The Deception of Consequences

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Over hot baked bread rolls and wedges of cheese and bacon, the discussion was sometimes repetitious. “I’ve never admired Lord Staines in any manner,” Richard told Thomas in private. “But I avoid underestimating even the stupid. If the wretched man guesses more than I expect, he could overtake us on the road. I considered staying in some hovel where we could never be either recognised or discovered,” Richard murmured, smiling to himself. “Buying a forester’s hut, perhaps, and hiding away. But we have as yet no idea what we hide from. It might be nothing. I expect Staines to go directly to the Strand House, and may perhaps never journey south nor imagine the true situation.”

  “I’d as soon be home,” Thomas answered. “It might be safer at court, where no one can hide.”

  “Court,” smiled Richard, “is the most dangerous place in all the land.”

  But the slow journey brought other benefits, which Richard did not explain to Thomas. Every night he shared his bedchamber, however small in whatever hostelry, with Jemima, and made love to her through the long shadows.

  It was, Richard expected, their last night on the road before reaching his family estate, when he took her in his arms, and kissed the back of her neck. They lay, after love-making, on the bed amongst a welter of covers in disarray with the eiderdown fallen to the floor, and the pillows piled against the headboard. Richard leaned back, his shoulders to the pillows, and Jemima snuggled between his legs with her back against his breast. Both naked, their bodies gleamed, half shadowed and half reflecting the little dance of flames from the fire opposite. His arms were crossed around her, one hand tucked below her left breast where his palm throbbed with the steady beat of her heart beneath his fingers. His other hand fondled her right breast, softly over the heightened nipple, and encircling where the swell was larger than his hand. Her hair was on his cheek, her legs curled between his legs and he held her tight back to his own body’s heat.

  “No longer sore, I think, my beloved?”

  She had very little voice left, and her eyes were half closed. She sank back against him, feeling the strength and hardness of him, the flexing of muscle and the relaxation of his breathing, mumbling, “Not any longer, my love. Only happiness.”

  He kissed the tip of her ear. “Then tomorrow morning I can bed you one more glorious time before we face respectability.” His hands moved to her belly, smoothing from her navel to the first curls of pubic hair. “Three weeks perhaps, of separate bedchambers, and then officially together once we’re wed.”

  She sat up a little, half waking. “Oh Richard dearest, don’t keep talking of marriage. It’s a happy game but we’re not playing hopscotch. Marriage is just a dream. You know you can’t. You know I can’t.”

  He was silent a moment. Then suddenly he twisted her around to face him, his hands abruptly from caresses to a grip on both her arms. “You disbelieve me? Would this be a game I’d play? Or you don’t want me?”

  She saw only the golden streaks in his eye. “You meant it?” She hiccupped and looked down and away. “I know I said yes. I wanted so much to believe you. But – I thought – really thought – you were teasing.”

  Richard sighed, pulling her back into his arms, smoothing the curls back from her eyes. “Silly beloved. Would I joke on such a matter? I have every desire to make you my wife. And I am quite self-indulgent enough to make sure my wishes are always fulfilled.”

  She whispered, “I’m the daughter of a pirate and criminal. I’m the daughter of whores and thieves. I‘m a penniless nobody and I’ve never been even a little bit respectable. I don’t know how. Your ancestors were lords and you talk to kings and queens who need your advice and you’re rich with estates all over the country. Of course you can’t marry me.”

  “The chapel is being prepared for its lord and lady. The priest, who has been idle for years, is delighted at receiving news of our arrival. He will have something to do at last instead of simply shouting at the servants and blowing out candles. A marriage takes just a month, my sweet, after the calling of the banns and the buying of a gown I will then take off you again very soon afterwards. Marriage demands no proof of respectability, and I am no lord at all.”

  “Perhaps,” and she tried not to sound mournful, “you like the idea because you want to shock the boring respectable people at court, and the people who will think you’re mad, and then they won’t want to talk to you anymore and you can avoid going to court and you like being shocking and breaking the tedium.”

