‘Wait a minute, my friend! What the hell are you talking about? For one thing, Levina’s not in my head and, for another, what d’ye think I’ve been doing since all this happened, sitting on my backside? I’ve been out here in every daylight hour, working on plans half the bloody night, talking to Deventer about his ideas, siting new lodges that were burnt down, ordering replacement materials, with all my clerk of works’ duties to cover and much of my steward’s as well. Lady Felice has had her hands so full she’s hardly given me the time of day, and I’ve no time to find out any more than that. So what’s eating at you, for pity’s sake?’
‘I’ll tell you what’s eating me, you thick-headed arrogant churl.’ Marcus grabbed at Sir Leon’s arm and yanked him round to face him. Then, with amazing velocity, he smashed a fist into his friend’s face, catching him on the jaw and knocking him backwards a couple of paces, taking him completely unawares. ‘That’s what’s eating me, my friend,’ he said, keeping his distance. ‘That’s for telling me to keep off your property while you put her in the same danger you pretend to be so concerned about. And now when the lass doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, you leave her to stew while you prance about with another woman you’ve picked up and dropped at random for the past three years. It’s time you heeded your own warnings, my lad, because this can’t go on. You have responsibilities, or had you forgotten?’
Sir Leon looked at the blood on his fingertips and touched his lip again. ‘Marcus, you’re not making any sense. I haven’t left Felice to stew, as you seem to believe. She won’t have anything to do with me, and I’ve been too busy with Deventer and all this lot.’ He waved an arm towards the site where already men were gazing in astonishment at the man who had just managed to get one under the surveyor’s guard. ‘And anyway, what’s this danger she’s supposed to be in? She’s mine, and she knows she is.’
‘She knows nothing of the kind, you great oaf!’ Marcus yelled, infuriated by his friend’s defence. ‘I’m going to marry her, if you won’t!’
‘Really. And you’ve told her so, have you?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Then you can untell her.’
‘I’ll be damned if I will! You can’t marry them both, or did you think you could?’
‘Both? You believe I’m going to marry Levina…oh, God, Marcus! Get a hold of yourself, lad! Of course I’m not. We’ve not been…’
But whatever they had not been was unexplained before Marcus took another swing at his friend in a blind fury of jealousy. This time the blow was knocked brutally aside and Marcus was hustled backwards against a tree-trunk, struggling to keep his balance. ‘Why not?’ he yelled.
‘Why not? Ask her yourself. You seem to be developing a skill in counselling,’ Sir Leon yelled back. ‘She might begin to see you as husband-material at last, which is more than anyone else can, but you can forget your chivalry towards Lady Felice, my friend. I’ve told you, she’s mine! And if she’s having doubts about that, that’s none of your concern, limner. Your profession allows you to gain women’s confidences; mine doesn’t. My love-life has to wait until my patron has shifted himself from under my bloody feet!’
‘Love? What do you know about love, builder?’
‘More than you, paint-dabbler, but I don’t splash it around so much.’
‘Well then, perhaps I can show you how to make a splash.’ Marcus lunged towards his friend who now stood with his back to the river on the debris-strewn banks that had only recently been covered with water. He was caught and knocked sideways by a huge fist, making him stumble and hesitate before tackling Sir Leon again. But though he faced the abbey, he was oblivious to Lord Deventer’s approach or to the coroner’s expression of astonishment. Madly, he rushed forward with both fists flying, but his adversary was prepared, lifting him high off the ground in a bear-hug, tossing him above his head as if he were a child and hurling him into the river to the applause of a crowd of men from the distant courtyard.
‘Cool off!’ Sir Leon yelled.
Lord Deventer’s voice held no hint of censure. ‘Well, Gascelin? So your patron gets under your bloody feet, does he?’
But although the bend in the river was not deep at that point, the current was swift and Sir Leon had no wish to prolong his friend’s humiliation before an audience. However, before he could wade in, several of the men ran forward to rescue Marcus, eager for any diversion, and soon there was a thrashing group of them, pulling and shouting.
‘Get him out,’ called Lord Deventer. ‘Time’s money!’
