The Silver Bride

by Isolde Martyn

  ‘There are plenty more ways to make you say the right words,’ whispered his determined father-in-law. ‘We could slice your horse’s fetlocks and make sure your servants go shriven to Heaven before morning. Satan got your tongue, lad? Say it!’

  The words were pricked out of him. A huge roar of laughter buffeted him and Sir Dudley let him go. The chaplain quickly demanded the bride’s answer.

  ‘Agree to this, mistress,’ Miles threatened the shivering girl beside him, ‘and you shall think yourself wedded with Lucifer himself.’

  ‘Do you think me a fool,’ she ground out, her breath uneven.

  The priest, becoming annoyed and peevish, repeated the words for the bride a third time. The crowd held their breath.

  Heloise stared stubbornly ahead, but someone gave her soles a hefty kick and as she jolted forward, her lips parted to protest, a voice said swiftly, ‘Ego te vole habere—’ A cheer went up. Dionysia had her fingers across her lips as she leaned down to adjust her sister’s dress. ‘You will thank me later,’ she whispered.

  Her reluctant bridegroom was struggling to rise in fury but her father set a firm hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘Repeat that,’ said the chaplain, nodding to Heloise, his eyes darting behind her warningly at Dionysia. Heloise’s head jerked up. If Didie spoke the promise, did it mean that Rushden would be married to her?

  ‘Heloise,’ warned her father, his voice heavy with threat.

  ‘Heloise, please,’ whispered Dionysia.

  Her mind was whirling rapidly. There must be no question which sister this man had married. No legal wranglings. Dionysia’s future must be safeguarded. With such beauty, her sister could marry a wealthy, powerful Yorkist lord.

  Heloise’s voice was clear and unfaltering when she finally obeyed.

  ‘I will have thee, Miles, as my husband for the rest of my life and do hereby plight my troth …’

  The man beside her cursed. ‘You shall regret this. Upon my soul, you will!’ His wrist was grabbed ungently and his hand was guided forcibly to place a ring on her fourth finger.

  ‘It shall be annulled, never fear,’ she whipped back. ‘I have as little pleasure in this as you.’

  They were pushed into the chapel for one of the fastest Masses Miles had ever heard. This household was not only corrupt, it was almost godless.

  ‘Bring on the bride ale!’ exclaimed Sir Hubert, as they hauled across to the hall. Some optimistic fool flung a green garland about Miles’s neck. He ripped it away.

  Heloise, who had once attended a wedding at Middleham where the bridegroom had tenderly kissed the bride through a garland, felt deprived of all earthly joy. A troth cup was brought to her new lord. The wine must be welcome to his ebbing spirits though not the manner of it. Rushden raised it mockingly to salute her.

  ‘To your perdition, sweeting!’ he said, and dashed its contents in her face.

  Chapter 6

  ‘You will thank me for this one day.’

  Heloise, shrinking from her father’s voice, found her chair surrounded by the household women hovering excitedly, like agitated butterflies, to escort her beyond the solar to the best bedchamber. It was a relief to quit the company of the silent man who had been seated beside her through the feast, but a torment knowing that they would shortly haul him struggling up the stairs and thrust him into bed with her. She remained seated, staring unseeing at the delicacies on the bridal platter that neither she nor Rushden had touched. Her body was sticky where the red wine thrust at her had made shameful rivulets upon her gown and run like blood between her breasts. The musicians began the erotic shivalee with its sensuous drumming.

  ‘Heloise, come,’ urged Dionysia, bending over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, why did you do this, Didie?’

  ‘Because it is the only way of escape and I love you too much to leave you here.’ Aloud, Dionysia exclaimed, ‘Come, all is ready for you.’

  ‘I will see you in purgatory, sweet heart.’ Rushden broke his silence, his dark-fringed eyes mad with fury, his smile icy as he rose to his feet.

  Uncertain whether he intended to privily murder her or discover some other torment to feed his revenge, Heloise lifted her chin. ‘I should prefer to go to Hell alone.’

  ‘Oh, take ’em both up,’ exclaimed her father. ‘I’ve had a bellyful of his sour manners.’ He eyed the untouched food with miserly regret. ‘Set the platter in their chamber. Mayhap, son Rushden, you will have an appetite on you after you have played the man.’

