Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “Sir Miles, how very kind of you to lend us Lady Rushden,” Margery murmured, with a quelling eyebrow upon her own lord, as she held Heloise’s hands to make an arch.

  “My horse is available too,” Miles offered witheringly as his shoulder brushed beneath Heloise’s arm. The dance compelled him on.

  “I have met friendlier wolves,” hissed Margery. “Do all Buckingham’s men growl so?”

  “Only when they are hungry,” observed Huddleston. “Will lands appease him, Heloise, or does he want the crown?”

  “W-who?”

  Green eyes questioned her naivete. “Rushden.”

  “I—I do not understand.”

  “But we should like to.” Huddleston reverenced each of his partners as the music ended. “Friend Buckingham wears his kingly ancestry on his escutcheon—does he wear the mantle of Lancaster too? Or has that been sent for laundering to Henry Tudor? You will have to do better than this, young Heloise, if you want to dance at Westminster.”

  Heloise blinked at him. Had she indeed missed the undertones of this particular tune? Then it dawned on her that they were afraid. Afraid that good dog Buckingham might turn and maul their master—at her husband’s bidding.

  Lips parted, she turned her head to find Miles, wishing he might take her leading rein and reassure her that she had not married a devil, but a circle of Gloucester’s knights withheld him from her. Did the Huddlestons truly believe that Buckingham was but a glove upon Miles Rushden’s hand?

  “Is dancing at Westminster to be the zenith of my wheel of fortune, Sir Richard?” Scathing serrated her question.

  “Lady Rushden, it is better than the base torrents of the millrace. We can all drown. Excuse me, mesdames.” He strode across to Duchess Anne. “Are the dukes still arguing in there?” she heard him ask.

  And it was then that Buckingham emerged, his forehead spangled with sweat. Miles instantly broke free and joined his lord, and Heloise, watching the light-fast understanding that flashed between them, sadly knew herself an outsider still.

  HARRY’S EYES SHONE LIKE A MAN WHO HAD HEARD THE VOICE of God as he disdained the throng and urgently drew Miles aside to tell him Stillington’s secret.

  “Christ Almighty, the prince a bastard!” Miles’s mouth gaped adit-wide. “This is what we always dreamt of. You could be high constable within the week.” But ill news followed: Gloucester—a true Libran man to his toenails—after hours of weighing matters had resolved finally to crown his nephew.

  “Christ Almighty, Miles.” Harry’s mutter was low and furious. “The crown is there for the taking. ‘What will Lord Hastings say?’ he kept moaning and he is scared his brother will come back and haunt him. The dolt was in tears just now, shouting at me to get out. Jesu, as well I did, I was right close to shaking him, the fool!” To be within a spade’s edge of the crock of gold!

  “But that is a good sign, my lord, you are wearing him ragged. You warned him that it will not just be his head that falls beneath a Woodville axe, but his son’s too?”

  “Oh, I said that, Miles, yes, and that he had best have his friends close by and armed come St. John’s Eve. I used every plaguey argument. You may buy me a striped hood for my saint’s day. I can become a lawyer if the Woodvilles leave my head alone.”

  “You have to keep at him, my lord. The duchess has just gone in to him but mayhap she is on your side.” It was guesswork but a fair assumption that Warwick the Kingmaker’s daughter might share her father’s dream.

  “But my quiver’s empty, Miles.”

  “Remind him that Queen Margaret used poison to rid herself of good Duke Humphrey. A different queen, but another Uncle Gloucester.” Miles watched understanding dimple Harry’s cheeks.

  “Ha! A wondrous precedent.” Like an athlete ready to perform again, the duke wriggled his neck. A wonder he did not spit upon his palms. “Pray hard, Miles, else we shall all be in the Tower dungeons after the coronation banquet.”

  Frustrated that he could only guide not row their eggshell boat, Miles watched Harry reenter the inner sanctum. His entire future depended on Harry’s eloquence!

  “Miles.”

  His lady stood before him—exquisite, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, as if in covering herself she offered secrets. Brocade sleeves, lined with lily pink taffeta, tumbled back from bands of crimson stitched with pearls as she raised a slender arm tightly sheathed in silk. An arrow point of silk edged the delicate wrist he raised to his lips. Her eyes were fawn-wild. No, fey-bright, or was that an illusion? Oh, Heloise! He felt the heat of desire struggle against the need to keep his mind clear of her sorcery.

