Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  “A fellow must make a living where he can, my lord. I could not rise except—”

  “—except by stealth and feeding on men’s dreams,” Miles finished for him. “Get you gone, you fool! You will be lucky if they do not burn you.”

  Latimer started forward as Nandik flung his arms around the greaves protecting Miles’s shins, babbling, “My lord, return to Brecknock. Say you heard of the rising and were setting out to crush it. Your grace, it was not all lies. I swear the king must die. The planets speak the truth. Another hand may slay him and your cause may prosper!”

  “A murrain on your cursed prophecies!” snarled Miles, slamming his palm against the wall. “Go!”

  “Fool!” Latimer grabbed Nandik by the back of the collar and forced him out.

  “What in—” Miles’s strong hands framed Heloise’s shivering body in an instant and gathered her close. “Changeling?”

  “Oh, Jesu, I am sure he was speaking true, Miles. This time he was speaking true.”

  IT TOOK COURAGE TO MAINTAIN THE PRETEXT OF THE DUKE’S presence. The second day, Miles commanded everyone to leave and the loyal remnant fled throughout the twilight, some to seek pardon, others to crawl in stealth along the ditches and hedgerows back to Brecknock. Heloise ordered Martin back to her family with letters of farewell, and by dawn, Latimer, the last strand of the spider’s web of fugitives spreading out from Woonton Devereux, was on his way. Bishop Morton had bribed his way out of the cellar the day before. Only Miles, Heloise, and poor masterless Benet were left.

  The priest from Weobley bravely visited them and they gave Traveller and Cloud into his care. Miles wished he might surrender Heloise and Benet to the good man’s protection but he might as well have tried to push aside a fortress—two fortresses!

  The sheriff’s men arrived at nightfall, entering the unbarred hall in astonishment to find Buckingham’s undented armor, stuffed with cushions and moldy arras, propped in the solar, staring vacantly, and only three people slumbered fitfully by the fire. A half dozen men-at-arms contained them in a circle of naked steel while some score looked on. With a sword tip pricking at her throat, Heloise was hauled to her feet. Simple Benet crouched, frightened and moaning, beneath a pointing blade. Miles unscabbarded his sword and proffered it, hilt first, to his captor.

  A visor was tipped back and its ruddy-cheeked, sweating owner rasped, “I am the undersheriff of this shire and I hereby arrest you for treason against the king’s grace. Rushden, is it?” He consulted a list and checked the serpents on Miles’s surcote. “We might get forty pounds or more for you, sir.”

  “All d-deserters are pr-promised a pardon,” Heloise protested as her hands were tied.

  “Didn’t desert, did you?” guffawed the man who held her. “Didn’t come to us.”

  “A woman,” chuckled someone, divesting her of her dagger as he tweaked her breast. “This traitor’s whore. Here’s sport before breakfast.”

  “This is the lady Heloise,” snarled Miles, with such authority that they recoiled. “King Richard’s ward. Lay hands on her and I promise you, he will have you hanged.”

  THEY BLOODIED MILES AND BENET WITH FISTS AND SABATONS before they took them to the lord high sheriff at Hereford—it was really Buckingham and the higher reward they wanted. Not until they threatened to force Heloise down and rape her, one by one, did Miles, his lips swollen and bleeding, tell them that the duke had fled to Ross, and thence to the Severn estuary. The high sheriff took them bound to Gloucester and from there the journey became nightmare days of galloping roads. Heloise lost account of the blurred villages they rode through, the towns where she was spat upon, or the cellar doors that were nightly locked upon her. She was kept apart from Miles. No earthly chains, however, could fetter her mind, and with all her mental strength she willed courage and love across the air to him.

  They were brought finally to Dorchester, a frosty, sloping shire town that lapped a Dorset crossroads and straddled the road between Salisbury and Bridport. The east wind licked keenly around Heloise’s limbs like a master’s whip as the Hereford men drew rein at a church halfway down the hill of the high street to ask directions.

  Miles could have told them. He guessed now as they spurred down to Stinsford and rode up the Blandford Road through Yellowham Wood towards Pydeletown. Athelhampton? Aye, here was Will Martyn’s newly built gatehouse with its oriel window but—sweet Christ have mercy!—Miles had thought to dine here once more, not die where his family had supped as guests! Would the soldiers camping beneath the canvas against the boundary greystone walls hang him on the morrow? Tears of shame pricked at his eyes and, damn it, his hands were tied to the saddle.

