Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  Careful, but perhaps tempted to tread upon the king’s long train of Roman purple, Buckingham, in blue cloth shot with gold and wrought with pearl droplets, followed bearing the white wand of office. He had insisted on being made High Steward of England for the occasion. The black velvet lining the mulberry train whispered at his heels, dusting the tiles before the earls bearing the queen’s crown and scepter.

  Queen Anne also walked beneath a canopy tasseled at each corner by a golden bell. She looked frail under the heavy robes, her forehead strained below the pearl and gems, and her milky skin outfaced by the rose red that had never suited her. Corn-hued hair, so rarely visible, caped her to the thighs. She turned her head as Heloise willed her attention. The smile came from the new queen’s heart but pain like a torturer’s iron band fastened inside Heloise’s ribs. Oh, your grace, God keep you!

  Jesu forfend! Heloise recoiled, instinctively suspicious of the stranger who bore Queen Anne’s train. Behind an enigmatic smile, the heavy-lidded eyes were making an inventory of who was there and who was not. The shrewd gaze paused on Miles’s mother and the jeweled coronet dipped in acquaintance.

  “Who is she?” Heloise gasped, her mind buffeted by a willpower more formidable than anything she had encountered in her life.

  “Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond.” Henry Tudor’s mother! As if sensing that Heloise carried the wrong allegiance, the countess tightened her gloved hands upon the purple velvet, her gaze passing on. But with all the fey power that she could muster, Heloise slit through the mind behind the high-boned cheeks like a surgeon and laid it open. What she discovered was a putrescent envy of immense proportions; in Margaret Beaufort’s mind, it was her son’s face beneath the crown.

  She scarcely noticed other noblewomen passing by until Lady Margery Huddleston sent her a beaming smile and the world righted itself again. And there was Miles’s father too, among the lesser barons, giving her a broad wink as he passed.

  The Latin anthems soared upon the organ’s winging sound, for King Richard’s love of music was great indeed. Only those clustered round the throne might witness the anointing, the oath to England sworn for the first time in English, the final lowering of the crown, and assess Buckingham’s expression as the shouts rang forth.

  “Verus rex, Rex Ricardus!

  Rectus rex, Rex Ricardus!

  Iustus, juridicus et legitimus rex, rex Ricardus!

  Cui omnes nos subjicio volumus.

  Suaeque humillime iugem, admittere guernationis!”

  God’s will was manifest but Heloise felt uncomfortable as she watched the duke follow his new sovereign down the nave. No longer cousins nor peers but king and subject. And how would Miles’s Harry feel about that?

  THUNDER ROLLED AND SHOOK THE CITY AS HELOISE, WAFTING incense fumes, regaled Miles with her account before the others trooped back, sloshing with claret and malvesey. She had decanted some hackled peacock, great carp in foile, and close tart indorred for him to savor and he was grateful, but he lay awake beside her in the early hours, desperate for flight like a tethered hawk, grieving that he had had the journey but not the arrival.

  His new wife, as if wakened by his mind’s call, slid her hands over the breastplate of dark hair and pressed her body questioningly against him. Encouraged, she used her new learning to please and his yearning flesh hardened hungrily within her hand.

  “By the saints, I could not have endured this without you, changeling.”

  “Harry could have hired you a trio of Winchester geese to ease your problem.”

  “You,” his lips told her hair, “are not supposed to know of such creatures. Nor of the Hereford whores or—”

  A woman’s scream split the silence like a lightning strike and a howl of anguish followed.

  “Christ!”

  His lady would have grabbed her robe and followed the sound but Miles’s fingers fastened round her wrist. “No! Leave it to Knyvett!”

  “It is—”

  “Your sister. Yes, I know. Wait! Wait!” Bridling a wildcat might have been simpler but he held on grimly to Heloise as Dionysia’s voice rose in argument. They heard the sound of heavier feet hurrying up the stairs and Sir William’s rumbling tone, then a smack of bone and a woman’s keening wail, sad and lost.

  “No!” Miles muttered through clenched teeth. “It is not your quarrel!”

  “She is my sister!”