  “No baying hounds after me?” she asked, with a lift of brow.

  “You are mine, changeling.” Her hand was gallantly turned but he intended the sensual kiss upon her palm to pass the sentries and set fires anew within her citadel. “I will whistle when I need you.” The words were barbed. The rosy silk trembled, her little breasts, tight and full, lifted in breathy anger.

  “And I shall not hear you.”

  “Of course you shall, but since we circle different planets, it shall be by my clock, not yours!” His voice was stern with challenge; she had yet to learn his measure.

  “Lady Rushden!” Knyvett moved in like a diplomat and Miles turned on his heel, leaving his wife, he hoped, besieged and hungry.

  Heloise needed to drag Rushden from the hall and quarrel properly but greater matters weighed in the balance; like a household listening for the squeal of a newborn heir, the entire throng were turned towards the inner door. When Buckingham finally emerged like a successful butterfly scrambling from its casing, speculation ran rife.

  “This is the stuff of chronicles.” Margery joined Heloise. “So Buckingham has swayed our duke. How very eloquent of him. I hate to be a dampener to their hopes but . . .” She studied the men over her shoulder. “But, Heloise, what happens if he stops listening to good advice or, worse still, hears a different voice?”

  “Who, Gloucester, Margery?”

  “No, Heloise, Buckingham.”

  THE AIR IN THE WOMEN’S BEDCHAMBER AT CROSBY PLACE WAS as thick as a rich man’s blanket. If she had been alone in the huge bed, Heloise might have wept, but she was packed with the other ladies like a salted stockfish—a hot, salted stockfish hammered into a crate—and fears like wakeful demons were pincering her. Did her infuriating lord not realize she longed for him to imperiously fetch her back to the Red Rose and take her into his bed to be seduced with apologies and tenderness? Had she lost the battle already and was there nothing worth winning but an empty heart, at the high cost of breaking her own?

  As the London roosters began their dawn duties calling their hens to order, she fell asleep only to dream again of Lord Hastings struggling against the soldiers. This time she recognized the wooden stairs of the great keep; this time the captain of the men-at-arms raised his helm and laughed. It was Miles.

  FOR SEVERAL DAYS HELOISE FURIOUSLY LINGERED AT CROSBY Place and Miles Rushden let her simmer. Around her, the northern noblemen were tight-lipped, their lord tense and anxious. Something dire was building like a tempest. On Friday, the thirteenth of June, the duke’s household attended mass at St. Paul’s and the dean lashed out from the pulpit with a bitter sermon on St. Peter’s denial and Judas’s vile treason, before Gloucester rode off with his henchmen to kiss hands with the prince and meet his council at the Tower.

  Friday the thirteenth! The fearful feeling within Heloise grew until it was impossible to sit and embroider with the duchess’s ladies. She fled to the arbor and sat beneath the drizzling unhappy sky. She heard the shouts as far as Leadenhall and the hooves and clank of men-at-arms returning.

  “Heloise.” She had known Miles would come, his soul turned to the outside for a brief space.

  “What is it that you want, sir?” But she knew. Absolution, that priceless, intangible commodity that let princes slumber well at night.

  He was in half-armor—a studded tunic of black and s
carlet leather belted across a metal hauberk. His hair was sleeked with rain but his cheeks were unhealthily devoid of blood as if he had had a glimpse of Hell.

  “So have you dragged Lord Hastings from the White Tower?”

  Miles crossed himself, appalled. “How did you know that?”

  “I dreamt it.” A truth meant to hurt. “Are you pleased, Miles? Contented now?”

  He swore, wiping a hand across his mouth, and turned his face away. “I want you to come back with me to the Red Rose.” The high tone was there, no supplication to soften it for her pleasure.

  “Why? So you can take refuge?”

  “In your arms, Heloise? Yes, curse it!” He flung himself down beside her, leaning forward, his fingers to his temples as if his mind ached with pain. “We had evidence.”

  “I am sure you did. You and your master would have made sure, otherwise.”

  “No!” The anguish in his voice set a delaying hand upon her revenge. “It was not like that. I—I thought Hastings would cool his heels in the Tower for a few months and come to terms. No, do not turn away!

