“That most untrue creature is dead. Let that suffice!”
Buckingham dead! Heloise felt the bleak, despairing scream of Miles’s soul. Dark lashes briefly curtained her husband’s hurt before he tilted his face to his merciful judge and said, “God forgive him. His greatest enemy was himself.”
King Richard looked upon the redeeming unicorn badge and lifted sad, knowing eyes to Miles’s face. “Shall you indeed mourn him? I fear me no one else will.”
“YOU ARE FORTUNATE TO ESCAPE WITH A FINE,” EXCLAIMED Huddleston, entering the bedchamber at the Antelope in Dorchester just as Miles finished cleansing himself. The bannaret snapped his fingers to his manservant to carry away the soiled napkins and the ewer. “What is it you need to know, Rushden? Can you not bury the dead? After that performance of wifely devotion, Heloise deserves a husband, not a mourner-in-chief.”
“I want to close the door and bolt it,” Miles muttered, rubbing a thin grub of ointment into a smarting wrist, and waited.
“Hearsay.” Huddleston shrugged and handed him the clean shirt on loan from Athelhampton’s owner.
“I should like to hear also.” Heloise, bathed and warm in a borrowed gown of blue fustian, slid off the bed to stand behind Miles, her hands like a priest’s stole scarfing his collarbone.
“A fellow named Ralph Bannastre betrayed your duke.”
Words, his playthings, failed Miles now. He swallowed, head flung back; his fingers slid across Heloise’s.
“Mytton, High Sheriff of Shrewsbury, arrested Buckingham in the orchard of Bannastre’s farm at Wem, and brought him down to the king at Salisbury to be tried. He willingly confessed and provided the names of all the conspirators—except you, Rushden. He would not name you.”
Miles turned within his lady’s arms and gathered her to him for comfort, tears spilling down upon his collar.
“And King Richard spoke with him?” Heloise asked softly, cradling her lord’s cheek against her own.
“No. The king was gracious enough to grant him an audience but our guards found a dagger in Buckingham’s sleeve.”
“What!” Miles jerked his head round in disbelief.
“God have mercy!” Heloise exclaimed, gripping his arm. “Miles, Ned’s dagger! Remember? Benet took it and put it in his sleeve and then the duke disguised himself in Benet’s clothes.”
He closed his eyes painfully, his hand finding and locking with hers.
“I doubt it would have made much difference,” said Huddleston sympathetically. “He was beheaded next day on the Feast of All Souls.”
Miles tried not to think of the axe, of Harry’s lifeblood bursting out. “And . . . Bannastre received his thirty pieces of silver?” Bitterness timbred his voice.
“The king permitted the wretch one of Buckingham’s holdings in Kent and right unwillingly too. The man was an utter Judas.” Huddleston’s tone was scathing. “Loyalty is a precious commodity.”
“Yes, it is.” Looking upon his lady, Miles stroked his knuckles tenderly down her cheek. “Wait, Huddleston.” Sir Richard had reached the door. “Which manor in Kent was given to Bannastre?”
“Yalding. Is that significant?” And not waiting for an answer, he left them alone.
Heloise slid onto Miles’s lap as the door closed. “Is it significant?”
“Not anymore,” he sighed wryly. You stubborn fool, Harry, if only you had given Bannastre Yalding.
“Miles?”
“Oh, Heloise, it will not be easy to throw a handful of earth on Harry’s memory and just walk away.” But it must be done. “Changeling,” he whispered, settling her head against his shoulder and bestowing a kiss upon the tip of her nose, “it was because of you that I was pardoned.”
“Nonsense,” she murmured, snuggling against him. “King Richard and Huddleston recognized your courage to do what your conscience told you was right. I fear me that if Buckingham had stood in the king’s shoes today, he would not have pardoned you.”
“No.” His cheek stroked against her silver hair, thankful her bright soul had become his anchor. “God forgive me,” he whispered, shielding his eyes as if the deity could see his shame. “I am guilty of such arrogance, Heloise, believing I could mold Harry’s soul into greatness. Such a waste. He could have helped make Richard’s reign a golden age.” But kind hands soothed his brow and peeled away his fingers. “Oh, dear Christ, I hope Knyvett and Latimer will trust to the king’s mercy too.”
“I am sure they will be forgiven, and you, in turn, must forgive de la Bere. He did what he believed was right and he protected Ned. Duty and honor are hard masters to serve.”
She let the silence heal, and, entwined, they sat staring into the flames, the only sound in the chamber the crackling of the logs.
At length she stirred, leaning back so she might see the glow of candlelight upon his face. “Miles, I—I had a dream last night but I do not know what it signifies.”
“Tell me, cariad.” His acceptance warmed her more than the fire’s heat.
“I was standing in Brecknock market looking up at St. Mary’s but it was quite different. There was a tower upon it. And someone I knew stood beside me. He had the look of Buckingham and yet it was not he. Now why should I dream that?”
“I do not know, love.” It was comforting nevertheless. He carried her fingers to his lips. “Thank you for all your understanding, Heloise. It took great courage and trust to stand by me these last weeks.”
“Courage, no? You said to me once, remember, that I was happier hiding behind a mask. Well, that is over now. I am not afraid anymore. Seeing you standing there facing death so bravely gave me so much strength, Miles, strength to believe in myself.”
In husbandly fashion, he tidied a lock of her damp hair back so he might see her face. “It was always there in you, Heloise.”