  Heloise, ordered to dismount outside this unfortified manor house, did not mean to be defiant. They needed to haul her from the saddle and stand her up like a wooden doll, for her ankles, frozen from the long, cold ride, lacked grist to hold her and treacherously twisted, dropping her like limp sackcloth.

  “Help her, you whoresons!” roared Miles, struggling to free his bonds from the saddle pommel so he might dismount. “Have you no pity!” A handful of dirt hit his cheek and then the soldiers and a scrabble of children were pelting him like a murderer. Miles answered in a snarl of local brogue that Heloise could not understand.

  “Jesu, not more mouths to feed,” muttered a Dorset voice. “Who comes now? By the saints! Rushden?” A gentleman in a Yorkist sunnes-and-roses collar stepped down into the muddy courtyard, his eyebrows arched in horror at Miles’s disheveled state.

  “In with her!” ordered the high sheriff before Heloise could hear more. Poleaxes prodded obedience. She limped through an arched portal into a warm world that was tawny with candlelight and redolent with the male scents of ambergris, musk, and horse. Behind a linenfold screen, she caught the luscious smells of roasting meats and her empty belly pleaded. Everywhere, men’s faces stared at her. Dazed, she could only blink at the jeweled hats and chains of office as her captor rasped out his purpose, and then, like a miniature Holy Land sea, the throng stepped back, leaving her exposed.

  Ahead, to the right of an oriel window whose glassy crests tossed bands of vermilion across his hands, a man sat alone upon a cushioned chair of estate beside the hearth—the new king. Cord-du-roi secretaries bent before him on stools, hunched over their writing boards. The hall hushed, the only sound the scratching on parchment as they finished their sentences and set the empty quills back in the inkpots. Richard III looked round and his face froze in the world-weary expression of a man who had once thought he could trust people. Then, slowly, his icy mien thawed as he recognized his wife’s maid of honor beneath the riding cloak, improper in her broadcloth cote and muddy hose.

  “Heloise,” he said with compassion, his gaze rising from her bound wrists to the shameful magpie hair.

  Silently cursing her lack of grace, she hobbled forward to where the sheriff crouched before the king, and fell willingly to her knees. “Sovereign lord,” she answered huskily.

  “Unbind her,” the king ordered; but someone said, “Search her sleeves first.”

  Loosened from the cruel leather, her hands felt jabbed by a hundred evil needles as the blood oozed back like unclogged rivulets. Dear God, why had they not brought Miles in? Jesu! Hastings had been given little time before they killed him!

  “Your highness,” she pleaded, “Have mercy on my husband.” She searched his face, willing him to forgive. “He wrote the words that made you king.”

  “And another traitor spoke them,” answered King Richard. “Is Rushden here?”

  The sheriff rose. There was a rattle of harness near the door and her bound husband was hauled into the king’s view. She longed to run across and necklace her arms about his neck with love and pride, but she might serve Miles best by a quiet dignity. His gaze searched her out and bestowed upon her such love as she had never dreamed of.

  “The traitor, Sir Miles Rushden, your highness.”

  Traitor? Here was no haughty, defiant rebel but a ma
n who knew his own worth and owned up to error. Yet there was not one iota of forgiveness among the king’s men. They were staring with animosity at a prisoner who looked more Welsh than English: his black hair wildly tousled, the unfashionable growth of beard limning his jaw, the dribbles of mud spattering his surcote, and the rearing perfidious serpents. Miles was not given a chance to make any reverence, but was flung to his knees.

  Desperate at the king’s feet, Heloise beseeched humbly, passionately, God’s mercy, as she felt the hatred intensify and insinuate itself between the White Boar men like an ugly wraith. Her prayers, pagan and holy, searched desperately for someone to listen.

  “Hang, draw, and quarter the cur, sire!” It was Sir Thomas Stanley, married to the treacherous Countess of Richmond, rattling his loyalty—saliva and brandished fist an insult to the air.

  “Make an example of him.” The lethal proposal came from Lord Lovell and the room became a Tower of Babel as each man brandished his loyalty. Heloise, willing King Richard to forgive her lord, felt the cold November air from the open door. She turned her head and the babble ceased. With a creak of studded leather, Sir Richard Huddleston, like a player, strode into the heart of the hall and paused, absorbing the triangle of players before the king, his glance ironic before he made obeisance to his royal brother-in-law. Help us, Heloise implored him silently.