  “Catesby gave us evidence against Hastings, Stanley, and Bishop Morton. Gloucester did not believe it at first and then he accused Hastings of conspiring with the queen, using Mistress Shore, his mistress, as a messenger. Hastings was so angry that he drew his dagger upon him. It was in the meeting chamber on the upper floor at the White Tower and I was outside the door with Lord Howard’s son and some of the guards when we heard a bench crash and we rushed in. Harry, Howard, and Suffolk were struggling to overpower Hastings, and Lord Stanley was on his hands and knees beneath the trestle. We hauled Hastings out.”

  “You were there waiting for it to happen.”

  “I was there in case something went amiss. Hastings knew we had a case against him. Christ Almighty, Heloise, he was guilty as Hell. So were the other two.”

  “Was?” Dragged from the White Tower?

  “Yes. Was! There were sufficient lords to try them! There was evidence. You only had to look at Stanley—every jowl was quivering, the man was close to soiling himself, he was so scared.

  “Harry ordered the guards to take Hastings down to the yard. Someone fetched the priest from St. John’s chapel to shrive him and then”—he swallowed—“then one of the sergeants found a carpenter’s block. It was too awkward to lift so the fellow kicked it along . . .” He winced. “Oh, Heloise, it was all scoured and crisscrossed like a chop’s cooking board, but Harry gave the order, wanted it done before Gloucester came down. Blessed Christ pardon me! Tell me I had no choice.” Miles cast his arms about her, burrowing his face in her lap like a tiny boy. “There was so much blood, so much blood. I never . . . Oh, God forgive me, I did not know a man could bleed so.”

  Although she stroked the crow-wing hair, she was appalled by the power in him. Was there some bloodlust in these men which made them stain this precious peace? Was it Miles who had moved the pawns in place to ensure this outcome?

  “Be pleased, sir,” she said scathingly. “Is not your way open now, as you determined?”

  “I do not wonder that you berate me.” His eyes, stormy-hued against their reddened rims, begged her forgiveness. “Come back to me, please, tonight.”

  “What of Lord Stanley and Bishop Morton? Are they dead too?”

  “No, madam,” he replied, angered by her manner. “We are not butchers. One killing was enough. Morton and Stanley are in prison.”

  “And I suppose you will all descend upon Hastings’s manors like carrion.”

  “No! No act of attainder. His family are not to blame.”

  That was a surprise, thought Heloise harshly. Such pickings would have provided rewards for the two dukes’ land-hungry followers.

  “Well, I expect Henry Tudor will be very pleased to hear today’s news when it finally reaches Brittany, for it seems to me that you have just levered aside one of the cornerstones that holds the House of York in place.”

  Miles stared at her with scorn, but she could see he was smarting. “You would be wise to keep that observation to yourself. I shall send an escort for you, madam, since you are still unfortunately my responsibility.” Drawing on his gloves, he declared icily, “You will pardon me if I remove my unacceptable person hence. I have work to do. Harry has offered to give employment to any of Hastings’s men who seek it.”

  Her damp skirts clung as she rose. “And is he going to sell a couple of his doublets on a Cornhill stall to pay them? Or shall you turn heathen and marry a half score of wealthy merchants’ daughters in order to finance him?” Had he possessed a warlock’s magic art, his expression would have conjured her to stone for such rash impertinence, but a new voice ahemmed through the freezing air between them.

  “Sir Miles. His grace of Gloucester desires you attend him. Likewise his grace of Buckingham.”

  Miles gave a curt nod to the esquire and swung round on Heloise. “You were waiting for a whistle. Did you hear me, lady mine? Make ready!”

  “A whistle. I am sorry, no. It was a pat on the head I wanted.” Her head tilted towards the hall. “You are the one being whistled, I think.”

  Hard as it was to watch his face frost over and her harsh words drive cold iron down his spine, the hour was not yet come to play the pardoner’s part.

  “A pat, I see.” Bitter amusement twisted his mouth.

  “I want you, Miles, more than I have words to tell you, but not like this.”

  “And who is to learn the lesson? You or I?”

  “Whichever one of us is wiser, sir.”

  “Then you will not obey me, madam?”

  She inclined her head in dismissal. He swore through fine, clenched teeth and left her, sad and drenched, among the roses.

