the swift flicker in her husband’s eyes doused.

  “How should I know?” There was care in the indifferent answer. “Now, be cheerful. I thought you would be joyous to see the lions at the Tower this afternoon. I had more amorous plans for the two of us but . . .” He glanced round briefly as Knyvett came down the steps to join them.

  “Poor lions. Why should I want to gloat at their imprisonment?” she threw back.

  “Lady mine, I have business with the young king’s council. Be content that I would see you entertained.” Before she could step back, her chin was taken and his kiss—which told her he would enjoy her later—left her breathless. “That is better,” he said, reluctantly releasing her.

  WATCHING TWO BORED LIONS BEING PRODDED TO GROWL AND swipe each other at the smelly Lion Tower was hardly entertainment, so, pleading the need to find the latrine, Heloise blithely slipped her leash and left Martin and Miles’s men-at-arms, to wander up the laneway towards William the Conqueror’s great keep. God’s truth, the Tower of London was a town within a city, antlike with activity, especially with the coming crowning. The yard before the White Tower was dusty and strewn with shavings where workmen were building extra lodging for the youths that were to be dubbed Knights of the Bath on the eve of the ceremony; and sprawling along the shelter of the inner bailey wall was the gabled, half-timbered house where the Prince of Wales was housed, as was customary before a coronation, with lords and prelates in attendance.

  A furrier winked at Heloise as she watched him unload sables and ermine from his cart, and a tailor and his assistants staggered past her from a side door laden with bales of crimson brocade and cloth of gold. Fascinated, she lingered and then she noticed Sir William. He might be bantering with the sentries but his attention was elsewhere—on her husband.

  She recognized his companion—Catesby, Lord Hastings’s retainer. A wonder they could hold a conversation with the hammering and sawing around them, and there was something unpleasantly familiar about where Miles was standing in the shadows between some scaffolding and the outside wooden stairs that led up to the first floor of the White Tower.

  “Mind out, woman!” yelled a voice.

  “Godsakes!” She flung herself against the nearest wall as Lord Hastings and other lords on horseback galloped past her as though the Devil were chasing their souls. Hastings reined in outside the royal lodging, dismounted angrily, and then he beheld Catesby and Rushden. His riding crop moved against his thigh like a twitching cat tail as he closed in on them. Catesby disappeared beneath the stairs and Miles turned and saw who approached him. The nearby workmen set down their lathes. Miles bowed and gave some answer. Hastings grew more rigid and, for an instant, Heloise thought he might slash out but instead he grabbed her husband by the lapels of his cote. One of the other noblemen, Lord Stanley, and Sir William instantly intervened. The marvel of it was that y Cysgod calmly straightened his clothing, undaunted. What in God’s name was going on?

  “My lady.” She realized Martin was at her elbow.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Aye. Your pardon, but he’s a dark horse, your husband. Best come afore ’e sees you gawking at him.” She let him urge her back down the lane.

  “I wish I knew what was going on, Martin.”

  “Aye, so does the rest o’ London. Buckingham’s been offerin’ higher wages to any that would serve ’im. Maybe ’is lordship there ’as lost a few.”

  But it was more than that.

  “I saw Lord Hastings ride past in such sweat,” she observed to Rushden when he collected her later at the West Bulwark.

  “How observant you are, changeling,” he replied coolly, lifting her onto Cloud’s back. “I believe that Gloucester refused to see him this afternoon.”

  “Refused to see Lord Hastings! But he is the second greatest lord in the kingdom.”

  The corners of Rushden’s mouth twitched into a smile and he stole a caressing hand beneath her skirt. “Not anymore.”

  MILES SAW HER BACK TO BAYNARDS, WONDERING WHY SHE did not wish to sup with him at the Red Rose. Trusting her, he supposed it might be her approaching monthly flux that was putting her out of sorts. Well, if he was making a poor job of being a bridegroom, he would amend matters later in a world that was no longer threatened by the Woodvilles and their allies. Besides, Catesby had agreed to dine with Harry and there was a fair chance they might persuade him to change masters. Much as Miles longed to be with Heloise, this was important. It was part of his plan to make Harry as powerful as Warwick the Kingmaker had been and if Hastings opposed that, so much the worse for him. Jesu, the Yorkists were lucky that Harry did not rally their enemies against them.

  The Red Rose feted Catesby that evening. Ravenous with ambition, Lord Hastings’s friend accepted their morsels of flattery like a starving cur on a December night.

  “I gather Lord Hastings is bedding Mistress Shore and that she often visits the queen at Westminster sanctuary,” Miles remarked eventually, and watched Catesby’s hand freeze with a winecup halfway to his lips. “The lady seems ubiquitous.”

  Given half the chance, the old king’s mistress would have wriggled into Gloucester’s bed, too, like a homing salmon. But this sudden triangular traffic was dangerous; an alliance between the queen and Hastings might be in the wind.

  “Mistress Shore is busy, yes.” Their guest looked from one man to the other and set the vessel carefully down again.

  “You have a chance to come in with us at cockcrow,” Miles murmured, “not when the hurly-burly is over. The old moon or the new?”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the fish course.