  “And have you anything to say, Sir Richard?” Curiosity softened the king’s face.

  “It would surprise you if I had not, my gracious lord. Do you need my unworthy opinion? A great deal of mud seems to have been cast already.” Huddleston’s mocking glance examined Miles but then, as if he could not stop himself, his gaze was drawn to Heloise as she huddled at the king’s feet. Surprise slid across his features.

  You owe me for Dionysia’s life! her eyes and mind told him. So does your king! You must save Miles! In God’s name, you must!

  Silent and stern now, Huddleston strode across to King Richard and, moving behind the royal chair, stooped. As he spoke quietly to the king, the white enamel brooch on his beaked hat reflected the light. A horse? No, a unicorn! Margery’s brooch had been a unicorn!

  It meant something, something she must do! Heloise strained to hear what he said while her mind stumbled through this deadly twilight to find the answer. Upon a tapestry among millefleurs, another little unicorn gleamed snowy and golden in the fading light. The faeries were with her; the answer was close within her grasp.

  “Let him be tried straightway!” Stanley, like a plump gospel saint behind the king’s other shoulder, seized the hall’s silence, determined to herd their opinions into a verdict. “What say you, Rushden? We can hang you in the corn market in Dorchester, your entrails drawn out and your body quartered and sent to the four corners of the realm as a warning to all traitors. Shall we invite your old father to watch?

  “Cat got your tongue, then?” he gibed the prisoner. “Answer us!”

  “A trial is not needful, Stanley. Yes, I am guilty.” Miles’s voice was steady as a rock despite the waves of hate breaking upon him. “I did what I believed was right and I am answerable for it, but loyaulté me lie.” It was perilous to cast a king’s personal motto back at him. The furrows in King Richard’s brow deepened at the ambiguity.

  Stanley jerked forward. “Obedience to the king transcends fealty to rebels.” He angrily seized a fistful of the captive’s hair, forcing his face up, and Heloise felt the stab of Miles’s pain. “You stink with treason, Rushden!”

  “Holy Paul! Let others speak!” His liege lord reined him in with calm authority, but the earl let go with such violence that Miles almost fell forward on the hearth. “Rushden,” declared the king, “you are fortunate that someone has already testified on your behalf.” Mutters of disbelief fidgeted the listeners but King Richard held up his hand to silence them. “We have been informed that the prisoner did everything to dissuade the traitor Harry Stafford from his evil path.”

  “Jesu forbid we should pardon such a villain!” protested Lovell. “Am I going deaf, sire? He has just admitted his guilt! Let him be hanged!”

  King Richard’s gaze searched the crowded room. “Will you still speak for him?”

  Heloise, frantically seeking a merciful face, gasped as de la Bere pushed forward from the back. The embarrassed reddening of his skin went ill with its blond roofing and, with a swift, shameful glance at Miles, he bowed. “Yes, sire, I still attest to his worth.”

  Someone else growled. Miles had flinched as though a cruel hand had lashed him, and de la Bere’s face flushed darker. The young man clenched his jaw, declaring, “On his return to Brecknock in September, Rushden never ceased to warn Buckingham against this course. But the duke’s mind was set.”

  De la Bere—the informer who had sent the warning to the king? Dick de la Bere? Heloise’s mind was reeling. Surely not? The honest charm, the boyish chivalry, and all the time . . . Oh, dear God, it was Dick who had taken charge of Ned and . . . and they had blithely sent the child and the others with him—with him into a trap! Heloise stared appalled, the solid earth shaking beneath her feet. Was Sir William taken too? And where was Ned?

  She felt the shame of being duped flooding through Miles. If his fists had been free, he looked as though he would have struck the younger man in pain and bitter fury. Curses were on his tongue. Do not speak, willed Heloise, Dick is making amends and trying to save you. To prevent him answering, she blurted out:

  “L-Lord Stafford? What ha—”

  “He is with Mistress Bess. Quite safe, my lady.” And was Bess corrupted too? Had the entire household been wormed through with treachery?

  “But the traitor still drew sword against you, sire.” The High Sheriff of Herefordshire spoke in self-interest, thinking of the glory and forty pounds.