  But Miles did not leave Crosby Place. In a defiant show of unity to convince the Londoners that a riot was unnecessary, Buckingham, his retinue, and the lord mayor stayed to sup. Heloise pleaded indisposition and stayed out of sight in the women’s bedchamber. Not even Margery could spur new heart into her.

  It was Duchess Anne who took her aside before mass next morning.

  “Heloise, dearest, I think you should know that his grace of Buckingham’s company was attacked on the way back to Dowgate last night. The duke was unharmed but several of his retainers were killed.”

  “My husband?”

  Twenty-two

  “I am glad you are back, my lady. It was a nasty business last night.” De la Bere, a bandage round his forehead, lumbered up the Manor of the Red Rose’s spiral stairs behind Heloise’s hastening feet. “Poor old Brian, gone to his Maker.” He nearly collided with Heloise as she turned.

  “The archer, Brian, dead?” She crossed herself, her eyes watering. Dear God, this was a deadly game they were playing now.

  “Aye, and several other good fellows who raced up from the back. We took the brunt of it at the front, or rather Miles did.”

  “Defending his grace?”

  “Yes and no,” De la Bere panted. “Happened so fast but it was as if . . . as if they tried to close Miles off from the rest of us. Three of ’em tried to drag him from the saddle and one of the knaves cut Traveller’s girth. Miles’s foot was caught in the stirrup and he fell badly. It should not have happened, my lady. And what is more, the lousy watch were tardy coming to our aid. Swear those ribalds would have heard the brawl as far as Paul’s. Adder deaf they were. Ha! And no doubt richer, come this morning. Need more men to safeguard us in this city, Lady Rushden, no doubt about it. I am right glad that my lord lord protector has sent to York for reinforcements. Through here, please.” She stepped into a chamber, furnished with no more than a folding chair and a small table stacked with ready-cut parchment, several stubby candles, and a couple of pipe roll cases. He overtook her and unlatched the door beyond. “Your pardon for the untidiness,” he muttered, snatching a saddlepack out of her way.

  “Jesu mercy!” Heloise clapped her hand to her lips as she entered. It was the ewer of bloody water standing upon the bedst
eps that appalled her.

  “Sorry!” whispered de la Bere, dumping it outside the door. With a finger to his lips, he drew aside the bedcurtain.

  At first she thought someone had set a coif upon Miles’s head but as her eyes adapted to the shuttered dimness, she saw it was a wad of linen tethered by a bandage beneath his chin. His entire face showed bruising and a fist must have driven up beneath his lower jaw, for his top lip was cut and badly swollen. Why had there been no portent? She, of all people, should have been able to warn him. Gently, she took up his hand. At least his pulse was regular. There was no fever yet, thanks be to God.

  “It is a good sleep,” murmured de la Bere.

  “Where is the blood from?” Her calm was undermined by despair.

  “Reckon that in the mêlée he must have caught his head on one of the iron candelabrum set up for St. John’s Eve. A glancing blow, see, across there. The duke’s leech has cleansed and stitched it. Swears he will be as good as new and even his mother will not see the embroidery. At least the whoresons missed his lungs, by Christ’s mercy. And Dr. Argentine came over from the Tower at the duke’s summons. Fellow is supposed to be a magician at bone-setting. Said to tell you it was a clean break.” De la Bere demonstrated on his own leg. “Here, just above the right anklebone. Reckons you are not to worry, so long as you keep Miles off his feet. No need to tell you that.” But he urgently drew her back into the outer chamber and pushed the door to. “I do not know what is amiss between the pair of you, my lady, but surely you will stay. Miles was asking for you, needs you, and, believe me, we want him hale again. Only one of us able to bridle Harry. Was that a nod? That’s the spirit. I will have a palliasse put up for you in here and shift my gear.”

  He followed her back into the bedchamber and opened the upper lights. “May I leave you, then, to bark at visitors?”

  “Yes, right fiercely.” The housewife in her gazed in astonishment at the clothing strewn across the floorboards. A variety of muddy male boots in differing sizes obstacled the surround of the bed whilst the corner of the room looked like a collapsed armorer’s stall with bits and pieces in a hurly-burly mess. Sword belts added menacing interest to the wallpegs and a laundry pannier, awaiting collection, overflowed on the chest at the foot of the bed.