Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “Rub against his boots?”

  “Now who is being a cat? Something like that.” His fingertips caressed her neck. “Meantime, it seems that we must jump from tussock to tuft. You know the proverb, ‘Fields have eyes and woods have ears’? Heed it until I have perused this place from cellar to turret and the duke withal.”

  “I thought he was your friend.”

  “He is. So let us stay friends, cariad. Obey me, hmm?” With a kiss upon her shoulder, he left her.

  THE CIRCLE WAS JOINED, THOUGHT MILES, AFTER HE HAD spent the best part of an hour catching up on matters. From what Latimer and Limerick told him, the local nobles who had not been to the coronation were foolishly treating the most powerful lord in England as if the kingmaking had been a hiccough, a little pothole in Castle Lane, and the sensitive new High Constable of England was finding his little castle somewhat stifling.

  “What of Bishop Morton, your grace? No tunnels yet?” Miles asked, edging Traveller up to Harry’s horse as they rode back from a special mass at St. Mary’s Chapel next morning.

  “I missed you, Miles.” With a grin, the duke reined in beside the town cross, signaling the rest of the retinue to continue up Shepe Street. “Let us go down by the river and talk.”

  With two guards for escort, they turned off under Water Gate and forded the Honddu’s shallow surrender to the Usk. Dismounting, they left the others and followed the meandering path of the riverbank on foot. The September sun was friendly, hot enough for Miles to peel off his doublet and carry it hooked across his shoulder. But there was no pleasing some; a stabbing heron, disturbed among the sandstone boulders that littered the opposite shore, flapped clumsily into the air, trailing its gangly legs, and two aggravated moorhens scuttled into the reeds like outraged dowagers. Harry sat down on the fallen tree that was accustomed to their politics and, shielding his eyes with his hand, stared across at the unperturbed sheep munching their way across the meadow. It was the last glorious breath of summer and the leaves were green and clinging still.

  “You scarcely have a limp. Does it pain you, your leg?”

  “Yes, sometimes.” Miles gave a slow smile and shifted to give his limbs more comfort.

  “Christ, Miles. I am so glad you are back.” Harry struggled to free his arms from his cote and had to be helped. “Apart from a handful, no one here seems to realize I have just changed the course of history. You said you wanted to know about Morton. You should go and visit him—if you have several hours to spare. The man could talk anyone into an early grave.”

  “Then I had lief not. So?”

  “So, he is a damnably fine conversationalist.”

  “So is the Devil, my lord.”

  “Aye, maybe they are brothers under the skin. To tell you the truth, talking with Morton has kept me sane these last two weeks. When I speak with him, it is as if I am at the heart of matters again. At least he appreciates what I achieved.” So Harry had been flattered.

  “Is he a Lancastrian at heart or a timeserver? Did you discover why he served Edward IV yet is so against Gloucester?”

  “Aye, as tactfully as I could, and he asked me whether I remembered Aesop’s fable about how the lion proclaimed that no horned beast should remain in his wood on pain of death.”

  Miles grinned. “What of it?”

  “Well, in the fable one creature with a strange bunch of flesh on his forehead starts to run away and a fox calls out after him, ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’

  “The creature replies, ‘I neither know nor care so long as I leave the wood because of the proclamation.’

  “ ‘Oh, do not be such a fool!’ exclaims the fox. ‘The lion did not mean you. You have not got a horn.’

  “ ‘I know that well enough,’ says the creature, ‘but what if he calls it a horn, where am I then?’ ”

  “Implying Gloucester will become a tyrant,” Miles retorted wearily. Lord, what next? Two many winds had been blowing Harry’s sails.

  “Miles, Margaret Beaufort was prodigious friendly to me before I left London and Morton thinks he can persuade her to support me.”

  “In what?” Miles ground out, though he guessed the answer.

  “He says . . . he says I would make a better king.”

  “That is insane. Forgive me, I mean no offense.”

  “Insane, is it?” The ducal lower lip jutted obstinately. “There was never a better time. The king is turning people out of office so he may reward his northerners, the Woodvilles are leaderless, and I have a claim to the throne. If I can unite all the discontents . . .”