  “And the woman is a necromancer. Buckingham surrounded himself with them.”

  Heloise started, shocked. Incredibly it was Piers Harrington who spoke, the esquire she had spurned at Middleham.

  “No!” exclaimed Miles hoarsely. “Hang me if you must, but acquit my lady.”

  “Acquit?” Harrington snarled derisively. “I suppose God turned her hair grey.”

  The high sheriff nodded. “We have a witness who will testify she has familiars.”

  “Who?” snarled Miles.

  “The man Benet.”

  “But he is a simpleton,” exclaimed de la Bere, and Miles, meeting Heloise’s panicked face, was turning ashen.

  “With no reason to lie, then!” Lord Stanley bawled.

  “Stop, please!” exclaimed Heloise, beseeching King Richard: “My gracious lord, if they must have a sacrifice, let it be me. God knows I have lived with fear and suspicion all my life.”

  “Dear me, my liege,” said Huddleston clearly, at the king’s elbow, “this eagerness for block and faggots prates of a wondrous love between these two.”

  “Then burn the pair of them,” snorted someone.

  “May I speak, sire?” Heloise raised her palms in supplication. “I can prove my lord’s innocence.”

  “Then do so, Lady Rushden.” The regal eyes were insistent.

  “Sir.” She turned to Huddleston. “My husband wears the unicorn.” She heard a hiss of breath from him and met his gaze resolutely. “Upon his shirt against his heart.”

  Stanley was nearest. He gleefully yanked a fistful of shirt up from beneath Miles’s breastplate. “By the lord, he does, see! So what of it?”

  The air seethed between the king and his closest friends. Unprivileged, Stanley looked from one to the other but it was the king who understood. “Sir Richard Huddleston?”

  Heloise turned the full force of her mental anguish on Huddleston but knew his strong mind scarcely acknowledged it. The surprise had been controlled swiftly. All of the king’s men were gazing at the knight bannaret and he in turn was studying Miles.

  “You mean I have to decide for you, my lords?” He unfolded his arms.

  “I think you should.” Heloise’s voice was
husky, her syllables weighting her husband’s life and knowing as well as he did that the power of life lay within his gift. “But let me make it easier for you. Draw your dagger, sir.”

  Mouth taut but green eyes curious, Huddleston slid his dagger free. “And?”

  “I pray you cut away the serpents, sir.”

  He tossed the haft into his other hand and approached Miles. De la Bere held out a hand to assist, but it was the guards, at a nod from Huddleston, who thrust their prisoner up on his feet. For a long breath, the two men stared at one another. Then Huddleston grabbed the neck of the surcote taunt, pricked the dagger into the argent silken membrane, and drew it down.

  “No, deeper,” Heloise commanded, and Miles, dazed, rallied and understood. Gratitude shone like glass, and love, intense and selfless, knelt at her feet.

  Beneath the silk and its buckram interlining, murrey glinted. As though he were skinning a wild beast, Huddleston sliced the outer layers away. A cloth-of-silver boar, with feathery fetlocks and delicately curved tusks, glared out from beneath its ragged covering. The room gasped in unison. Stony interest serifed King Richard’s mouth. It was his badge.

  Please! Heloise cried silently to Huddleston. I love the man. Give him back to me. Can you not see the courage in him? He stayed true till the last.

  The silver and emerald gazes, male and unfathomable, leveled, locked, and held. Heloise’s heart raced, frantic, close to despair. Did Huddleston have the intelligence to see Miles caught upon a tide greater than he had the power to hold? Was there any mercy or imagination behind the agile mind? Time dragged its feet before Huddleston spoke at last: “I believe, sire, that you should grant this man a pardon.”

  “Believe? Or know?” questioned King Richard chillingly, and stood, making his own examination of the planes and chiseling of the prisoner’s face.

  “Believe, sire. I pray that will suffice. How can any of us know what truths may lie within another being’s soul?”

  As if the room drew breath again and every man with it, they waited for the King of England to disagree. Richard Plantagenet’s head was bowed as though a heavy, twisted cord had been wound by some cruel torturer around his temples. When he finally raised his face, the betrayal by his greatest ally was visible in the bleakness of his gaze. Defiance, however, tilted the strong jaw. Bitter words sliced through the hushed air like an axe: