The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  He almost heard his captive swallow. ‘Are … are you going to ransom me?’

  Miles swung round arrogantly to see that the youth was now leaning on one elbow, staring miserably at the ground, shoulders hunched. Circumstances warranted frightening him further. ‘Oh no, boy.’ Miles’s voice was laced with contempt. His foe evidently had no understanding of the rules. ‘I cannot be bothered. Perhaps I should just give you to my men for a beating.’

  The prisoner’s head whipped up defiantly. ‘Then you are no true knight.’

  Inexplicably, the taunt stung Miles, bringing the blood to his cheeks. He had been playing on the lad’s fear, determined to teach him a lesson, but young Ballaster did not lack courage even if his father did. ‘Why did you take your father’s place?’

  ‘He was sick, so he chose Sir Hubert in his place. Sir Hubert was a mercenary. He fought against the French at Nancy.’

  ‘The siege of Nancy was a defeat,’ retorted Miles witheringly. ‘And what happened to the legendary Hubert this morning? Did he suddenly vanish in the night?’

  ‘He was sick too,’ the boy admitted, staring at his toecaps.

  ‘Ha! Or drunk.’

  The coiffed head jerked defiantly. ‘Where is your coward of a father then?’

  For answer, his captor fiercely slapped his gauntlet in ugly fashion against its fellow. ‘Do not be insolent with me!’ Miles snarled, watching in satisfaction as the boy recoiled. He strode to the door and halted. ‘I should take my belt to you.’ He fingered the buckle, his pause perfect as his young enemy’s jaw gaped. ‘Save that I want my breakfast and it would take too long to strip you to your arse.’ For a few heartbeats, he waited menacingly and then he unlatched the door and slammed it back against the wall so that the whole dwelling shuddered. With a powerful hand, he grabbed up Ballaster’s esquire by the collar as though he were a discarded cote and dragged him inside. ‘Take your young master and be gone!’ he growled, loosing the man so violently that the fellow went sprawling towards the boy.

  ‘It is not his fault.’ The youth put a steadying hand out to the terrified fellow and the pair of them turned their faces to Miles, uncertain and fearful whether they should try to leave.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Being malevolent had been quite amusing but now he was weary of playing the tyrant. The servant replaced the youth’s gauntlets before he helped his master to his feet, then he hesitated, afeared to pass the grim silhouette half-blocking the threshold.

  The boy – Miles could see now how narrow-shouldered he was – unsteadily set his hand on the esquire’s sleeve. ‘Pass me my helm, Martin.’ The husky young voice was in command, but the groom’s hands shook as he obeyed.

  The boy took the helmet calmly, his leather fingertips smoothing the plume as if he derived calm from the action. His eyes shimmered as he cocked his chin proudly. ‘If we ever meet again, Rushden, it will be I who will take delight in it, believe me.’ With that, he bowed his head, not out of humility but so he might set the steel helm back on.

  ‘Oh, I am trembling already,’ mocked Miles, highly amused. He jabbed out an arm to block the boy. ‘Tell your yellow-livered sire that if he must ape his betters and play the knight, then he had better learn the rules. I do not fight children,’ he patted the steel cheek of the visor, ‘but if you cross me again, lad, as I said before, I shall take my belt to you.’

  ‘I am trembling already.’ His own words were hurled back at him with such sarcasm that Miles was hard put not to laugh and prod him further. Now the varmint thought himself reprieved, he was showing the insolence of a tiny lapdog yapping at a wolfhound.

  Leaning against the doorway, arms folded, Miles watched with the lazy grace of a victor as the loser was helped clumsily into his saddle. The visor jerked round at him as if the eyes behind it were etching his enemy’s face into memory. Miles curled his fingers in an insolent farewell and the lad angrily touched his spurs to the horse’s flanks and galloped away.

  Someone gave an obsequious cough at his elbow; the leech had come seeking payment. ‘You were not needed nor were you bidden here,’ growled Miles.

  ‘A very unusual combat,’ persisted the man, lurking like a distasteful smell, as Traveller trotted over at Miles’s whistle. ‘It will make good gossip in the alehouses.’

  ‘The point of all this, Master Surgeon?’ Miles asked irritably.

  ‘The point, Sir Miles? Ah now, any one in their right wits could see it was not Sir Dudley Ballaster you fought.’

  ‘No,’ muttered Miles dismissively, anxious to shed the armour and warm himself before a fire. ‘It was his son. The boy was incompetent. What of it?’

  The man’s eyes glittered with the prospect of a bribe. ‘But Sir Dudley Ballaster does not have a son,’ he said.

  Chapter 4

  Garbed as a servant with scuffed boots, a brown, wide-brimmed hat and a shabby cloak hoicked over a worn broadcloth jerkin, it was easy for Miles to talk himself past the gatekeeper at Bramley Castle next morning. Fortune had already played his friend in this foolish enterprise for he had passed a party led by Sir Dudley on the road and perhaps the servants would be less vigilant in their master’s absence. Mind, he should have been carted to Bedlam for taking such a risk. His excuse to his father was that he would scout out the weaknesses in their enemy defence but in truth, sheer curiosity drew him – and his own guilt. He doubted he had fought a maid, but certainly if he had and made matters worse by playing the swaggering bully afterwards, then he had breached his own code of chivalry and needed to apologise to salve his conscience.

  He halted in the shade of the small barbican and appraised his surroundings. The great hall with its flanking snow-capped tower was at least two centuries old but long windows had been let into the southern wall and turret chimneys added. Adjoining the old solar was a more recent two-storey building – bedchambers, judging by the featherbeds stuffed out over the sills for airing. So the wars in France had been lucrative. Huzzah for Great Uncle Rushden, the old pillager! Well, perhaps it was worth fattening a few lawyers to keep Bramley in the family.

  The squabble of little girls reached him from an upper storey and he could hear voices in the buttery. An excuse was pregnant on his tongue should anyone challenge him. He would declare that his master was on fire with love – an irony, that – but there had to be one daughter that was passing fair and worthy of seduction. If that did not work, he would play gormless and mumble that he had come to the wrong castle, but so far only a stray cockerel parading out of the hedge – a hedge laden curiously with rose-tinted underlinen – had dared to shake its wattles at him.

  Although the air was chill enough to redden noses, the sky was as blue as Our Lady’s robe and the sunlight was already berating the frost rimming the grass, and bestowing cheerful warmth upon his back. Enjoying his adventure, Miles whistled like a cocksure servant, and skirted the west side of the building. A kitchen garden and an orchard, bristly with winter boughs, lay beyond the stables.

  He was hoping to find fault, but good housekeeping was much in evidence. Ballaster’s servants were diligent; no horse dung dirtied the courtyard, the firewood was stacked sensibly and although the air smelt of woodsmoke from the hall chimneys, there was no odour of a stinking midden or byres that needed a good sousing, and he would not have noticed the dovecote particularly except that a dusting of damp droppings showered him as a fluttering bird landed with a clap of wings.

  ‘Whoopsy!’ A maidservant emptying a bucket from a casement nearly caught him midship. Miles touched his hat to her and she simpered, making great play with her bodice as she closed the window. At the stable door, he slowed, wondering if he might safely estimate how many stalls were occupied, when a burly stablehand stepped forth, wiping his hands clean upon a rag, and challenged him. ‘Beggin’ parden, oi do ’ave a message ver Mis’ress Ballis’er.’ He hoped the Somerset accent was not overripe and humbly touched his forelock to add authenticity.

  ‘Tidden clair,’ barked his accoster.
‘Which one?’

  Miles gaped dully, ‘Dunno, friend, ’ow many be they?’

  ‘Well, one of ’ems be there.’ The man jerked his thumb towards the garden and waited. ‘Well, go on wi’ ee. She won’t bite.’

  Under such brawny scrutiny, Miles had no choice but to let himself through the wicketgate. Beyond a tunnel arbour festooned with sweetbriar, a yellow-haired demoiselle with a basket on her arm was scattering breadcrumbs on the path.

  ‘Yes?’ At first she could not be bothered to turn her head.

  ‘Good day to you, mistress.’ She was devastatingly pretty but he dared not stare. Eyes humble, he clumsily tugged off his hat and lifted his fingers to his forehead in an incompetent salute. He had tousled his hair to hide the careful trimming.

  ‘Well, fellow?’ Shrewd eyes that he had never glimpsed before assessed him rapaciously from his dusty toecaps to his damaged face. It was hard to know whether she was as old as sixteen, but she looked as knowledgeable as Eve.