  Rushden’s fist missed her father’s jaw by a whisker and the sole of his boot sent the board from its trestles, heaving the huge salt, the platters and the goblets. The dogs rushed at the tumbled repast and the hall rose in consternation.

  Gulping back tears, Heloise took to her heels and ran up the stairs. She grabbed the wooden bar behind the solar door and tried to set it across before the others could reach her, but her little sisters ducked in beneath it, giggling.

  ‘Oh, what is the use,’ Heloise cried in despair at the huge human torrent bearing Rushden towards her like a hapless log. ‘No, please!’ she cried as Dionysia pushed her backwards into their father’s bedchamber. His splendid bed with its green tasselled celure and David and Bathsheba frolicking on the costly tester was now a torture. Silk, diapered pillows made her tremble.

  ‘Tame him. Bell him,’ purred Dionysia.

  ‘Take off his horns and stroke his tail,’ giggled someone else as the women surrounded their victim, plucking at her belt, kneeling to untie her garters and roll down her stockings. Was this what it felt like to be attacked by carrion birds?

  ‘Where is his tail, then?’

  Someone hushed her youngest sister.

  Leading the male procession, the chaplain stepped in to sprinkle holy water on the sheets and her new husband was carried awkwardly through the doorway like an unloaded coffer and set up beside the wooden bedstairs. Outside on the wooden landing, Matillis lingered, wringing her hands, and the minstrels fiddled frantically.

  Sir Dudley pointed a finger at the bridegroom. ‘Remember, you are not setting foot outside this chamber until the marriage is consummated.’

  Rushden laughed. ‘If I have enjoyed your daughter already, as you allege, then this,’ he waved a hand to the bed, ‘is quite unnecessary.’

  ‘Oh, I applaud your clever tongue, lad, but I like to see things through.’

  ‘Have you not meddled enough, Father!’ exclaimed Heloise from the circle of women, slapping their hands away.

  Her parent ignored her, standing at the foot of the bed like a tourney marshal while Rushden’s escort, bruised and black-eyed, grabbed at the man’s clothing like enemy soldiers robbing a dying commander of his armour. Heloise’s assailants recommenced their task as if it were a race.

  ‘Make sure they are mother naked,’ Sir Dudley chivvied, rubbing his hands gleefully. ‘Then let us see if a Rushden stallion can mount a Ballaster mare. Into bed with ’em.’

  Miles was shoved alone between the sheets; the girl had not yet joined him. Between the moving rout of skirts and sleeves assailing her, he momentarily glimpsed a slender waist which gracefully flared into white hips that beckoned touching, and below a pale shimmer of narrow heel and shapely calf. The corner cressets were stifled and the chamber dimmed as they plucked off her headdress. The bed glinted, like an altar betwixt two candles, and he waited for the priestess. Fair like her sister, he thought at first, regretting that he dared not run his fingers across that silken skin and then blinked in disbelief as they pushed her backwards to the bed. The girl’s hair was grey. The Loathly Lady! He had been bewitched and wed to an old woman. Primeval superstition quickened his heart.

  ‘No, I will not bed a witch,’ he roared, crossing himself and struggling to quit the bed. ‘By sweet Christ, Ballaster, is this the only way you can find a man to mate with her? I will not bed a witch.’

  There was a gasp of horror and a dreadful, ugly silence followed as if a spell had frozen every one of them to st
one. Appalled at himself, Miles wished he might scrape the words back up, but they lingered on the air like the appalling stink of vomit. The woman’s silver head turned. With relief and disbelief, he saw that the complexion framed by the aged hair was still delicate and tender, but her look of tormented fury slashed him like a whip. He recoiled against the pillows, remembering the hushed whispers of his childhood that Jacquetta Woodville had bewitched King Edward, lured him to the forest and forced him to marry her eldest daughter when by rights he should have wed a foreign princess. And now it was happening to him.

  The body of a siren, but her hair … The witchgirl had turned and was gazing at her sire in horror, unaware that the moonlight curtain of her hair had parted and a taut breast was jutting through. This was enchantment indeed, subtle, enticing; Miles’s spellbound gaze drank in her beauty like a thirsty man, enjoying the indulgence for a fleeting, lustful moment. Each curve was deliciously seductive; the tips of her unnatural hair that hid her womanly parts beckoned his eyes. He felt his own senses responding and reasserted control over his instincts, knowing that Ballaster was watching him like a smug magician, confident that he would be bewitched enough to slide between her thighs before the dawn.