‘Yes, my lord,’ one of them called back. ‘But there’s another body here.’
‘Well, pull it out, then.’
With Marcus doing his share, fair hair darkly plastered on to his forehead, they dragged a bloated body, face downwards, up on to the bank. Still tangled around one wrist was a bulging sack, the cord of which had cut deeply into his skin. Undoubtedly it was what had held him under the water since the night of the fire.
‘Ben Smith,’ said one man, rolling the body over.
‘So it is,’ said Sir Leon. ‘Come, Marcus. Give me your hand.’
‘I came here to give you a hiding, lad,’ Marcus said, coughing, ‘not to do your dirty work for you. And you’re going to lose that lovely lass if you don’t look to it. She’s in love with you, you know.’
‘And how would you know that, limner?’
Marcus peeled off his soaking doublet and threw it down on to the ground with a loud smack. ‘Well, what d’ye think I’ve been doing for the last few days while I’ve been painting her? Looking at your damned ceiling? Before Winchester and after Winchester. Think I can’t tell the difference in a woman’s eyes by now, my fine friend? See to it, before it’s too late.’
‘I intend to. Go and get some clothes on before you catch a chill.’
Lord Deventer moved in as Marcus squelched away. ‘Now, Gascelin, if you have a moment I’d like you to…hey! Where are you off to?’
‘Business, sir!’ Sir Leon called, striding after Marcus. ‘Urgent business.’
In Felice’s bedchamber, the vibrant new clothes from Winchester that spread like a peacock’s tail across the bed had lost the appeal they’d had a week or so ago when Lady West’s views had been accepted. Nevertheless, both Lydia and Elizabeth agreed that red suited her peach complexion and dark hair, quelling all Felice’s arguments that it made her feel uncomfortable. ‘It’s not my colour,’ she grumbled, as they hooked and pinned her into it. ‘It makes me look like an over-ripe strawberry.’
‘Stand still,’ said Lydia with a row of pins between her lips. ‘If the men like Levina’s bright showy clothes, they’ll like yours, too. If you can’t beat ’em, then join ’em, love. And if they like her powder and painted lips, presumably they’ll like yours even better.’
‘No, Lydie! I’m not…’
‘Only a dab, love, to brighten your pale cheeks. Just a quick dab.’
The quick dab became a classic case of too many cooks spoiling the broth, and yet such was the state of Felice’s insecurity that she felt unable to rely on her own judgement alone, admitting to herself that, as none of her hopes and plans had worked too well so far, there was little harm in trying someone else’s. So she submitted to the frills and festoons, the brooches and rings, the tightly-braided hair over padding with the silly hat on top, the collapsible farthingale made of willow-hoops that she had not worn since Winchester. She stood, scowling, while they painted her eyebrows more thickly, reddened her cheeks and lips, powdered her skin and made her almost unrecognisable while assuring her that, if it did nothing else, it would at least draw some of the attention away from that scheming callous hussy Levina.
Feeling that she may as well have held a mask before her face as have one painted on her, she took up her duties in the hall of the New House as the servers were preparing the tables for the mid-day meal where, disconcerted by the apparition before them, several of the lads crashed into each other, dropping their dishes and conten
ts. Flint and Fen dashed in to gobble up the mess, refusing to take any notice of the strange woman who called them off and growling at one lad who dared to lay a hand on their collars.
The appearance of Thomas Vyttery did nothing to help matters, for his cowardly mastiff, unable to escape the scene, was instantly seen as a rival for the new food supply on the floor, and the fight that ensued was weighted against him from the start. Felice was in despair, hampered by the contraptions under her clothes and everything that dangled from them.
A man’s deep voice cracked across the pandemonium. ‘Flint! Fen! Come here!’
Without another look at the terrified mastiff, the two deerhounds slunk away and padded, heads and tails down, to Sir Leon’s side where they flattened themselves on to the floor like two grey rugs.
‘What’s going on, Thomas?’ Sir Leon said. ‘And who’s…my God! What on earth?’ He stared at Felice, aghast, his face a picture of dismay.