  “Your grace—” Utter folly.

  “Hear me, Miles. Since April, you and I have proved that we can do anything we set our hearts on—in just one summer—and now it will be even easier riding since I have the manpower of Wales and no end of shires at my bidding.”

  “My lord, think hard before you take this step. You are the greatest man in England and the pillar of Richard’s kingship. Together you and he could make this land of ours the envy of all Christendom. I would advise against this.”

  “Miles”—Harry set a hand upon his shoulder—“we have come further than we ever dreamt. There is nothing we cannot do. Most of England already thinks King Richard a tyrant. Are you with me?”

  Twenty-five

  Brecknock was humming like a summer hive but, like Dafydd, whose mice quota was efficiently down, Heloise was not part of the bustling. Nor was she part of the loving, save between the bedcurtains, and even then Miles’s furrowed brow and taciturnity clouded the pleasure.

  Something was wrong; the castle officers were tense, whispering in corners, breaking off conversations. Was it they thought her a witch? Had Buckingham buried rumors like caltraps to wound her? Imagination is a powerful enemy. Even when Sir William Knyvett returned from his new post as Constable at Castle Rising, bringing with him from Norfolk an excessive number of mounted men-at-arms, Heloise did not suspect the truth. It was finally a conversation, private—and obscure in places until she dissected it afterwards—between Sir William and her husband, that drove a crossbolt through the glass panes of her world.

  She had not meant to eavesdrop but the two men, stopping on the allure outside the bedchamber she shared with Miles, must have thought themselves out of earshot.

  “. . . on paper, yes. Thomas Stanley’s heir, Lord Strange, has promised ten thousand men from Cheshire.”

  “Ten thousand!” Awe laced her husband’s astonished voice. “That is more than we can ever muster!”

  “Aye, lad, but hold rein! Stanley is attendant on the king’s person at present, you see, so we cannot be sure of his son’s commitment, can we? It is right hazardous, Miles. Talk of the rising may have leaked out. . . . I had word before I came away that my lord of Norfolk has a standing army of retainers outside London and for what purpose, I can only guess. Kentishmen have long tongues when they have been at the ale, and if King Richard has sent for Harry . . .”

  “The trouble is,” replied Miles, “that with so many involved and all so far-flung, the chance of surprise is about as likely as Harry becoming Pope.” The slap of fist must have been his for he exclaimed vehemently, “I make no secret of my misgivings, Will. God rot Morton! This is all his doing. And poor, silly Cat is taken in by the pair of them. Have you noted that? Upon my soul, I wish I had not tarried in Dorset. Godsakes, I could have talked some sense into Harry.”

  “I doubt it. He thinks he is Sixtus IV—infallible! You should have heard him at Oxford.”

  “What do you mean—at Oxford? What did he do at Oxford?”

  “Only asked King Richard to betroth his son to one of his daughters. Old Dickon said no and I cannot blame him. Any fool could see that a foreign princess would be best, but of course Harry is out for a dynasty. And I thought: Dickon lad, you have just made an almighty blunder. If you had only said ‘maybe’ or ‘I shall think upon it—”

  “—we might not be sharpening our swords.”

  Both men were silent
then Sir William asked, “Have you told Lady Rushden, by the way? Or must I button my lip in her hearing?”

  “Best you do. She does not know and neither do most of the household. With Harry’s increased business as justiciar, we have managed not to arouse suspicion.”

  “Aye, happen you are right. Still might have some of Gloucester’s agents in our midst, eh? Always reckoned Brian might have been one of ’em, and what about that other Ballaster wench, eh? Has Harry say aught more about her?”

  “Oh, he believes that Nandik was telling the truth but he swears the quarrel was because she was with child by a northern lord. That was why he was sending her to Bletchingley—to have the babe and avoid the scandal.”

  “Putain! And he fancied himself in love with the greedy whore. No wonder it smote him sorely. You had the better bargain, lad. All going well, is it?”

  The unexpected silence chilled Heloise further, and unhorsed Sir William too, for with embarrassment timbring his tone, the older knight added, “Well, best not keep Harry waiting further. He will be off the bench now.”

  Heloise sank against the wall, her clasped fists pressed against her lips. The castle was not concerned with her—it was planning a rebellion. Like the blind beggar healed by Christ, she saw now: Buckingham was a Judas in ermine. This whetting of steel was for battle with King Richard. God rot Morton! Miles had lost the whip hand. It was Morton’s evil tongue licking around the duke’s envy that must be driving this folly. And her sister, why had Miles not told her what he had learned?

  Jesu mercy, since cursed duplicity was a spreading puddle in Wales, she would wade in too. After some consideration, she pinned on her unicorn brooch and went to seek out the duchess under the pretext of offering secretarial services.

  The letter writing was over, Catherine Woodville explained, but the postscript on her thanks was perturbingly naive: “I am so relieved now that Harry realizes how much he has maligned my sister. I am sure it is due to Bishop Morton’s counsel—and your husband’s too—that has made him see sense, and Lady Margaret Beaufort has graciously interceded with her on Harry’s behalf. My sister is still rather wary—would you not be, in her circumstances?—but Dr. Lewis, the countess’s physician, has been visiting her regularly at Westminster sanctuary and kindly carrying messages.”

  Poor, silly Cat is taken in by the pair of them! Dear God, Buckingham had as much intention of restoring the Woodville queen to glory as galloping his horse up the spire of St. Paul’s.

  “So do you suppose his grace will manage to free your sister, my lady?” Heloise asked, feeling her way. Even if the duchess’s depths were easy to fathom, one could not always see where the potholes were.

  “So he promises, once my nephews are rescued from the Tower.”

  Promises! Heloise thought later. Promises! From the fox who had sworn fealty to Prince Edward’s kneecaps and then kissed his successor’s cheek in coronation homage? King Richard was likely to be one of the worthiest kings that England had ever had—Heloise could testify to the respect in which the north of England held the man—and yet these greedy fools were out to topple him. When was this rising? No one had remarked her brooch, so what should she do? Find some means to warn the king? Or were his agents already aware of the conspiracy? And if they were . . .

  Oh, God, Miles! She could not betray the man she loved to a hideous, public death. She must force the truth from him, make him see sense even if it broke the fragile ice of their marriage; but privacy was no easy matter in this crammed castle. Even in their shared bedchamber, the servants slept within snoring distance. But next morning, entering the great chamber on an errand for the duchess, she discovered him unlocking a carved chest.

  He straightened up. His smile, a rarity now, almost melted her. “What are you doing here, changeling?”

  “I came for this.” She lifted Christian de Pisan’s The Treasure of the City of Ladies from the wooden lectern on the small table.

  Miles took it from her and opened it at random. “ ‘How a princess keeps her ladies in order.’ What is this? ‘They must not go about with their heads raised like wild deer.’ Upon my soul, Heloise, should I be inspecting your forehead for velvety bumps?”

  “That seems to be the only part of me you do not inspect, sir.” The book, returned, was clasped to her ribs like a stomacher. “But so long as I meet your nightly needs.”

  The roguish smile, on leave for days, quirked his mouth. “Oh, prickly, are we? What is the matter, my love?”

  It was important to sternly observe the swan tiles beneath her leather slippers. “I am sure you had rather not make a diagnosis.”

  A compelling hand tilted her chin. “Playing fast and loose? You have been casting daggers at me for days. You are not with child, are you?”

  Heat rose unbidden into her cheeks. “No, thank—”

  “Thank—what, God?” His silvery gaze hardened to sullen metal. “Have the duchess’s women been frightening you with tales of childbirth? Do not heed them. You are too shrewd for that. I long to see you with child, cariad.”

  “And I should like to see more of you, sir, if you can ever spare the time to beget a child on me. Or am I to be hustled off to Bletchingley and murdered?” Blurted out, the truth lay in the air between them like some noxious vapor.

  “God’s mercy, Heloise!”

  “Another matter you have not confided when you can spare the time. Was my sister’s murder a hiccough that you took care of like Hastings’s execution?”