  He laughed, pulling her close. “What a delightful idea. A grain of truth even – but not the most important reason, and I’ll swear to that, my love. The wish for marriage is quite simple. I want your company. I want you in my bed. I want you at my side.”

  She kissed his shoulder, feeling the warm nakedness like a blanket of hope. “It’s a kind thought. But I could still be in your bed and at your side without marriage. I might like being a mistress. All my father’s mistresses seemed happy.”

  “Until he threw them out.”

  “Is it more enjoyable being a mistress than a wife?”

  “I’ve no experience of either, and cannot answer.” Richard laughed again. “But I see no reason to suppose it. Do you expect me to be a brutal husband, and tie you to the broom and the pantry, and see you only when you’ve completed all duties and bedtime approaches?”

  “I think,” she mumbled eventually, “we should talk of this again when we get to your house.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, his hands once more on her breasts, “we can discuss it with the priest. Tomorrow afternoon, we will have arrived. Our wedding can be arranged for early in April.” He pulled her down so they lay together, and pushed the pillows beneath her. “To afford you the respect of the servants, I’ll install you in the grandest guest bedchamber and not dare to creep in for more than a kiss goodnight. No more until the night of our marriage.” He grinned, “But I can’t wait too long or Tom will think I’m dying and will call in the doctor.”

  “I don’t think I believe it. But I’ll dream,” she murmured, and nestled down beneath the covers, the heat of his leg over hers.

  The morning dawned wet and dark with the sunrise obscured by rain. Thunder rolled, echoing in the distance, faint beyond the pastures. There was a ride of only a few hours before arriving at Wolfdon Hall, but it would be a miserable ride. They stopped for midday dinner at the Inn of the Painted Palfrey, and the innkeeper stopped, stared, and bowed low.

  “Master Richard, tis an honour, and a long time, sir, since we’ve seen you in these parts.”

  Dinner was served within the half hour and they sat, Richard, Jemima, and Thomas, in the small chamber beside a blazing fire, staring through the window at the rain. It slashed like sleet, drumming against the thick glass. It was some time before they risked leaving, with a fast ride and the slurp of mud under hooves, before the vast shadows of Wolfdon Hall darkened the road even more than cloud and storm.

  Jemima stared. Her hood was pulled down, streaming water, but she barely moved and hardly breathed. This, she thought, would be, or at least might be, her home for years to come. She might be the mistress of a palace, and the rain seemed to matter not in the slightest as she gazed ahead and heard only the thunder of her own heartbeat.

  “My love, the storm is building. We’ll drown.”

  “It is – a paradise,” she said, half breathless as she stared ahead.

  “It’ll certainly be more comfortable inside.”

  She had been told of a hundred windows, but saw a thousand blazing with light and welcome. The doors were flung open, ostlers rushed from the stables to take the horses, water streaming from their manes, their breath condensing like a white mist around them as the doorway shone with warmth.

  Having dismounted at the entrance, Richard took Jemima’s arm, and walked her up the long steps where she stood again in astonishment, blinded by lantern light and the swing of a dozen candles in a silver chandelier. She whispered, “Oh, Richard,” And stopped, silent once more

/>   The entire household stood in the great hall, curtseying and bowing. The steward, a bent and elderly man stepped forwards. “My lord, welcome home.”

  It was a little later that Jemima whispered, “You told me you aren’t a lord, but the steward seems to think you are.”

  Richard grinned at her. “This house belonged to my grandfather, who was a lord indeed. Most improperly, the servants here choose to ignore the attainder. Many households of those lords fallen from favour will obstinately continue for a generation or more to use the lost title. Does it trouble you?”

  She was not sure. It made Richard even more unobtainable. “I’m sure, at heart, you’re a duke or a king.”

  He shook his head. “I do not love kings.”

  Jemima had been shown to a bedchamber that was far larger than the whole cottage where she had lived with her nurse Katherine those miserable weeks immediately after leaving the Strand. It was many heartbeats that she stood in the centre of the room, gazing around. Two windows were clouded by rainfall but Jemima could imagine the summer sunshine blazing through, or a glimpse of silver moonlight. A hearth as big as a garderobe stretched across one wall, and the fire had been lit in preparation. A log simmered beneath high flames and the stone was aglitter with scarlet and gold as vivid as the pursefull she had hidden beneath her clothes.