She knew, as soon as she saw it, that she had done the wrong thing, that she should not have given in to this absurdity, that far from finding her attractive, he found it all repulsive. There was nothing to say to him, not even in her own defence, while he stood there, taking in every detail. She whirled on one high heel and made a frantic dash for the door behind Mr Vyttery, not knowing where it led.
He dodged to one side, blinking in astonishment and remonstrating with the large powerful figure who followed with giant strides. ‘Nay, sir. Leave her be! Ye can see she’s upset. Leave her!’
‘Get out of my way, Thomas!’
The passageway was a narrow one leading to a flight of stone stairs down which a liveried servant came, his arms piled high with white folded linen tablecloths larger than bed sheets. There was no way past him. Felice turned to confront her angry guardian, trapped between the two of them.
‘Leave me alone!’ she snarled at him. ‘No…!’ She tried to ward him off with her hands but he caught them without any attempt to persuasion or reason, holding her easily as he whipped the top cloth off the startled servant’s pile, shook it out and wrapped it round her like a shroud before she could free herself from his grasp.
Imprisoned in this white cocoon, she fought and twisted as she was bent forward over his knee and, held in that position, her skirts were lifted, her great bell-shaped farthingale untied from her waist and dropped to the floor like a pool, her skirts replaced.
‘That’s a start,’ she heard him say. ‘Now for the rest.’
‘No…no!’ she wailed. ‘How dare you do this? How dare you?’
He was not inclined to answer, but lifted her up into his arms instead and, ignoring the speechless man on the stairs, stepped over the white fabric puddle and marched with his writhing bundle across the hall. The same people were there who had seen them leave moments before, this time with mouths open in amazement at the spectacle of their mistress being carted off like a side of bacon by a grim-faced Sir Leon.
He stopped alongside Lydia who had been, to her credit, prepared to follow them. ‘Mistress Lydia,’ he said. ‘Take this daft thing off her head, if you please, and collect that tent from the passageway before someone camps out in it.’
Lydia complied, and then had no choice but to see her mistress swung round and carried off, still protesting, to Sir Leon’s room that overlooked the cloister. And while the drama was ended for those in the hall, for Felice it was only just beginning, all the more dramatic because he was too furious to speak and she too furious to keep silent.
Still constrained by the winding-sheet, she was laid on the bed and held there while he began a thorough removal of the crude cosmetics that could do nothing to make her lovelier, only the opposite. Taking a handful of the cloth, he soaped her face, ignoring her protests and her tears and then, as her own features were restored, dried her more tenderly. Next, he unbraided her hair, turning her face-downwards to reach the back and teasing out each coil until it was loose and covering the pillow.
By this time, Felice’s tears had run dry, though her anger had not, and now the full force of it was vented into his pillow in a rage of helplessness and unmitigated jealousy. And although she felt nothing but relief to be free of her disguise, the motivation for it could not be removed so easily. The harridan Levina was a she-wolf, did he not know that? Was he blind? Too besotted to care?
‘I’ll give you all the answers you need when I’ve got you out of this,’ he said. ‘And who in heaven’s name told you to wear this colour? Do you not know that red’s no colour for you?’
‘Of course I do!’ she yelped into the pillow. ‘But if that loud-mouthed hoyden can wear it, so can I.’
‘Ah, so that’s it! Well, you’re wrong. You can’t.’ Preventing her from turning over by a hand on her hips, he deftly unhooked her bodice and then, with his dagger, cut through the laces of her whalebone stays, removing all her casings like a shrimp from its shell. It was an easy matter after that to peel off the under-layers, one by one, until she was nakedly resisting any further peelings by holding on to his wrist behind her back in the belief that she was restraining him, not herself.
‘No more,’ she said, through a sheet of hair. ‘Leave my silk stockings on.’
‘Then let go of my wrist.’
She felt his hand explore the prettily tied garter ribbons and then continue on its own search of her thighs and buttocks, felt his tender kisses follow the path of his hand, moving upwards over hips, waist and shoulders. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want you. Marcus has offered to marry me. You go and marry Levina. You deserve each other.’