  “You will stay here, madam!” In kindness he forced her back against the pillow, his hands upon her wrists like iron staples. “Let her learn to manage the darkness in him.”

  “She loves him.”

  “Love!” he scoffed. “Dionysia? Do you need spectacles, cariad?” It was a risk to loosen her in such a humor. Starlit hair hid her face from him as she sullenly rubbed her wrists, legs sideways beneath her like a mermaid tail.

  “You would not know love if it buffeted you between the eyes,” she hissed. “You buried your heart six foot deep two years hence.”

  Astounded at the lash of words, he gazed at her and then said quietly, “Give me a crutch and a spade and I will go and look for it.”

  “You have to dig for it?” Indignation fired the words at him like hostile crossbolts as she sprang off the bed. Thank God she lacked the beehives.

  He swallowed, devastated that he had somehow unleashed a Fury. “I have given you the protection of my name, Heloise; I have given you the loyalty of my body and—”

  She tossed a scathing look at his injured leg. “Ha, that has yet to be tested.”

  “You shrew,” he exclaimed, “I married you because—”

  “Because it amused you to annoy both dukes and because I was suddenly wealthy and you did not have my father to disgrace you. Oh, answer me, is not that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ohhhh!” The candlestick was seized. He ducked. Jesu, he was becoming good at ducking.

  “Perhaps you should know, madam,” he threw back as haughtily as he could from the horizontal, “that I saved you from persecution.”

  “That was self-interest and you know it—naught but drunken Welsh poe—”

  “No, Dokett.”

  “Dokett! Gloucester would not have let—”

  “You are mistaken. Dokett was all ready to speak with Canterbury. He wanted you pincered, sweetheart.” Ah, that silenced her. His tone shed the sarcasm. “I will have your gratitude, madam, and you may keep your rebukes scabbarded in future. It seems to me there is much you have to learn.”

  “I! Well, thank you, sir, for your charity and condescension. There is more to a marriage than being your concubine and nursemaid but I doubt you are capable of learning something so simple, you arrogant dolt!”

  “Dolt!” No one had ever—

  “I—I am going back to . . . to Bramley until you—”

  “Heloise.”

  He nearly fell with the pain as he stumbled after her but she caught him in time and heaved him back against the bed. With no words left to lean upon, he let her help him back into the prison of sheets.

  “Heloise, you are not going anywhere, please.” His hand opened upon the coverlet, palm uppermost in peace. “I married you because I wanted you alive. Beside me.”

  She left the chamber. He heard her moving things in the outer room and closed his eyes tightly, trying not to imagine how empty the world would be without her.

  “Here.” Metal touched the side of his hand. “It will ease the pain.” Relieved, he dragged himself up against the bolster and took the cup.

  “Thank you.” He thanked God too as his slender wife climbed back beside him.

  ***

  DIONYSIA HAD VANISHED WHEN HELOISE SOUGHT HER OUT next morning. The servants shrugged, disclaiming knowledge, and Buckingham and his retinue had gone to mass with the king at Westminster.

  Miles did not share her sisterly concern. “I warned you she expected too much. I’ll wager she has bolted back to Crosby Place. Probably pulling up irises in a huff.”

  “You a
re not going to like what I have to say, sir.”

  Miles suppressed a husbandly groan. He did not remember Sioned being this difficult.

  “I believe Dionysia was just a whipping boy last night. Hurting her was the only way your friend Harry could vent his jealousy.”

  “What in God’s name are you saying?”

  “I am saying, Miles, that he covets the crown.” The words spattered between them like foul droplets contaminating the air.

  Her lord’s expression was as chill as Purbeck marble. “Christ Almighty, Heloise, as you value your life, hold your tongue!” The ensuing silence was bitter even though she sensed the man’s anger cool. “Come here.” He held out his hands.

  “It is true—” But his mouth came down on hers, stanching the truth. “It is true,” she repeated, wrenching her face away. “He cannot live with himself. He has to prove he is better than anyone and now it will be King Richard who must be taught that lesson.”

  Miles turned his face away, breathing hard. Heloise sprang off the bed and sought refuge at the window, her fingers clenched against her breastbone.