  “So, Catesby,” the duke murmured after a whole perch had been set upon his platter, “shall you warn Lord Hastings to be careful of the company he keeps?”

  Catesby stared at his plate. The fish eye stared back blindly. “He knows it is foolish, but”—he raised his head and his fox-miened face was hard—“he cannot help himself.”

  “A pity.” Miles showed no sympathy. Having scraped off all the good flesh on one side of his fish, he pulled the backbone out; it was surprising how many small bones came away with it.

  He was whistling confidently as he returned from relieving himself before they served the subtleties, when Pershall waylaid him with another matter.

  “Sir, you know Master Bannastre has fetched the pretty widow his grace has been bedding this last week?” Miles nodded; at least the woman was clean and wholesome. “Well, sir, some other wench has wormed her way in and there’s two of ’em to deal with. I have taken the liberty of putting one of ’em in his grace’s bedchamber. Will it please you to ask my lord duke if he wants one at a time, neither, or both at once?”

  Glad that he was free of such dilemmas, Miles whispered the tidings to Harry and resumed his place upon the dais. The guests, garrulous with fine wines, departed an hour later and Miles, whose duty it was to super
vise Harry’s unrobing that night, accompanied him up the stairs.

  A veiled woman, impossible to recognize in the light of the scant candles that had kept her company through her vigil, rose as they entered the antechamber. The fragrance was familiar though as yet he could put no name to it.

  Pershall caught Miles’s eye and jerked his head at the bedchamber, easing open the door for him to glimpse a winsome, raven-haired beauty reclined upon the pillows, languidly filing her nails.

  “Whatever are you doing here, mistress?” Harry was saying behind his back. “I do not even know your name. Your reputation—”

  The stranger did not need unveil herself for as Miles turned back, he saw a plant with its roots bound in a canvas bag upon the small table and knew.

  “I . . . I came before curfew.” Tremulous breath fanned the delicate gauze before Dionysia shyly drew it up. “Your pardon, my gracious lord, I did not intend to stay but your servants let me in and said you would not be long.”

  “My people shall see you safely home but . . . but will you sup before you go? There are . . . well . . . viands aplenty.” Harry ignored Miles’s icy hostility and Pershall’s facial contortions for attention; his gaze was only for his fair guest—like a man besotted.

  She nodded with a quiver of lip. “I have a great hunger on me. . . .” The lovely eyes confirmed the ambiguity. “But I cannot delay you, you must have . . .” She waved her hands with charming helplessness. Had she smelt the other woman’s perfume?

  Harry, curse him, did not even wriggle in the web Dionysia was spinning, but two might play at cocooning; the duke’s white teeth glinted in a predatory smile that promised earthly treasures and pleasurable experiences.

  “This is an iris, is it not?” he murmured, lifting the plant closer to the candlelight.

  Dionysia moved to his elbow and stroked the swordlike leaves. “A golden flower. It will unfurl its petals for you by tomorrow.”

  Behind her back, Pershall threw his eyes heavenwards in incredulity before he coughed. “Will viands be sufficient, your grace, or shall I bring refreshment for the flower as well?” Then he bowed Dionysia. “May I show you where the garderobe is, my lady?”

  “Aye, do so,” ordered Harry, thrusting the door open so that it was impossible for her to refuse.

  Miles’s anger broke the instant she was gone. “That woman is—”

  “Quick, Miles, get the other whore out! Pay her off.”

  “But she is—”

  “As you love me, do it!” Harry fiercely thrust him towards the bedchamber and disappeared downstairs. Fuming, Miles paid off the disappointed widow and delivered her to Bannastre for unloading at her house in Thames Street.

  Pershall was sitting on the bottom stair on his return. “Order a cell at Bedlam, sir. His grace has been bitten by a rabid bitch.”

  “I have to stop this!”

  Pershall did not shift. “I would not go back up, Sir Miles. He has an appetite on him and it is not for the strawberries.”

  “She is Gloucester’s ward and—the Devil take her!—my wife’s sister.”

  Pershall grimaced, shaking his fingers as though the air had burnt him.

  “Exactly,” snarled Miles.

  “To cut to the hilt, sir, love can creep up on us, like. Might not be such a bad thing.”

  Love! It was not on the agenda. “He is in love with power, Pershall. Let that suffice.”

  A woman’s laughter rippled down the staircase and Miles turned away cursing. God damn her! Dionysia had won this round.

  NEXT MORNING WAS AS SHINY AS A GEMSTONE AS HELOISE climbed the Baynards battlements after prime. The river lay like a pane of grisailled glass; the sky before her a smoky blue broken by a fleet of swans beating their wings up to Richmond. Westwards, a purplish brown haze hovered above the polished spires, and Paul’s steeple pointed an indicatory finger towards Heaven like a warning but no one beneath it was listening. The wharves nearest to Baynards were spiky with derricks, the air buffeted with ribald curses as wharvesmen and crews unloaded upriver produce: hay bales for the stables of the city’s inns; cheeses like village footballs, their rinds comforted by cloths; and sacks of flour, peak-eared from handling.

