Forbidden Lord

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Yes.’ She forced a smiled to her lips. ‘I am to be married.’

  Catherine’s eyes opened wide, and to Eleanor’s surprise she clasped her hand and smiled. ‘Really! Congratulations, Eleanor. Do I know the gentleman?’

  She nodded. ‘It is Martin Taverner—Lord Taverner of Devon’s eldest son.’

  ‘I know Martin. He is often seen with Richard about the Court—and you danced with him at my wedding. I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure we will be. The banns have been called and we are to be married in three days’ time. You—will be most welcome, Catherine. It is to be a small affair and I would like you to be there if you wish to come.’ She smiled hesitantly. ‘You could even be my matron of honour. As yet I don’t have one—and who more fitting than my stepsister?’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you think about it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I will.’

  As Eleanor rode back to Cantly Manor, the calmness left her and her face flamed with fury, but it was also wet with tears. She brushed them away angrily. Tears! Tears for William Marston! That man was not worthy of her tears. That William had been at Catherine’s home she had no doubt, and she would like to see him drawn and quartered for what he had done to her.

  When Catherine returned to her bedchamber, the naked man lying on her bed stirred his big, strong body from its brief slumber and reached out for her. Quickly removing her clothes, Catherine joined him and sighed as he wrapped her in his huge arms.

  ‘Was it an important visitor, my love?’

  ‘No,’ she murmured, kissing his blond-furred chest and smoothing her fingers over his skin. ‘It was no one—no one of any consequence.’

  Eleanor was immediately forgotten. Never had Catherine desired a man as she desired this man. For the first time in her life she wanted a man in her bed and in her life for her own pleasure. She had never stooped so low as to make love to a servant, but this servant was like no other. This blond giant had aroused strange new feelings, feelings she had never experienced before—not even with William, and she would fight tooth and nail to keep him.

  Chapter Eight

  Just six weeks after coming to Kensington, Eleanor and Martin Taverner were married in the small chapel at Cantly Manor. Two things happened to disrupt Eleanor’s carefully held nerves prior to the ceremony, one of them being delight when Catherine arrived to be her matron of honour, and the other not so welcome, for she came with her father, putting Aunt Matilda in a fluster. Eleanor’s stepfather had been invited to the wedding, since her aunt, ignorant of the misery he had caused her niece, thought it only right and proper to have her stepfather present, but he had declined the invitation due to ill health.

  Eleanor fought her horror at seeing him, smothering the wave of fear and shock that washed over her. For a moment it seemed to her that her eyes must be deceiving her but it was not long before she knew this was no evil dream.

  Turning from him she embraced Catherine, saying how pleased she was that she had decided to come.

  Catherine smiled awkwardly. ‘You were there for me when I married Henry so it was the least I could do.’

  When Aunt Matilda drew Catherine aside to instruct her on her duties—most displeased that she had left her decision to be Eleanor’s matron of honour to the last minute, Eleanor found herself alone with her stepfather. He had lost weight and looked unwell. Beneath his eyes were dark circles and his flesh was the colour of dough, but within the eyes themselves there was fire.

  Eleanor’s proud, disdainful amber eyes met and held his without flinching. She was discovering, agreeably, that now she was face to face with him, the vague terrors that had haunted her since she had last seen him had vanished.

  There was a wintry coldness in Frederick’s eyes when they rested on her. ‘So you are to be wed, Eleanor.’

  ‘That is the reason why everyone is gathered here today.’ Considering the turmoil inside her, Eleanor found her voice was curiously calm.

  Taken unawares by the sarcastic tone, Frederick gave a short laugh. ‘Will you not share a goblet of wine with me before the ceremony?’

  ‘I would rather sup with the devil.’

  His eyes narrowed, sparking with anger, and he moved closer to her, fixing her with his penetrating gaze. ‘You should not have run away, Eleanor. You have been missed at Fryston Hall.’

  ‘I hope you do not expect me to return the compliment,’ she replied coldly.

  ‘Maybe I was somewhat hard on you, but you drove me to it.’

  ‘How dare you tell me it was all my fault? Was it my fault that Hollymead was set alight, killing one of the most gentle men that ever drew breath? That was your doing, not mine—you murderer,’ she hissed quietly.

  The unexpected word in the silent corner of the room they occupied shocked Frederick into immobility. His upper lip curled back from his teeth. ‘Have a care what you accuse me of, Eleanor.’

  ‘Why did you do it? To teach me a lesson because I spurned your advances?’

  ‘Enough,’ he snarled, his eyes darting about the room to make sure they were not being overheard. Others were gathered in groups and conversing quietly. ‘You forget yourself. Your tongue is as waspish as ever.’

  ‘Then why did you come to my wedding?’ she retorted heatedly. ‘What do you want of me that you have not already taken and destroyed? First my mother, and then my uncle,’ she said, with a sharp pang of anxiety beyond her control, for the subject was still a painful one.

  ‘Be reasonable,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Reasonable? With you? I don’t think so. You are not welcome at my wedding, but since you are here and to avoid any unpleasant explanations I suppose you must remain. Excuse me. I have no wish to prolong this interview.’

  Before she could turn away, he reached out and gripped her arm, eyeing her narrowly. ‘No? Surely this is a most affecting moment—a stepfather and stepdaughter together again after so long an absence.’

  ‘That will do,’ she uttered sharply. ‘Have you forgotten the sordid circumstances that drove me from you and what happened at Hollymead?’

  An ugly smile slid, like a slick of oil, across his features. ‘An unfortunate escapade. ’ Tis a pity your uncle got hurt.’

  ‘Hurt? You have the audacity to talk about the murder of my uncle as a mere escapade?’

  Frederick shrugged contemptuously. ‘If you had been more accommodating, Eleanor, that’s all it would have been. It was you that turned it into a tragedy.’

  ‘Indeed! And did I ignite the fire that burned my home?’ Shaking her arm free of his grip, she stepped back. ‘You should be brought to account for what you did—like the men you sent to carry out your evil deed. Keep away from me and I will try to forget you and that you were ever married to my mother. Shortly I will be a married woman under the protection of my husband and Lord Taverner. You see, I have taken steps to ensure that I shall be left in peace. I am no longer afraid of you.’

  Turning her back on him, she walked away with all the dignity she could muster.

  To Eleanor’s relief her wedding was a very sedate affair, with few guests outside the family and none of the usual frivolities. As a token of their marriage, Martin gave her a ring—a gold band studded with diamonds and emeralds. She was conscious of how cold it was in the chapel, the ivory-silk wedding gown devoid of warmth.

  The responses over, hesitantly Martin put his arms around her and kissed her gently on the mouth. His lips were cool and delicate. That was the moment when Eleanor knew that the ice inside her and the frosted rod that was her spine were cold and impenetrable, and there was only one man who was capable of melting it, of reaching her inner self, and would prevent her from responding to this man who was her husband.

  The wedding breakfast was an ordeal for her—made a thousand times worse because of her stepfather’s presence, which made it difficult to get through. Catherine, looking elegant and very lovely in a lilac dress embroidered wi
th flowers from the palest lilac to the deepest purple and a lilac hood set back on her head to expose her wide forehead, said very little, speaking only when spoken to. Eleanor quietly noticed how her eyes sparkled and there was a glow about her, a bloom she had not seen before. She looked happy, like a woman in love. With William? she wondered, which only intensified her own sorry situation.

  When the wedding breakfast was over the married couple left for Lord Taverner’s house in Westminster, which he had taken some years before to be close to Whitehall Palace and the Court. It was a large mansion, elaborately ornamented with decorative plaster and stonework and armorial glass. The house was comfortable and richly furnished and the chamber Eleanor was to share with her husband was hot and stuffy and heavily scented with lavender water.

  Eleanor was undressed by two chambermaids who fussed around her, divesting her of her wedding finery, tweaking her hair and smoothing out her nightgown until she wanted to scream her irritation. They were to forgo the bedding ceremony, which was often rowdy, with the wedding party playing games as the couple was put to bed, and Eleanor was thankful for it.

  The fact that she was no longer a virgin troubled her greatly, and she didn’t know how she was going to explain it to Martin. For a young woman embarking on marriage for the first time, virginity was seen as the highest, most blessed state.

  The marriage bed had been blessed by FatherWebster who had officiated at the ceremony. The chambermaids turned back the bed covers and Eleanor slipped between the sheets, something like terror gripping her heart, and when Martin appeared in his white linen nightshirt and the giggling girls disappeared, she felt her flesh, which still loved and longed for William no matter how hard she struggled against it, shrivel and recoil from him to such an extent that she wanted to jump from the bed and flee. With a sinking heart she watched him advance slowly towards her. His eyes were on her face, his expression one of nervousness as he studied his bride.

  ‘Eleanor, you must f-forgive me.’

  She sat up. ‘Martin? What is it?’

  ‘I—I cannot share your bed.’

  ‘Oh?’ She stared at him, dumbfounded. Her eyes were wide, as if she could not believe what she had just heard, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. ‘You—don’t find me attractive enough? Is that the reason?’

  ‘No. P-please don’t think that. Eleanor, you are the m-most beautiful woman I h-have ever seen, but—but I cannot bed you.’

  ‘Why?’ Already it was clear something was very wrong. ‘Is there something wrong with you, Martin? Are you ill?’ she asked in alarm. ‘If so, I will send for the physician. Maybe he can—’

  ‘N-no, Eleanor. I am not ill.’

  ‘But—our marriage?’

  ‘It was a mistake,’ he told her brutally.

  ‘A mistake?’ she repeated.

  He nodded. ‘I—I could not resist you—or my f-father’s demands on me,’ he said, trying to soften the blow, ‘and I now realise I should have done so. What we have is a formal arrangement—n-nothing more.’

  ‘Then why did you agree to marry me?’

  ‘I’ve told you—t-to placate my father.’

  The blood burned hotly in Eleanor’s cheeks. Angrily she glared at his pale sickeningly pretty face with disgust. ‘To placate your father?’ she seethed, throwing back the covers and scrambling to her knees. ‘And what about me?’

  He looked at her pleadingly. ‘Please try to understand. All my l-l-life I’ve tried to be what my f-father wanted me to be—to be the s-son he wanted, and the harder I tried the more d-difficult if became. I—I’m not like other men—although I’m not d-depraved or degenerate. It used to upset me—until I was introduced to the C-Court and saw there were others like me. That was when I r-recognised who I was and accepted it. I s-sincerely hope that you can too.’

  ‘Is your father aware of your—peculiarities?’

  Martin blanched at her choice of word. ‘He is not ignorant of any matters concerning me.’

  ‘Oh, Martin, how dare you shame me like this. Little wonder your father was prepared to accept me without a dowry—although I know Aunt Matilda has made a generous settlement to compensate for this.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t have m-mattered, anyway. The f-fact that you have no dowry is amply c-compensated by my own fortune.’

  ‘You do realise I could divorce you for this—or have the marriage annulled?’ An annulment, she knew, was out of the question since she was no longer a virgin, but Martin need never know about that now.

  He nodded. ‘Please don’t, Eleanor,’ he appealed. ‘I know that what I ask of you is most unfair—but—y-you can take a lover, if you like. I would not object—providing you are d-discreet.’

  ‘How very noble of you,’ she sneered. It amazed her that he should even suggest such a thing.

  ‘I can see that you’re angry—’

  ‘Angry is not the half of it. I’m furious, Martin.’ She was fighting for control of her rage.

  ‘You’re entitled to be.’

  ‘How dare you? How dare you do this to me? You should have told me from the start.’ Suddenly she couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer. ‘Get out, Martin,’ she uttered with a sudden rush of malice, her voice like steel. ‘Get out of my sight.’ He looked as if he’d been stung and she saw the stricken expression in his eyes.

  He backed away. ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I mean every word,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll s-sleep in the d-dressing room tonight. T-tomorrow I’ll stay at the Palace. I have rooms there.’