  Eyes downcast, he began to fumble in the breast of his doublet. ‘I ’ave a message from my master, Sir Miles Rushden, for your brother. ’Tis friendly.’

  ‘My—’ she bit back her words and rose, shaking her skirts. ‘Indeed,’ she murmured glancing down as if to give herself thinking time. ‘I have heard Sir Miles attends his grace of Buckingham. Is it true?’

  ‘Aye, m-mistress.’ Not a bad stammer, he thought, pleased with himself.

  Her finger tips steepled. ‘And shall you be returning to the duke’s household with Sir Miles, fellow?’

  ‘Y-yes, mistress, three days hence.’

  The rosebud mouth drew together speculatively. ‘You would not be Miles Rushden in disguise perchance?’

  By the saints, she was sharp-witted. ‘My m-master did say s-sommat about riding over here this day.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she muttered, and, lifting her skirts jauntily, started towards the hall.

  Miles lifted a hand to retrieve her attention. ‘Where do I go, pretty mistress?’

  ‘Oh, down that path. My brother … and sister … are there. They are quite inseparable.’ Not bothering to explain, she hastened away, humming. So the leech was wrong, there was a son, a bastard son perhaps.

  The well-trodden path led to a splintering, weatherbeaten door, unlatched and ajar. Replacing his hat, Miles stepped through and found himself amongst shiny-trunked pear trees dappled with snow. A startled green woodpecker flew past him with a yaffling cry as he followed the trodden grass southwards down the rise.

  Christ protect him! Miles froze as a shrouded figure rose up, like a ghost from its moonlight grave, at the far end of the orchard and then, his breath subsiding, he chided himself as it lowered itself again. It was a woman who was very slowly and painstakingly brushing the snow off sacks that lay around the footings of some half dozen beeskeps. Miles glanced about him for young Ballaster but, save for the eerie beekeeper, he was alone. With misgiving, he moved forward, quiet as a hunter, towards the apiary.

  The woman was murmuring to the bees, her long unbleached cotton skirt sweeping across the thin carpeting of snow. A veil full of snags and catches hung from a reaper’s broad-brimmed hat, and though the gauze shrouded her almost to her thighs, it did not hide the firm curves of her breasts. The boy’s sister?

  Heloise did not hear him. Rather she heard the change in the humming. She knew instinctively it was Rushden. Although yesterday’s taunts still made her seethe, she had carried his armoured image to her pillow like a medallion, sinfully make-believing a world where her father had no governance and Rushden, no longer sinister, lifted her onto the saddle before him like a lover. If only her fantasy was not a shadow. Life was not like the Romance of the Rose, she reminded herself; it was letting a scarlet cloth loose in yesterday’s washing and going without supper as penance. And this brigand was no better; he too had threatened her with a beating.

  What in God’s name did this man desire now? To deliver another tongue lashing and why was he clad in such an ancient riding cloak? He was lurking warily, well beyond the perimeter of the hives, but watching her with the stealth of a cat stalking a songbird. Heloise was gleeful at his uncertainty. This was a better combat yard for her mettle, for if he came too close or spoke in anger, a thousand barbed defenders clad in gold and nut-brown livery would rise up to protect her. A sense of reckless excitement plucked at her.

  ‘Lady—’ Miles lifted his arm cautiously in greeting but the woman put a finger to her lips with an imperious gesture and carried on as if he were no longer there. Not daring to raise his voice, he took a careful stride closer, his body tensing, and waited. Ignoring him, was she?

  The drone grew louder. Several bees, disdaining the cold, were coming at him. Could insects sense fear? Who was the patron saint of bees? St Ambrose? Miles swallowed nervously as one bee tested the coarse wool of his cote. A second landed on his glove, but he stood behind the girl now.

  Her movements were languorous and controlled. With great calm, she nudged one of the wicker skeps more firmly onto its stand. The disturbed insects flew up angrily, risking the frosty air. A few settled on her straw brim and one darted up beneath the gauze. With a blow of her breath, she nonchalantly shook it out and looked up at Miles from behind her veil, waiting. For what? For him to make the wrong move? Suddenly understanding froze him.

  He had fought a girl! For an instant he knew shame, wanted to blurt out an apology like an embarrassed youth, but then he felt the tendrils of his hair stir as a bee moved across onto his cheek. His flesh crawled. The thickness of the veil was not enough to hide the gleam of eyes daring him to panic.

  ‘Afraid?’ Miles barely heard the soft whisper. If we ever meet again, Rushden, it will be I who will take delight in it, believe me.

  ‘No!’ Only his lips formed the word, but beneath his cloak, his muscles clenched. Merciful Christ, he had just walked blithely into her trap as if he welcomed punishment. Would she drive the swarm against him? Desperate to run, he forced himself to stare down the sly scrutiny – to fight his terror, but the horror filled his brain. He saw himself panicked, screaming, his breathing blocked, his face and neck jabbed by … No, his mind snarled at her. No!

  The sorceress journeyed slowly to the next hive, taking her basket with her. Miles took a step slowly back, then another and another until he found himself beyond the coned village and its vindictive keeper. His breath returned to normal but the insects had not left him. The beekeeper was watching him, faceless behind her veil, as she brushed the snow from the last hive. He sensed her silent laughter and glared back. Now we are even, lady, but next time you will be on your back …

  Oww! As if she had slapped him, the last bee panicked and stung his cheek. Cursing, Miles turned his back and leaned against a rough-barked trunk, taking great gulps of air. Swiftly tugging off his gloves, he strove to pinch the base of the sting to ensure no more venom oozed in nor any barb remained.

  ‘Did one of my bees need to die for you, fellow?’

  Fellow! Miles looked round, his feelings raw. Still veiled, she stood quite close. A small peleton of concerned insects patrolled around the cover of her basket but her concern was for the dying insect in the palm of her glove.

  ‘No,’ he answered hoarsely, watching her lay the small warrior upon a snowy bough.

  Reckless behind her gauzy armour, Heloise stared up with triumph at her enemy. She had him confused, annoyed and vulnerable, and she wanted more. Here was no irksome stripling but a man, pleasingly proportioned, with midnight hair and eyes like quicksilver. Last night’s sinful fantasy came back to her: this knight unhorsed, tumbled unhurt upon the grass as she had been yesterday, and her leaning over him, her hair unleashed, her fingers touching the strong line of jaw, smoothing back the tousled dark hair. He was looking at her and …

  The Rushden serpent was looking at her! And with a fascination that sent excitement shimmering through her like sparks of fire. Her mind, left momentary open like an unlocked door, felt the savage blaze of desir
e rip through him. God’s mercy! Panicked like a frightened dove, she took off through the trees.

  ‘Wait!’ he called out, and hastened after her.

  No, this was lunacy but … Grasping a medlar trunk to steady herself, she squared her shoulders then walked on.

  ‘I suppose you have made a reconnaissance of our defences, Sir Miles?’ The words were tossed back at him bravely.

  ‘I came to learn the truth.’ He overtook her round an apple tree.

  ‘You have a sword, Sir Miles. I am sure you can whack the truth to its knees if it suits your purpose.’

  Miles winced. ‘A philosopher as well as a beekeeper.’ He applauded. ‘You are a spinning top, lady. Was it you yesterday, Mistress …?’

  ‘Heloise,’ she said unhelpfully, with a sideways step so a branch played chaperone between them. ‘Yesterday? Oh, you mean the wretched boy you threatened to strip and give to your men for a beating. Shall I summon my servants to do the same for you?’

  White teeth gleamed. ‘Did I promise that? Your pardon, Heloise.’ The breathy way he said her name wreaked damage to her self-control. ‘You have a man’s courage, Heloise!’ He grabbed the bough as though he would thrust it aside.

  ‘What, not a woman’s?’ Angered, she darted away, skirting the next tree.

  He followed like a hunter and, when Heloise turned, halted before her on the snow-dusted slope. Male, strong … within a hand’s breadth. And life had pitted his soul not just his face. She could sense the ancient simmering fury in him.

  ‘Does your face hurt you, sir knight?’

  ‘No.’ A deeper answer rimed Miles’s breath. The world hushed for a moment and he could no longer breathe. He knew her clear gaze probed his features, as if she were trying to peel back the layer that disfigured him. He tensed, discomforted, and then …

  And then she set back her veil. Dark lashes shyly lifted and lovely, troubled hazel eyes looked up at him, her glance settling upon his swelling cheek. There was no unwelcome pity, no noting of the scars he carried like a brand. His breath eased out slowly, misting the air between them. Somehow her gloves fell softly to the ground and his hat joined them.