  Heloise saw the fear and contempt in Rushden’s stare grow hot with lusty interest and, with a gasp, realised that every man in the room was leering. She could only set trembling arms across her body and lower her head so that her hateful hair at least hid their faces from her. Her anger spent, she was shivering from the growing chill and trembling at the burning desire that flickered in Rushden’s eyes. Not until now had she believed that he might actually lie with her.

  With an effort, Miles forced himself to look away and sensed the ancient fear stalking through the men. Carnal desire and superstition writhed in the very air. Christ ha’ mercy, what demons had he released? How long had the girl been hiding her fey hair from the men? The sea of suspicious faces needed to be calmed. He would not wish a woodpile lit beneath Heloise Ballaster, not by them.

  It was an effort to coax his mouth into a semblance of humour. ‘My, Ballaster, a pretty changeling then if not a witch. Did your wife sleep in a toadstool ring the night your daughter was conceived?’

  God’s Rood, worse and worse! Now he was labelling her mother a whore who had frolicked with an elfish lover, and glueing cuckold’s horns on Ballaster’s forehead.

  ‘Set back the covers. Daughter, get into bed.’ Ballaster’s cheeks were dark, his voice terse. One of the old besoms clucked approval at Miles as the sheet was whipped away from him and the bawdy gests began to restore normality. The magician was not smiling. Miles felt Sir Dudley’s derisive stare note the recent bruising. Hardly any pock scars spoilt his body. ‘Hail damage, sweet knight,’ his previous mistress had teased between kisses. It had only been his face that was marred.

  ‘My daughter’s body is unblemished as you have so thoroughly observed for yourself, Rushden.’ Miles swallowed at the just accusation. ‘I warrant her hair is uncommon but she would not have been able to stomach the Mass if she practised the black arts. As to her mother’s honour, slander that further and I will score through my daughter’s dowry. Now set your naked leg against my girl’s! Do it!’

  Cursing, Miles eased himself sideways and touched anklebone and calf against his witch. He felt her shudder as if he had burned her.

  ‘Bear witness all of you that their naked flesh has touched. This is the way of handling royal weddings by proxy,’ Ballaster told the gawking household before he flung the bedclothes back to cover them. Everyone applauded, ignoring the swift jerk beneath the bed clothes as the protagonists moved apart.

  ‘Leave us! Go!’ Heloise grabbed the sheet and swiftly drew it to her collarbone. ‘Go!’

  The chaplain stepped forward and gave them a very hurried blessing with an extra one for Heloise’s fertility, much to her annoyance.

  ‘That’s done then. Bring away the bridegroom’s clothes, you ribalds.’ Sir Dudley jerked his head at Dionysia to gather up her sister’s tumbled gown. ‘Now remember, lad, you are not going from this bedchamber until you have performed your husbandly duty and, daughter, you will behave like a good, obedient wife. Acknowledge this man as your lord from now on, and do your duty to please him. To her, young man, and beget your heir. I want a grandson.’

  Rushden lunged forward, fist clenched, but her father, stepping back, merely laughed. ‘You grow predictable, young fellow,’ he scoffed. He waited until everyone had trooped out the door except Sir Hubert, who lingered to blow Heloise a kiss and bowed nobly to Rushden before her father pushed him out and loudly locked the door.

  Heloise’s cheeks flamed. Must she succumb like a meek slave to a man who had threatened to beat her for putting on armour, and loudly labelled her a whore and her mother a harlot? Never! She had a little courage left – although her body was shaking, beyond her control – but, Jesu mercy, she now feared this stranger who had been given lordship over her.

  Wrapping himself in silence, Rushden attempted to draw up the coverlet, but it was woven of stiff metal threads and heavy brocade. With a curse, he slid out of bed. Heloise yelped in surprise as he yanked the unbleached blanket from her, draping it round him like a bishop’s cope. Then he strode across to the small table.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ The non-threatening, commonplace inquiry made her realise that she had been holding her breath. Her body lost some of its rigidity.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, catching hold of the words tossed to rescue her temporarily, wondering if she could wriggle out of bed, taking the sheet with her.