  Please help my sister, her heart cried out, but no sparkle of wings caught the moon’s cold light. Instead, Nandik’s face floated through her mind like a reflection rippling upon dirty water. Was it he who had set the mischief threading through Buckingham’s mind like a fungus? She could feel the evil insinuating itself like a monstrous fog.

  ***

  IN DESPERATION SHE SET OUT FOR CROSBY PLACE BUT THE household had moved to Westminster Palace and it was past noon when Heloise managed to steal Margery away from the new queen’s presence and beg her help.

  “Sweet Heaven, Heloise, your sister could be anywhere, on her way back to your family perhaps?”

  “No, I do not believe so. Buckingham has found out she has been informing on him. I am certain of it. Ask Sir Richard to find her, please, Margery. I know she is in peril.”

  “Of course, of course, we can start with Buckingham’s closest manors, but it will take many days. Since your husband knows of the quarrel, could he not broach the matter directly with his duke?”

  If he was speaking to her! She found him playing chess with Knyvett when she returned. Both men were looking grave.

  “Is there news? Can you tell me where my sister is, Sir William?” she pleaded, drawing off her gloves. “What happened last night?”

  “A bad business.” Knyvett shook his silvering head. “I hit Harry last night because I thought him in the wrong, but it seems your sister was a paid informer.” Oh, Jesu!

  “Who says so?” she asked with sisterly disbelief.

  “Nandik.”

  “Nandik!”

  “Aye, apparently Harry set him secretly to mind her. See that she came to no harm. Nandik saw her meet each day with one of the king’s henchmen.”

  “But, naturally she is acquainted with king’s men, Sir William. She was at Middleham. Oh, for pity’s sake, where there is a will to do evil, anything will serve. I beg you both, ask his grace what is become of her.”

  The older knight pulled a wry face at Miles. “Harry will not be speaking to me the rest of the day. If you want my advice, my lady, keep away from him. Certes, I shall.” Then his expression chilled. “I hope your sister’s duplicity was news to you, madam.”

  “Of course my wife knows nothing of this,” Miles answered for her. “So where is Dionysia now?”

  Knyvett’s lower lip curled. “Pranced off in a womanly sulk? When Harry’s temper has cooled, we may learn something. I will see you later, Miles.”

  “Dear God!” Heloise whirled round on her husband. “Could you not ask the duke outright?”

  “Let this rest! His grace will tell me when he is ready.”

  “Dionysia is afraid, Miles. I know it.” Her temples ached. “You do not care, do you?”

  “To be frank, no. I disliked your sister on first acquaintance and I like her even less now.”

  “Then you will not help me, sir?”

  “Sir,” Miles’s servant interrupted. “There is a gentlewoman come who desires speech with you. She would not give her name.”

  Heloise said a prayer it might be word of Dionysia.

  “Show her up,” muttered Miles grimly. “And I promise you I will help you, cariad.”

  Black Mechlin gauze shrouded the visitor’s face. A widow, perhaps, with a petition, save that she carried no scroll or folded parchment. Virtuous certainly, for the blue-black robe embroidered with sable daisies enveloped her to the throat, and her fingers, clad in gloves of soft, expensive leather, rose to fold at her waist with nunlike briskness.

  “Thank you,” exclaimed the woman brusquely, as if his lady were only a servant. “Now, leave us, if you please. I wish to speak with Sir Miles alone.”

  Only after the door closed did she set back the veil to uncover a finely boned face of intelligent rather than beauteous mien. Her nose was not to his taste, and her upper lip was far too furrowed. The hollow cheeks hinted at asceticism but the lady’s roundish, small eyes examined him with a disconcerting worldliness. Two-score years and childless, he hazarded, noting the lean hips and flat belly.

  “Y Cysgod.” It was said correctly as if she was familiar with matters Welsh and of course she was. The hammer struck the anvil in Miles’s mind—Margaret Beaufort, Henry Tudor’s mother! She had buried Buckingham’s uncle Harry some ten years since before taking on Lord Stanley as a husband. Miles looked afresh at her now, reminded of a raptor by the way the woman smiled.