  The bed was a room in itself. Swept behind the lush warmth of saffron velvet curtains, it remained high piled with covers and pillows, resting in shadows as velvet as the drapes. The only trouble, she sighed but said nothing, was that she would sleep alone in a bed wide enough for ten.

  “It is beyond belief,” she had told Richard.

  “My grandfather built for grandeur,” Richard said. “He thought of status, and entertaining those he wished to impress. Now, my love, it is you I wish to impress. Have I succeeded?”

  “You know it. I am so impressed, I’m shivering. Will I ever see your chamber, dearest?”

  He laughed at her. “You know you will. But as much as I usually choose to ignore conventions and the standards of the court, which are not mine, I wish to keep you safe from gossip, scandal and disapproval, until we are married. And so, sadly, we shall remain chaste.”

  “Perhaps I’ll come at midnight, when all the servants are asleep.”

  “You will share your chamber with two maids, while I share mine with half a dozen pages, dressers and guards. We have no secrets in such an establishment. If I flout convention and order them all away, the truth will be guessed at once.”

  “Then all I can do is dream.”

  “I shall be dreaming before, during and after sleep, and all of you, little one.”

  The maid helped Jemima change her riding clothes, and in a drift of silks she pattered down for supper, arriving at the foot of the grand polished staircase to smile at both Thomas and Richard standing smart there to greet her. She hovered, laughing, and smelled roast lamb, honey scented candles, clover and fresh parsley. She held her breath.

  “Breathe, my love, or you may faint and I shall have to carry you back up to bed.”

  “Then it might be worth it.”

  The table was long and dark grained oak beneath sparkling white linen, the chairs each individually carved and cushioned, the platters and cups pewter and silver. Heaped honey roasted lamb rested in its own thick juices beside dishes of stuffed kidneys on a bed of leeks, and custards rich in dripping hot figs and cinnamoned apples.

  More than one long and joyful hour later and a little tipsy with fine Burgundy wine, she was led back to her new bedchamber by Richard, but he stopped at the doorway, taking her hand and kissing each fingertip.

  “The gold is yours, my love, as far as I am concerned. You must therefore know where it is kept, but for safety’s sake, not, I think, in your bedchamber. We are safe here and no one will steal or attack, but I prefer the money chest kept in my room. There is little in it now, of course. You have a full purse, and the rest is dispersed between Thomas and myself. If you suddenly wish to count your unexpected wealth, then you will need to search the house.”

  “I would be lost before finding the stairs.” She giggled, words blurred. “This estate is grand as a castle and large as a county.”

  His last kiss was to wish her goodnight. She tasted the wine on his tongue, and the desire on his breath. His arms enclosed her and his hands pressed hard, one at her back and the other in her hair. He whispered, “I shall imagine I am kissing your breasts in the night. I shall make love to you a hundred times, and never be tired.”

  Leaving her at the doorway, Richard marched off into the shadowed corridors and Jemima felt the sudden chill of being alone for the first time in many weeks. She sighed, but exhausted, clambered into her bed, snuggled with the memory of Richard’s body pressed naked to hers. Her bed had been warmed by hot bricks, and the fire still crackled over the hearth. She curled in a floating bliss of comfort, pulled the eiderdown to her chin, murmured goodnight to the two maids who had helped her undress and were now sleeping on the truckle beds along the far wall, and shut her eyes in contentment. The little spit of the fire continued, but the candles were all blown out and the shutters raised, so that the room weltered in swaying black and crimson. She had not pulled the curtains around the bed, and peeped once before in disbelieving delight before falling quickly into a deep sleep.

  But it was not yet dawn when she awoke with a terror swirling around her and the noise of thunder which was louder and closer than any storm.

  Heavy fists were pounding on the great doors to the estate, and voices were shouting. A horse neighed, someone else yelled, and the banging on the door echoed, vibrating, insistent and imperative.

  “Open, in the name of his majesty King Henry. Richard Wolfdon, you are under arrest by order of our sovereign lord. Open, and submit to the king’s warrant.”

  Jemima, half still in dreams, tumbled from the warmth of her bed. The two maids sat up in confusion. The fire had died and soft drifting ashes floated in the frosty chill. One of the maids hurried to pull on her chemise. Jemima reached for her bedrobe and together they ran from the chamber and out into the cold passageway.

  The whole household was awake. Torches were lit. Running, the flare of lanterns, the smell of oil and beeswax and sweat, the panic upstairs and the thump of the running feet from the servant’s quarters. The buzz and mutter was an undercurrent of fear and confusion that swept from upstairs downwards. The boards creaked, someone called out and someone else was crying. Jemima leaned over the balustrade and peered down.

  Richard was standing at the great doors to the Hall, holding an oil lantern high and looking outwards. Beside him stood the steward, who was slowly opening the locked doors. Richard’s back was to her and Jemima could not see his expression, nor hear what was said, but as the doors opened he stood back and six armed liveried guards pushed past him, shouting orders.

  Their captain produced a folded paper. “The warrant for your arrest, Master Wolfdon.”

  Richard nodded. He spoke quietly. “Wait here. I shall dress and be ready to travel within the hour. My steward will bring ale. Breakfast, if you wish. It’s been a cold wet night for travel.”

  The captain sighed. “It has indeed, sir. Most kind of you. And we’ll wait, sir, as you say. Is there a fire, where we might dry off?”

  “One will be lit,” Richard said and nodded to the steward. Then he turned, and strode towards the stairs.

  Jemima did not know she was crying. “Oh, my love, how can they do this?” she whispered.

  He came up the stairs to face her, and took her in his arms. “My poor beloved. Not as we had expected, I’m afraid. The marriage may have to wait.”

  “But the king? You’ve done nothing wrong, Richard – ”

  “Doing something wrong, my love, is not a requirement of arrest. But I am at fault. I had expected Staines to arrange a personal attack, but more probably on your father. I did not expect this.”

  “How could Staines have arranged such a thing?’ She
was crying on his shoulder, the warmth of his bedrobe a reassurance beneath her cheek.

  “Staines is no close companion to the king. No doubt he’s laid some sort of accusation, a conspiracy of some sort, and easily blown down. Thomas is my lawyer and will help. I may have to take him with me, beloved. Will you stay here until I return?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ll come with you too. I can help as well. I’ll get Papa to pay Staines off.”

  “That won’t do, my beautiful girl,” he told her. “It might compromise us both. Until I know the motive for the arrest, and the details of Staine’s accusation, if it is Staiones behind all this indeed, I believe the stolen gold should stay hidden. I have no quarrel with the king, apart from apologising for my recent absence without his permission. There’s a good chance of proving my innocence quickly enough once I know what the warrant is for. I shall be back to marry you, my sweet, and never go to court again.”

  Clinging, unable to release him, Jemima gazed up into his tired eyes. The golden streaks did not gleam and his eyes were dark. “I love you, Richard. I shall wait here alone if that’s what you want.”

  “You won’t be alone, my sweet. You have a multitude of servants who will look after you in every way, and ensure your comfort and safety. I shall send word whenever there is word to send, and I swear to ride back and make love to you soon.”

  He dressed with some care, using a wide money belt beneath his doublet. This contained his own coin, sufficient for bribery and payment of food and warmth, wherever he was imprisoned. Thomas, having quickly prepared, spoke quietly to Jemima outside her own bedchamber.

  “Both the king and queen genuinely like Richard, and have nothing to accuse him of. This will soon be over. I shall arrange everything for him.”

  “Send me messages. I shall be – desperate.”

  He promised. Jemima heard the words and didn’t believe them. She stood, clutching her bedrobe to her chin and staring down at the armed men who grouped, laughing as though all the world was a cheerful place, while drinking Richard’s ale and eating the breakfast the steward had provided, joking about the weather and the puddles they left in a trail across the polished floorboards.