Their foreheads touched.
“Oh, a murrain on this,” she protested, laughter kindling within her. “I shall build a monument to you if you build one to me.”
“You can have two, changeling.”
Hazel eyes chastised him and then they grew more mischievous. “Shall I tell you a secret? De la Bere is going to marry Bess. Shall I tell you another secret, Cysgod? There is still a place in this fickle world for an honest friend like you. Light a candle for Harry’s soul and then turn to the sunlight.” Her arms clasped him firmly. “Will you walk hand in hand with me into the future?”
“Yes, cariad.” His arms enfolded her. “With all my heart!”
Historical Note
Since most of the people in this story actually lived, I can tell you that de la Bere did indeed marry Bess, and Sir William Knyvett was granted a pardon, wed one of Buckingham’s aunts, and later became the steward of the Countess of Richmond’s household. Nandik was arrested for treason and sorcery but reprieved in 1485. Thomas Vaughan became steward of Brecknock. Catherine Woodville married twice after Harry’s death.
Buckingham’s treachery had immense repercussions. With his most powerful supporter gone, King Richard reigned for only two more years. Because of the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the princes in the Tower, Richard became the most controversial ruler in British history. At least the Richard III Society exists to remind the general public that Shakespeare’s version is Hollywood Tudor style—great theater but hardly accurate, and there is no contemporary evidence of either a hump, a limp, or a withered arm. The bail system and the College of Heralds, both introduced by Richard, are still with us.
The Countess of Richmond, a successful organizer, saw her son crowned as King Henry VII, and became the most influential woman in England. Bishop Stillington assisted at the coronation of Henry VII. Morton, though later a cardinal and Archbishop of Canterbury, is mainly remembered by posterity for his taxation policy—“Morton’s Fork.”
Ned, third Duke of Buckingham, was executed by King Henry VIII in 1521—the year after his tower on St. Mary’s Church in Brecknock was completed. He always kept a spare set of accounts with him
—an emotional legacy from the sack of Brecknock?
Sir Richard Huddleston became Constable of Beaumaris Castle and Chief Forester of Snowdonia. Richard and Margery’s son was abducted by his future mother-in-law, so Miles’s abduction is not just a fictional invention. The story of Richard and Margery Huddleston’s romance is told in The Maiden and the Unicorn.
I owe an apology to the late John Dokett, Gloucester’s chaplain, for making him a fire-and-brimstone churchman rather than the quiet scholar he probably was, and I have to admit that the building of Athelhampton might have been still in its earliest stages in 1483.
The Northamptonshire tale of “Skulking Dudley,” whose daughter put on armor to defend her father’s honor, provided me with the inspiration for Heloise.
Traveller, though fictional, became acclaimed for his snowy coat and was in great demand for his procreational abilities. Dafydd moved to Bramley, where he terrified generations of local vermin, until he passed away peacefully beneath a rosebush at the age of thirteen.
Brecknock (Brecon) Castle is in ruins but you can stand beneath the wall of the great hall and stare out over Brecon. A wall and tower in the grounds of the Castle Hotel are accessible to the general public and there is a picture in the hotel which shows some of the fortress’s former glory. The hall of Crosby Place was moved, stone by stone, to Chelsea and is now privately owned. Athelhampton Hall is open to the public on certain days.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the following: my writers’ group, especially my good friends and fellow writers Elizabeth Lhuede and Chris Stinson for their wise and useful comments and Delamere Usher, who took me to the races in search of a horse like Traveller and helped me with the final draft; Joan Kollins for keeping m> e on track with Heloise’s clairvoyant ability; Michael Spencer for his help with the heraldry; Dr. Peter Davies for his help with Stillington’s condition; John Sidebotham for advice on the roads and rivers of the Welsh Marches; and Geraint Rees of Y Gronfa, the Welsh Cultural Foundation of Australia, for checking my Welsh—diolch, Geraint!
Thank you to those who offered advice while I was researching in Wales, especially the friendly staff of the museum at Brecknock and Geraint Hughes, Dean of St. John the Evangelist Cathedral, Brecon. I am grateful to Elwyn John, Archdeacon of Brecon, for providing information on St. Mary’s.
In England, thanks to Felicity and Don Head of Milton Keynes for research on Stony Stratford; my honorary aunt, Denise Lyon-Williams, for a useful discussion on the Welsh; Ralph Dean and Mr. and Mrs. R. W. A. Langton of Lacon Hall, Wem, for information on Ralph Bannastre; Pam Chant and Sally Martyn; and my father for suggesting Athelhampton.
Much deserved thanks to my editor, Christine Zika, and my agent, Jill Grinberg, and to the organizations of Romance Writers in America and Australia for their perennial support and encouragement.
And not to be forgotten: Stefan (Perth and Nice) and Sasha (Zurich) who were the right age to be an inspiration for Ned; and a thank-you purr to Cagney Coe, a feline of San Rafael in California, who absolutely insisted in appearing in the story as Dafydd.
The Powys poetry extract is from “Elegy for Gruffudd ab Adda” by Dafydd ap Gwilym in Medieval Welsh Poems, translation and commentary by Richard Loomis and Dafydd Johnston (New York: Pegas Paperbacks, 1992). The latter also contains a more scholarly version of Dafydd ap Gwilym’s poem “May and January.”
Isolde Martyn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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