Lindsay Townsend

by Mistress Angel

  You cannot be stunned by his tanned good looks or the feel of his warm strong limbs. You must do enough, be available, or you will never see your son again.

  “Shall I—” She broke off before she uttered the fatal words see you, thereby betraying too desperate an interest. “I mean, may I light a candle of thanks for your patron saint in my church? For your saving me,” she blundered on, wishing she could see his expression but not daring to turn for that would mean her thigh would brush along his. Each time Ulysses wandered into a pothole and his harness jangled, her body jangled lightly against Stephen’s and she almost forgot to breathe.

  She felt his breath stir the top of her head. “Nay, I shall be lighting the candle, or rather my sister or daughter will do so on my behalf, for I have found you again.” He lifted one of her hands off the saddle pommel and raised it, kissing each finger. “I am mightily glad I have, even if our reunion was a little unconventional.”

  He has a daughter and he has told her about me. A mingled pleasure and pain lodged in her chest and she said quickly, “I have a son, Matthew, but he is away for the present. What is your daughter called?”

  “Joanna, after my mother. She is nine years old.” Isabella felt Stephen’s long sigh right through her own body. “With being at the court of the duke I do not see her as often as I would like, but I know she does well at my sister‘s. How old is your son?”

  “Four years.”

  Stephen started against her and she guessed he was frowning. “That is young to be away from his mother.”

  “Yes it is.” She could say no more without fear of her voice cracking. Does he think me a wicked mother? Perhaps I am, for I cannot have my son with me.

  They were approaching the back yards and gardens of the goldsmiths’ houses, including that of her own, if she could call where she dwelt on sufferance a home.

  She twisted about, the collision of their two bodies sending tiny sparks up and down her arms and legs. “This is the place,” she said awkwardly, pointing to the stout stone wall around it and the stand of cherry and apple trees. “I can go in here, by way of the small gate.”

  She tried to dismount but he held her easily in place by means of an arm, gently but firmly. Instead he stepped down and came by his horse’s flank to look up at her.

  “This is the back of Richard Martinton’s workshop. So you are his widow? I had heard the fellow was married.”

  She nodded, wondering how Stephen had known Richard and whether he had liked him. It seemed unlikely from the little he had said and the tone of his deep voice. Many people had disliked her late husband, who was apt to be quarrelsome and spiteful, especially when drunk. Or worse, Richard might have owed Stephen money, or a favour, or betrayed him in some way.

  Please, if this man loathed Richard, let him not loathe me.

  Stephen was looking at her, studying her for so long she wondered if she had a smut on her cheek. “That explains it,” he said cryptically. He stroked his horse’s neck and she wished he might stroke her.

  “You will be safe from here on? I would prefer to see you right indoors.”

  “Oh no, I will be quite all right,” she said swiftly, aware that the longer they lingered the more likely a servant would report them to her mother-in-law. She did not want her “family” questioning Stephen, not yet. For the moment he was all hers.

  Or is he?

  Her mesh of thoughts broke and scattered as he dropped his horse’s reins and lifted her straight into his arms. He held her aloft a moment, then slowly, inch by inch it seemed, he lowered her until they were face to face. “Then I must let you go,” he said softly, his voice a growl.

  “You should.” When he did not, she tried to move and her nose softly collided with his but otherwise she could not stir. Trapped in his iron grip, her feet dangling in the air, she bethought herself of a ruse, instead. “I think I hear someone come.”

  He grinned at her. “I think you do not and even if you did, mistress, I would have an answer before I go.” He tightened his hold slightly.

  “To what question?” she asked tartly, praying he would not notice how comfortable she felt within his arms, even with her feet dangling.

  “Fool that I am, I forgot to ask!” He kissed her softly on the cheek. “May I see you again, Isabella?”

  Her spirits leapt up like a blazing fire. She knew that by all forms and manners she should not do it, but his lips were so close, so inviting. Feeling reckless, light-headed, her feet dangling, she kissed him gently on the mouth.