His sigh turned into a soft laugh as he lifted the mass of hair off her neck and allowed his mouth to roam warmly over her skin. She could see his face from the corner of her eye. ‘You’ve got it all sewn up, haven’t you, you two? Eh? Well, my fierce beauty, you can undo all your plans because mine were made as soon as I saw you, weeks ago.’ His lips nibbled at her beautiful shoulders. ‘And they’ve not changed since then.’
‘Oh, I knew exactly what your plans were from the start, Sir Leon. Whether I’m a wife to please my stepfather or a mistress to suit you, I’m supposed to share my life with that monster upstairs who doesn’t even know the father of her own child. Well, if you…’
‘Will you shut up for a moment, woman?’
With a deft flip of her hips, he turned her on to her back and drew the hair away from her face. His kiss did more than silence her words, it reached down into her heart and gentled it, soothing its pain. ‘Now,’ he whispered, ‘shall we leave her out of it, my lady, and speak of something more interesting? Of the first time we met, in the Abbot’s House?’
‘I hated you then and I hate you now,’ she said, caressing the side of his finger with her teeth.
His lips twitched. ‘Yes, but there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? You hated the idea of being disturbed out of your unhappiness, and you hated me because I represented your stepfather. You were determined not to accept my control. And now, you believe my heart is elsewhere when it’s always been yours, from that very first moment.’
She had not heard him speak of hearts and emotions before, only her adeptness at loving, which was not the same. Yet now he was saying it with such tender conviction she could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘But you couldn’t have…you were so rude…so unpleasant.’
‘We’d already met, remember? Look here.’ He delved inside the lining of his waistband and drew out a long shining blue ribbon, now very creased, and dangled it before her.
‘That’s mine!’
‘Yours, woman. Pulled off the end of a thick plait of silken hair one night in a moonlit garden, the same hair that you piled up on top of your head to show them all what a real woman looks like, just a few days ago. My heart nearly burst with love and pride, sweetheart, and when you’re my wife, you’ll wear your hair like this for me, as it is now. No paint. No more attempts to look like those wenches at court. Nothing can improve on this, my love.’ His hand swept over her body, settin
g it alight.
‘Your wife?’ she whispered. ‘No rivals?’
‘Still unconvinced? There never have been any rivals, sweetheart. That woman thrives on mischief; I found that out soon enough. We’ve remained friends over the years, and I’m bound to remain polite to my patron’s relatives…’
‘You were not polite to me!’
‘…but she knew damn well I’d not go so far as to marry her just to find a name for her brat.’
‘She asked you, then?’
‘Oh, yes, she tried it on. She has all the audacity of the devil, but I’m not stupid enough for that, and she knows it.’
‘What about the tears?’
‘You saw?’
‘Some of it.’
‘The tears were because I said no. Deventer had already told me of the problem, and I’d told him I couldn’t help. But I’ve been so frantically busy since they came, love, that I’ve hardly had time to sleep, what with the loss of John and all. I’m sorry. I should have made you listen to me, but you seemed not to want me. Did you want me?’
‘Wanted you. Ached for you. Forgive me, I was desperate. I was sure you loved her. Marcus told me you did.’
‘Another little trouble-maker we could do without. I think we should make him marry Levina.’
‘He’s in love with her.’
‘I know. The trouble is, he can’t afford her.’
‘Then speak to Lord Deventer. Perhaps he’ll help.’ She began to untie the cords of his shirt. ‘What’s he going to say about you and me?’
‘He’ll not be too surprised, sweetheart. He admitted he’d brought Levina down here in the hope that I’d help her out of her predicament, but I don’t owe him any favours of that kind. Not in my personal life; he has no influence there. As for you, my fierce ward, he already guessed how things are between us when he saw you that first evening with your hair down, not caring a damn for any of them. He tried to change my mind, of course, but he knows that if he refuses his consent, he’ll lose both of us. He’s got the picture, my love.’ His hands caressed as they had done at that first meeting, intimately. ‘And my mind’s been made up since I caught you in the garden, my sweet. I knew you must be a beauty, but I’d no idea just how beautiful until I saw you that morning with your feet in a bucket of water. And then I had you in my arms, wet and angry. I could scarcely believe my good fortune…’
A Most Unseemly Summer Page 21