  “Not a cysgod at the moment, my lady,” he replied wryly, glancing meaningfully to where his toes made contours of the coverlet.

  “May I congratulate you on Harry’s speech at Baynards Castle, Sir Miles?”

  No, you may not, he thought, wondering how in hell she had found that out. He watched in irritated helplessness as Tudor’s mother explored his demesne, glancing at his papers. “Why are you here, my lady?” If word reached King Richard that Tudor’s maman had visited him at the Red Rose, the White Boar men would be watching him like hungry kites—if they were not already.

  Margaret Beaufort paused in her peregrinations. “You know, I always wondered what my nephew’s—well, nephew by marriage—capabilities are. I can see now.” Was that supposed to flatter him? “A pity you are immobile, Sir Miles, and no longer have your hand upon Harry’s leading rein.” A bony finger prodded at the plate that had borne his dinner and raised the jug to sniff its contents. “Like fat, riches and fame can bring ruin to a person, if one does not have the backbone.”

  When she turned her back, he was able to glare at her, desirous of escorting her out.

  “A pity, yes,” his tormentor continued, “and just when you have reached the top of the mountain—well, almost.” Miles held his temper, barely. Anchored by his injuries, he felt like a mouse being played with by a cat. “I am told Pen-y-Fan is usually stifled by fog and most days you cannot see a thing from the top—just like Harry. Does he merely want to rub the Woodvilles’ noses in the mire? What was it that heretic Wycliffe wrote about the higher an ape climbs?”

  The more you could see the filth of his hind parts. Miles’s fingers itched to seize the handbell that lay behind his pillow but one could not throw things at a countess with the bastardized blood of John of Gaunt in her veins and a claim to the throne. She came back to regard him from the foot of the bed, coiling her fingers round one of the bedposts. “I know the story about you and Harry. He owes you his life, does he not?”

  “And I owe him my livelihood, madam.”

  “What was it you actually saved him from—the cold?” Jesu, the woman could distort an act of quick-wittedness that other people respected into something to smirk at. “I truly am sorry about your leg.” It was the way she said it. Everything this creature said had a layer beneath it.

  And he reached the lowest layer. Christ protect him! So it had not been Hastings’s people but her villains, garbed as Hastings’s retainers, who had attacked him! What in God’
s name did she want? Suddenly he was afraid of being alone with her but—Jesu mercy, what was the matter with him? He could deal with any woman if he had to.

  “Poor Hastings,” she mused, as if she read his thoughts. “What an inconvenience he was to us all.” Needle-stitching fingers stroked the pectoral cross of pearls set in gold that leaned obliquely upon her slight chest.

  Miles had had enough. “Do you want an amnestia for your son, my lady? I can raise the matter with his grace.”

  “Oh, that is already done. Harry and I met, quite by chance, at the Red Pale, Caxton’s printing works, you know.” She was at the window now.

  “Yes, I know,” he muttered. Did she think him a country lout?

  As if she was timing matters, she swung round, leaning back against the mullion. “You were clever to nose out Stillington and you certainly presented very good arguments in your speeches, Sir Miles. A pity there is not more employment for kingmakers, but if ever you are impoverished, do let me know.” Then she added, “You see, I do not believe that Gloucester’s friends really want Harry’s interference, so I should be much more careful in future, if I were you.” Her glance slid from his face down the outline of his body.

  Was she saying now that it had been Gloucester’s men who had tried to kill him? Miles felt as though he was being forced to somersault his mind through hoops. Who in Hell had tried to rid Harry of his shadow and why?

  “One day, Sir Miles, perhaps you will come to my way of thinking. There are so many wicked rumors around. King Richard III is such a good man—his speech on justice quite remarkable. In fact, I doubt we could have a better king, but some of the dirt must inevitably stick. The rumors are outrageous, are they not? As if our new and noble sovereign has murdered those poor little boys!”

  Miles forced his fists to stay unclenched.

  “And what nonsense about him being in love with his niece and intending to poison his wife. And yet that is what they are saying in the alehouses. Calumniare fortites, et aliquid adhaerebit.”

  How much more putrescence could this woman ooze?