  “I might take that as a yes?” he said, when her lips left his.

  “Yes,” she responded, quelling a please.

  “Good.” He kissed her in return but still he did not release her. Indeed he wove an arm beneath her bottom, so she was more securely supported. “Was it by chance that you fell onto me?”

  “What else?” she replied, hiding her face against his dark hair. She heard him chuckle and then somehow his lips were on hers again.

  “However it was, or is, we should make a kiss of peace,” he murmured, his mouth claiming kiss after kiss.

  “Stephen,” she began, unsure what she would say, only wanting woman-like to be sure, to have a firm date, time and place so she could march into that den of her mother-in-law’s and announce, “He is seeing me here and when do I see Matthew?”

  But Stephen deepened his kiss, stroking his lips along hers and easing his tongue into her mouth. She had never been kissed in such a way before, so close and intimate and warm. Her body responded, heating and softening against him. Before she knew it, her arms were around his neck and her tongue was exploring his mouth. He grunted a sharp exclamation of approval, bending her into his embrace.

  “No more, or it shall not be enough.” Chuckling, he lowered her, touched the tip of her nose, kissed her face again and took a careful backward step. “I must quarrel with you soon, if that is your kiss of peace.”

  He mounted his small gray horse and cantered off, waving and calling, “Until tomorrow!”

  He was gone. Dazed, Isabella hugged herself and leaned against the garden wall, glad of a moment alone before she must face the family. So far, surely so good, but had she done enough? Did that sweet, amazing kiss of peace mean more?

  I should have asked him for a token, for Sir William may not believe me otherwise, she thought, but afterward she found herself smiling. Tomorrow would be her proof.

  Tomorrow, and hopefully the day after that, and after that.

  Then, please God, I shall see my son again.

  Chapter 4

  “You will flirt and be pleasant—most pleasant— to other men. If you do not, you will never see Matthew again.” Sitting on the dais in the family great hall with his favorite jewel box placed on a small table beside him, Sir William fingered his gaudy costume and then the glittering inlays of the box. “Do you understand?”

  Torn between fury and despair, Isabella clenched her fists. “No, I do not,” she answered, ignoring the hiss of displeasure from her mother-in-law, who stood alongside her on the hall tiles. “I have done what you asked. I have secured Stephen’s attention. I am winning his affections. He has a young daughter and I have my Matthew. They could be playmates.”

  Sir William picked his nose, a deliberate insult. Isabella heard the anger pounding in her ears, felt it prickle in her hands and feet. She longed to smash the heavily ornamented jewel box into her uncle’s bored and haughty face. Hit him and keep on striking.

  “Be quiet, girl,” muttered Margery, trying to seize her arm. Isabella whirled back. One part of her, the sensible Isabella, was clamoring for her silence. Careful. If you speak too bluntly they will not let you visit Matthew.

  She thought of her son in his brave blue coat and spoke again, determined this time to wrest a concession from her tormentor.

  “I do not understand why you have suddenly changed what I must do, changed it seems on a whim. I have done what you demanded. Now let me visit Matthew.”

  Sir Wil
liam yawned. “Visit Matthew,” he mimicked. “I grow weary of this complaint.”

  Beside her, Margery her mother-in-law scowled afresh. “You do not understand, girl. There is more than my grandson at stake here. We have the seals—”

  “Not now, Margery,” warned Sir William, gripping the jewel box in clear alarm and irritation. Her mother-in-law fell silent at once.

  Isabella remained fixed to the spot and refused to be diverted. “Is it because I am being successful? Are you so petty?”

  Sir William shrugged, swinging a leg as he settled more deeply into the master’s chair. “We have set our sights too low with Stephen Fletcher. You must aim higher.”

  You did not expect me to win his interest so swiftly. Had Matthew been with her, Sir William’s implied admission would have been gratifying. As it was, Isabella experienced a familiar frustration and a rising shame. “Stephen is visiting me today. He is a good man, decent.” And you cannot stand the idea of an honorable man being attracted to me, or of my being a little happy in his company.

  Sir William stroked his beard, then the jewel box, then his goldsmith’s livery again. “Go out with him, then. Take Mary and John with you.”

  Isabella, guessing Sir William expected her to protest, slammed her teeth together and said nothing. Mary and John were her uncle’s servants and spies in this house. Mary especially would report everything she did, or did not do, including how she behaved with Stephen and with other men. The idea of sour-faced, grasping Mary and her slack-bellied husband John being with her, watching her, listening to her conversations with Stephen was not to be borne. “No,” she said.

  Sir William snorted. “You seem to think you have a choice.”

  “Beat her.” Margery held up a broom. “Beat her, teach her to obey.”

  “Oh, no,” replied her kinsman, clearly enjoying the moment as he smoothed and tweaked his beard a second time. “We have done that before, cousin, and the wretch learns nothing. No, I shall not touch her.”

  He smiled. “I will beat Matthew instead.”

  “Do not—You must not!” Isabella ran at him but a scream from her mother-in-law had three servants, including John, rushing into the hall. Before she could touch or even argue with Sir William, the three men grabbed her, John slapping his hand across her mouth with such force that she saw stars and her teeth rattled.

  “Remove her,” said Sir William, with a languid wave of his hand. “She knows what she must do.” Abruptly his face and manner hardened. “Get the mewling bitch out of my sight.”

  Isabella was hauled away.

  ****

  Riding from his sister’s house, Stephen told himself that it was good his daughter Joanna was at ease and sleeping through the night. He told himself it was good that work at the forges went well. He told himself—

  No. No more telling. It has been seven days now and Isabella is different. I do not understand what has happened, but she is no longer easy with me.

  He could not believe that she had changed in her feelings toward him. They had begun so well. Yet, the very day after he had caught her, saved her and taken her home, the very next day after they had kissed, she had visibly cooled in her manner to him. At the same time yet more weight had dropped from her so she looked older. Even her bright gold hair seemed dulled.

  She always agrees to meet me, yet is subdued in my company. At times I see her looking at nothing, as if staring at something else.

  Yesterday he had asked her bluntly what troubled her. “Nothing, ‘tis only a stomach-ache,” she had answered, glancing at the two servants who were always with her these days, a mildewed-looking pair. And today, when he had planned to take her to his home to visit his daughter she had cried off, saying she must work. Then, contrary-wise, she had begged him to visit her in the evening. “We might spend time with my friend Amice the spice-seller, at her home.” She had then added in a lower voice, “Amice knows Matthew, too.”

  “Agreed,” Stephen had said at once, for he wanted answers. Perhaps, away from her family and the miserable servants who shadowed her every step, Isabella would be disposed to supply them.

  What is she about? The only times she had been truly animated had been when she spoke of her son and when she questioned him closely about Kent and the houses and villages there, asking for the names of the land-owners. What has gone wrong for her? Why does she not tell me? Why are those servants always with her?

  It did not matter to him that he and Isabella scarcely knew each other or had only just met. It did not matter that she was less charming. His sister, had she known, would have scolded that he wasted his time, but Stephen sensed there was more to Isabella’s contradictory behavior than a simple change of heart. He was determined to discover more, and he was becoming increasingly determined to win her. He knew she was in trouble, in pain, and he longed to help her— if she would let him.

  Stephen meanwhile was aware that he was filling in time before their next meeting that evening. He had played hide-and-seek with Joanna, mended a trestle leg for his sister, spent several hours at the royal armories. Now he took a wherry to the Savoy, the palace of his lord Henry, the Duke of Lancaster, to discuss a commission of armor for the duke.

  The king of France was staying at the Savoy as an honored prisoner and hostage. Duke Henry wished the king’s stay to be as pleasant as possible and, as he was admitted through the riverside gate to the palace, Stephen was not surprised to see the whole place busy.

  The duke, it turned out, could not see him that day. Returning by way of the rose garden back to the river, Stephen reflected on the wishes of the powerful and lamented having to leave his daughter Joanna for a wasted journey. Still, it was a bright, sunny day and had his mood been less distracted he would have smiled at the brightly-garbed figures, strolling along the graveled walks. I must bring Isabella and her son here, with Joanna. And why have I not met Matthew? There is some mystery there.

  “I will not do that.”

  His train of thought interrupted, Stephen turned, seeing only a wall of huge rosebushes, not yet in flower. Whoever had protested was behind that living screen.

  “No! I said no. I shall be no man’s plaything.”

  The anger in the young woman’s voice had Stephen pushing his way through the thorns.

  Through the other side of the great rosebush he half-expected to see a maid struggling with a gallant but to his utter shock he found Isabella instead. Her surly servants were remonstrating with her, both at once, the maid hanging onto her arm to keep her between them.

  “You must, for ‘tis what Sir William ordered,” the maid was saying, while the man added, “You know we must make reports. If you do not do this we are all undone.”

  Stephen stepped closer. “Release my lady at once,” he ordered. “Away with you!”

  The servants took one look at his face and fled, hurrying off in the direction of the vegetable gardens. Stephen remained where he was, rooted to the spot. Relief and anger warred in him. He unclenched his fists and Isabella flinched.

  “You need not cringe from me,” he said quietly. He had not meant to say more but somehow the accusation slipped out. “You told me you were working.”

  Isabella did not blush. She said nothing, but backed off and turned to follow her servants. She had lost still more weight, he noted, and though her dress and shoes were neat, her hair was spurting out of its net in a foaming cloud and her eyes were as mad as a berserker’s. She looked wild, and dangerous.

  “Wait.” He strode after her, going past her and barring her way. “Why are you here? You told me you were working.”

  “I lied.” She hurled the words while staring beyond him, looking ready to claw her way through more than thorns. “I lie, Stephen, do you not know that yet? But you must let me go. I must catch Mary and John, else all is lost.”

  She darted to one side to lunge by him but Stephen was faster. He caught her hand in his. “I know a short-cut. This way.”

  ****

  He
was helping when she had expected him to berate her or worse, to stop her altogether. Panting and with her heart and feet pounding, Isabella followed Stephen, putting her faith in him even after he had realized she had played him false. They ran past a kitchen block and a workshop with a thatched roof and then scrambled through a small postern to the great street of the Strand outside. A swift glance in both directions told her that, short-cut or not, they were too late. Mary and John were nowhere in sight.

  Too breathless to moan she sank to her knees and rocked herself. It is over. Mary and John will rush to Sir William and tell him everything. Tell him I refused. I will never see Matthew again. A keening wail built in her throat and her chest tightened further, her vision darkening as the shadow of her fate overwhelmed her.

  “None of that.” Stephen lifted her up, snapped his fingers at a lingering musician with a viol. With the blood still hammering in her chest and ears, Isabella did not hear what he said to the lad but he turned her toward the river. “We take a boat and out-run them that way.”

  “Why?” she gasped, when she could speak.

  Stephen did not pretend to misunderstand her. “Because I care and I can and I never liked your waste of a husband or his kin.” His face was as keen as a blade. “Now do you come or do I carry you?”

  “Run,” she wheezed, ignoring the stitch in her side. “Hurry.” She lurched from his arms and staggered a few steps.

  In an ungainly mass of whirling legs and arms they rushed back to the river, Isabella jumping so recklessly into the waiting wherry that the whole boat rocked furiously and the waterman cursed her.

  “Save your breath and row,” ordered Stephen, coming alongside her. “Row to London, man, and hurry!”

  He sprawled beside her, catching his breath a moment, then took her hand again. “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me it all.”