  For Heloise it was a relief to observe the rooftops like a soaring goshawk and not have her unwilling mind overladen with the intrigue that insinuated between Westminster and the Tower, but the horrid protuberances spiking London Bridge’s city gate like monstrous decaying seedpods horrified her. What new adornments might be hoisted? Miles Rushden’s head? Despite the heat, she shuddered and closed her mind against a fearful future. The battle for England was not over yet.

  “It seems you did not wish to be found, Heloise!” Like a raptor that might steer its way by night, Rushden had discovered her roost. His mood, by the look of his stormy brow, matched hers.

  “Well done, sir.” The chill belied the applause. “I needed peace to think,” she added, hiding her pleasure in being his, delighting in the glazy sheen of the black leather knee boots, the cascade of outer sleeve, and the lacing of his shirt that begged untying. Tendrils of damp hair lapped Miles’s freshly shaven jaw and the musk he used reached her across the still air. She saw the corners of her lord’s mouth curl down at her tepid welcome. If he had considered gentle tail-pulling, he changed his mind. “In future, changeling, will you please leave word of where I may discover you. I do not have time for these games.”

  “I noticed.” It was necessary to cold-shoulder him and show more interest in a passing barge.

  “I thought you indisposed.”

  “No.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “I . . . I want to be honest with you.”

  “Ah.” His jaw clenched and he waited.

  “Whatever it is you are doing, sir, I do not like it.” She glanced sideways.

  Her newly wedded lord swore beneath his breath. “It seems to be what I am not doing, madam.” Wondrous manly, he paced away from her, his long cote fluttering above the knightly spurs. “Why is it that now I am tethered to you for eternity, Heloise, you are become so perverse? How may I please you?” Ice edged each word.

  “By sharing.”

  “My bed?”

  “No, your trust.”

  “I see.” He perched himself between the crenellations. “Well, I am not sure I know enough to tell you, save to say I am rattling the die as best I can.” A black-gloved hand fingered the enamelled sword hilt warily. “Is there another question?”

  “Oh, a cupboardful, sir. To be frank, why are you baiting Lord Hastings?”

  “I am not.” His expression was distant and then the mercurial gaze returned to her as though she entertained him. “Mind, I think he is in my way.”

  “Miles,” she pleaded, “I want a husband not a severed head.”

  The cutting amusement softened to kindness as he held out a hand for hers. “You knew I was ambitious, cariad. I have never made a secret of it.” Heloise ignored the gesture, but she wanted so much to believe in him, wanted Rushden to hold her and kiss away her demons. To take his hand was to forgive the future.

  He stood. “So skittish, still,” he murmured, looking down at her like a victorious captain. “I think you feast on danger, changeling. A pair of boots and you will wade in beside me.” The steel eyes had grown devilish. “Give me the kiss of peace.”

  “I will give you the slap of war,” seethed Heloise, retreating.

  “Then do so, sweet heart, but I will tax you first.”

  The bastion tower was no ally as she took a step back and felt the stone wall merciless against her back. His arms became her prison.

  Satan take him! She fought to free herself, trying to keep her anger blazing, yet to be held was divine penance.

  “Why will you not accept my good lordship, Heloise, and trust my judgment in such matters?” With a slow smile, he pulled her against him. “Be content that you have a husband who appreciates all you offer.” He tilted her face towards him. The famili
ar stirring his touch aroused warred with her reason. Her mind protested at this feudal passion without love. His lips seduced the sensitive skin below her ear and provocatively trailed lower until she arched towards him, desperate for him to touch her breasts.

  Her husband’s laughter was soft. “Ah, so you have an appetite for this, but no dalliance now, my lascivious enchantress. The duchess likes to keep her ramparts pure. Besides, we have an audience.” A couple of boatmen and their passengers were whooping at them.

  The rebuff hurt her. Did he not feel the same passion? How could he be so controlled? Oh, every time she thought to capture the real man, he eluded her grasp. He was the shapeshifter, not she: he was the master of the game, and she was trying so hard to understand the rules.

  “Now I have need of your help, Heloise,” he was saying. “It would please me if you would take your annoying sister to task. She wants to become Harry’s reigning mistress.”

  How had he found that out?

  “Dear God, Miles, that must be avoided at all costs,” she exclaimed, stowing her anger away briefly. “She is unwed and . . .”

  “Unplucked? Hardly. When did it last rain . . .” He stared out towards Southwark, his mouth a furrow of displeasure. “She came to the Manor of the Red Rose last night armed with a fleur-de-lis.”

  “What!”

  “They talked about more than gardening and he has sent out for some pansies.”

  “Pansies!”

  “How else do you reward a night of pleasure? Valerian for the nerves? I can see I should have presented you with something flowery. Speak with her, please.”

  “You find this amusing.”

  “No, I find it irritating. Best Gloucester does not learn of it, hmm? Your sister has told Crosby Place she is staying here with you. Let that suffice. Give this bonfire a few days and, with God’s good grace, it may burn itself out, despite your sister’s ambitions. Men are fickle creatures.” Was he a fickle creature too?