  ‘Yes, do that, and every night after that. Do not show your face in my bedchamber again. Ever.’

  Speech was beyond him. He was white and his mouth clamped tight shut.

  It wasn’t until he’d gone that Eleanor realised he had been on the verge of tears. She regretted her harsh words and was tempted to call him back, but it was too late.

  Resting back on her heels, she stared at the closed dressing-room door for a long time. When she could no longer hear Martin’s movements she relaxed and fell back against the pillows. She was amazed how surprisingly calm she felt and enormously relieved, when she should be feeling sick with humiliation, hurt pride and failure. No, she thought, pulling the covers over her and snuggling into the soft warmth, she would not miss Martin in her bed.

  It was growing dusk when William and Godfrey stood on the quay at Gravesend, gazing at the thicket of ships at anchor in the Thames, a muddle of stout and sturdy oak hulls, tall masts, ropes and elegant ornamental carvings. The redolent aroma of timber, tar and salt filled the air. A thin mist clung to the dark slick of water, its surface swirl dotted with scum and drifting debris. It was half-tide and the smell of the mud was foul. It seemed to cling to their clothes and hair and seep into their skin. The air was damp, the sound of the water lapping against the stones like a living, creeping thing.

  Their gazes were fixed on one ship in particular. It rode at anchor away from the other vessels, rolling slightly with the swell. Its decks were noticeably empty. William shivered. A boat was being rowed towards them, the oars digging deep into the water.

  ‘Want taking out?’ the oarsman shouted when he drew close, the boat scraping against the stones.

  ‘Yes, to the vessel at anchor out there. The Resolve.’

  The oarsman glanced at the vessel and shook his head. ‘Can’t take you there.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s fever on board. No one’s allowed on or off.’

  William’s eyes met Godfrey’s and they stared at each other. Godfrey could feel William’s disappointment and frustration. This had come as a dreadful blow. They turned their attention to the oarsman once more.

  ‘Fever?’ William said. ‘How many dead?’

  ‘A dozen or more. Six at sea and another half a dozen here. The ship’s barred from landing.’

  ‘And the captain?’

  ‘Still running things as far as I can
make out.’

  Thanking him, William and Godfrey turned way.

  ‘We’ll have to wait,’ Godfrey said quietly. ‘Unless you want the fever there’s nothing else for it as I can see. Can you think of anything better?’

  William’s face was grim. ‘Atwood. It’s time I called on him. Maybe he can be persuaded to part with the answer.’

  When Eleanor and Martin came together, keeping up appearances, they were always civil to one another and as the days passed an easy, close camaraderie developed between them. Martin was nothing but courtesy itself, and more than that. He was thoughtful and charming, and Eleanor displayed an attitude that told him she bore him no ill will.

  On her first visit to Whitehall Palace to the west of the city to attend her first social gathering, she was overawed by the sumptuous surroundings. The mass of red-brick buildings covered acres of ground on the river front between Charing Cross and Westminster Hall, and was a veritable warren of rooms and a complex maze of passageways and courtyards and beautiful gardens with trees, arbours and seats. In the grounds there were four tennis courts, a bowling green, a cockpit and a tilt yard.

  Lord Taverner led the way to the audience chamber, going by way of the magnificent Long Gallery to show Eleanor the beautiful ceiling painted by Holbein, bowing politely to other lords and ladies finely dressed in velvets and furs.

  ‘At least we can be truly thankful that Elizabeth has a fondness for amusement,’ Lord Taverner commented laughingly on hearing the jolly music ahead of them. ‘Her Court maintains many interesting activities.’

  Martin, splendidly attired in a bronze velvet doublet slashed with gold silk and decorated at the cuffs with countless seed pearls, and cream-coloured hose encasing his slender legs, smiled and murmured a small amen.

  Dancing was already in progress, the dancers, both male and female, looking like brightly coloured peacocks. The clothes people wore were now more colourful—purple being much in favour—more flamboyant, with a Spanish influence, than in the reign of Mary Tudor and her brother Edward before that.