  He kept his gaze on her. “I did not see that you needed to think further ill of your sister. As for the rest, it cannot be otherwise and it will be worse.” He strode back to the chest and lifted the great lid so that it was leaning against the wall. “I owe you an apology, Heloise. I was going to tell you tonight, but now will suffice.” A defensive hauteur underscored his voice. “The king has summoned Harry to wait upon him at Nottingham so I shall be leaving in a few days’ time. I regret I cannot take you on this occasion. The duchess expects you to remain in attendance upon her.” So brisk, so cold. A clever half-truth.

  “Do you suppose you shall be coming back?”

  As if she had flicked a whip across his back, he tensed and stilled. “That is an extremely odd question,” he answered without looking round.

  “We live in extremely odd times,” declared Heloise, drawing closer. “Three kings in one year and fools hoping for a fourth, I gather.”

  The intelligent gaze lifted from the assortment of coffered armor and he turned carefully, observing the adamancy of her folded arms. “So the bucket has hit the water, lady mine.”

  “You must be happy it was such a deep well. Dolt that I am not to have realized sooner. Are you going to butter me with reasons or is it not worth the bother? I daresay you did not want to make me anxious?” Do not lie to me, her eyes told him, and when he did not answer, she added, “Or am I supposed to be the king’s spy like my sister was?”

  “Are you?” That hurt.

  “I am tempted, believe me, but there are too many trees in the valley for a hanging and I should not want the duke to lay the blame on you.”

  His smile reached only his lips. “No, there is that, I suppose.”

  “Miles, please.” Her heart was breaking as he turned back to his task. She loved him so much. Could beating her fists against his chest pump some common sense up to his brain? Would scathing anger serve? “Have you nine lives, sir, that you will waste this one? You cannot support the duke in such . . . such folly! Why not knock at the water gate of the Tower of London and ask for free accommodation straightway? I expect they will hang, draw, and quarter you if you grow persuasive?”

  “Buckingham is in charge of the Tower of London,” Miles parried pedantically, sorting through the metal pieces—fluted, embossed, and plain—dedicated to defending valuable aspects of the male anatomy. “I would swear that beggar de la Bere borrowed my cuisses last time we had a skirmish with the Vaughans.”

  Heloise did not care what protec
ted his thighs. She was tempted to set her sole to his unprotected rear, tip him headfirst into the oaken chest, and hurl the key into the Usk. How could this intelligent husband of hers be so plaguey insane? “Sweet Christ give me patience, sir! King Richard has made your friend mightier even than Warwick the Kingmaker. Yet he is still unsatisfied.”

  Delightfully hoity as an outraged she-gull, his darling faced him. Miles fought down his usual reflex of kissing her to a standstill. Stubborn defensiveness did not serve either. “Cease raging, changeling! Yes, I expect he wants the crown. You said so weeks ago.”

  “Do not patronize me!” she snarled. “And supposing he does bring King Richard tumbling down? Who is next? Will he unthrone God?”

  The bitter truth almost unmanned him. He wavered, sure of the honesty in her, wishing he might hush her in his arms, wanting to fist asunder the wall that was rising between them. Torn between love for her and his commitment to Harry, he could only stare hollowly, unable to offer answers, desperate for her to trust his judgment.

  “Miles!” His glorious, defeated Heloise hurled all in one last, desperate plea.

  He flinched. She had not heard it but the trained soldier in him had—the unmistakable hiss of expensive fabric—and he knew who was listening. With a stride, he reached Heloise. One forefinger pressed upon her protesting lips; the other, gold-ringed, jabbed the air, for the iron handle on the narrow, studded door that clogged the stairs had not yet shifted.

  “But this is no rebellion to rescue the little princes,” she whispered, angrily ignoring his warning. Still in full sail with grappling hooks in midhurl, she knocked his wrist aside. “The Countess of Richmond wants to bring Henry Tudor across from Brittany.”

  “The countess wants the House of York vanquished,” he replied hoarsely, his anger tortured into a cunning answer as he watched the iron circle tilt. “After that, we shall see.”

  The lady understood at last but she was more close to achieving a hit than ever she would again. “And you and his grace purpose to go riding off into England, trusting to people that were enemies two months since.” The sneer finally lifted the stopper off her fury and she was spent; her gaze, too, sped towards that door.