  ‘Stay there. I will bring the platter across.’ A sensible solution but hardly reassuring. She felt tethered like a bait, wondering if this Rushden mastiff might take a bite out of her at any minute.

  He set the plate between them and hoicked himself up onto the bed again, carefully keeping a fold of the blanket across his thighs. The rest of his covering was permitted to fall. Heloise peeped sideways, aware of arm muscles that would take more than her two hands to encompass, and a broad triangle of back, which had stretched the borrowed doublet at the seams. Strong, elegant hands tore off a piece of bread and set a slab of cheese upon it. He took a mouthful hungrily, fine white teeth tearing the crust free before his stare rose from the silver platter to examine her, and he drew the back of his hand across his lips.

  Clutching her sheet firmly, Heloise reached out for a Lenten tartlet. Its casing was sticky but it smelt divine to her starved senses and she suppressed the temptation to attack it ravenously. They ate in silence. The nourishment restored her spirits and she stole a covert glance at her new husband’s profile. Instinct told her the hate lit by her father had abated somewhat. The gentleness of the candlelight hid the scars on his cheek and showed her a face of strength that might have graced Camelot or Aix, but his strong chin and hawk-beaked nose unnerved her, and the stubborn edge to his mouth she knew already. And she had vexed his ambitions.

  Yes, Holy Church had linked them, making her his property for eternity unless he found the legal means to unlock the invisible chains from both their wrists. But that was for tomorrow. It was the hours of darkness stretching before her now that made Heloise anxious. She had been given to this stranger, like the repast that lay between them, to enjoy or disdain as he pleased. A stranger, albeit no ancient creature with December skin and foul breath, but a man who knew more of women than she did of men.

  She licked her fingers thoughtfully. At least her hunger was not so great now. A small sigh of satisfaction escaped her and her companion paused in his own eating and looked at her for the first time without being disagreeable or stern.

  ‘This can be annulled.’ His words were reassuring, but his fingers reached out and lifted some strands of her hair, testing the texture.

  ‘I-I am not a witch,’ she told him at last, her voice husky, sounding foreign to her hearing.

  ‘No? How disappointing.’ A slow smile lit his face, his steel-grey eyes teasing her tortured senses.
He let her hair fall, but it seemed a long moment before he looked to the platter and selected a sweet pastry. Heloise’s heart was drumming with ill speed.

  ‘I thought you much younger at Potters Field.’ That, she supposed, was the nearest she would receive to an apology.

  ‘I am almost twenty.’

  A frown tempered his amazement. ‘I thought the blonde maid was the eldest.’

  Maid? Sometimes that seemed questionable but she kept that opinion folded away.

  He was watching her fingertips tangle themselves in the silken silver threads against her cheek. ‘And you are still unwed. Because of your hair?’

  ‘I had no desire to wed. You or any other.’ That did not please him. Did witches wed? At least married women covered their hair. Some urge arose – a desire to reassure him that she would keep her hair hidden so as not to shame him – but the protest died on her lips. There would be no future with him. She watched the blanket trail behind him as he left her to stride across to the wine jug. Yes, he would leave.

  He filled the goblets set out for them, not asking her will but making the decision for her in husbandly fashion. ‘It will restore you,’ he told her, bringing the winecup across.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Heloise, and drew it to her lips. She watched above its rim as he lifted his.

  ‘We have a dilemma, you and I, mistress,’ he said eventually and emptied the vessel far too rapidly. She was mistaken if she thought it tied weights to his mind. Agile thoughts flickered like tapers behind the alert gaze, his body tense and purposeful as he ran a thumb across the goblet’s smooth perimeter.

  ‘What do you suggest, sir? That I change you into a sparrow so you can fly out the window?’

  Rushden’s eyes glimmered wryly. ‘Witty but not very practical – if you are not a witch, that is.’ A wave of laughter from downstairs mocked them. ‘We are both resolved on annulling this marriage. Is it possible?’

  Was the wine abusing her senses further? ‘Yes, of course, sir, if you petition his Holiness the Pope straightway, and I imagine that his grace of Buckingham would—’ And she must write to his grace of Gloucester.