‘Oh, I’ll swear you would.’ The gloved hand waited menacingly. ‘You will come back with me now, my lady.’ His voice, low and dangerous, offered no escape. He raised his stirruped boot to make a mounting block for her. Cursing silently that they were still an entertainment, she reluctantly set her left foot upon his and took the proffered hand. His hands, tense and fierce about her waist, settled her before him, and then he kneed his horse about. The people drew back, hushed and outwardly respectful, to let them pass. His men followed. An apprentice whooped, someone else jeered and again she heard the hiss of words she did not understand.
Biting her lip, Heloise sat as stiffly as she could, trying hard to avoid any part of her body touching his, but the reins and arms encircled her too closely for her peace of mind. The memory of that shameful night at Bramley came vividly back to her. She had imagined dealing with him in a formal manner, not in this enforced intimacy with his elbows against her breasts and his breath upon her cheek.
‘Lady Haute,’ Rushden sneered, adding in a growl for her ears only, ‘and what have you done with her? Pushed her into a river?’
‘No, she – Sweet Christ, look out!’
With an oath at his stupidity, Miles reined his steed out of the way of an alehouse pole. One of the soldiers behind them chuckled at his distraction. No, here was not the time for settlement, but later it would be a pleasure! He stoked his anger further, remembering the final humiliation of that wedding night – of fleeing barefoot across the icy ploughed fields to smite upon the priest’s door at Oakwood, shivering as he pleaded to borrow attire from the sexton so he might return to his father’s house. It was Christ’s mercy that he had not died from cold.
‘You need not be afeared,’ his armful said soothingly, as if she were sympathetic to the discord of feelings jarring him. ‘They do not know I am me.’
The obscure female explanation mollified him not at all. ‘No, by God, but I do! Believe me, when I have done with you, mistress,’ he continued through clenched teeth, ‘you will wish you had never been born.’
‘I expect you would like Traveller back.’
He was too angry to listen properly. ‘A plague on that, mistress! I want you out of my sight and out of my life!’
‘But—’
‘I will deal with you, madam!’ He spurred the horse up Castle Lane to jolt the meaning into her head.
The stupid gummy grin that the porter gave ‘Lady Haute’ as they galloped over the drawbridge was enough to turn an honest man’s stomach. With a curse, Miles drew rein beside Knyvett in the crowded courtyard and was disgusted that the stableboy who ran up to take his bridle was also wearing a smile for Mistress Ballaster, as if she had bestowed a livery on him. Had the slut bewitched every man jack of them? He dismounted to a distinct hush. Godsakes! Just when he thought he had put leagues between himself and Heloise Ballaster, here were half of Harry’s retinue gawking at the pair of them.
‘Got yourself a wetnurse, sir?’ guffawed someone.
Miles gave the man an archer’s two-finger gesture and turned to deal with his passenger. His tarnished wife had made no attempt to wriggle down. In fact, she seemed bewildered by all the wagons and packhorses being unloaded about them, and the flush across her cheeks and throat proclaimed her shame. He had little choice but to set his hands about the wench’s high waist and feign indifference as he dumped her down. His hands, however, held her longer than they should have. For an instant, she wobbled precariously like a slowing, spinning top before she rallied her wits and slithered swiftly from his clasp to take the sleepy child from Knyvett.
‘You goin’ to put Rushden to bed too, darlin’?’ chortled some wit.
Miles laughed, but inwardly he was fit to throttle his witch-wife. Not only was she a disgrace to her rank, dressed as she was, but the heartshaped face and the brat clutched to her breast bestowed a madonna-like purity that the dishonest piece did not deserve. It should have been Sioned standing there in his life with their little boy in her arms.
‘Been frightening her, Rushden?’ Knyvett was running his thumb across a smudge of dried tears on the wretched creature’s cheekbone and pinching her cheek like a foolish dotard. ‘Your quarrel should be with me. I gave permission.’
Miles peeled off his gloves. ‘I leave it to your conscience, Knyvett.’
‘No incident occurred, Rushden.’
‘Not for want of trying it seems.’ He deliberately blocked Mistress Ballaster’s way, mainly because he wanted to be difficult and it seemed a temporary measure to keep the lid on his temper.
‘Where’s my puppy?’ demanded the boy petulantly, rousing his face from the girl’s bodice, and the large archer materialised like an obedient sheepdog to wind the string around the sticky fist.
‘Your pardon, sirs,’ Heloise cut in breathlessly, ‘I-I must have Lord Stafford bathed straightway.’ Preferably before his father saw him! She was desperate to escape the stares of the throng about her. Not only was Rushden clearly itching to upbraid her, but Brecknock had suddenly become unfamiliar, peopled with strangers, and she was bone weary. Ned seemed to weigh heavier with every step as she navigated the barrels and the coffers, and made for cover where the hawks who ruled this alien world could not fly at her.
‘Lady Haute!’
A new voice assailed her before she had taken a few paces. The jingle of spurred boots on the cobbles hastened. She faltered and turned.
A profusion of freckles, almost obliterating the milkwhite complexion beneath, spattered the handsome face of the youngish man who had followed her. She was aware of hair the colour of mace lapping back from a high forehead and secured at his nape with a leather string, of snowy sleeves bursting out of slashed velvet sleeves, and the expensive embroidery, the golden knots, in militant downward rows upon his doublet. Blue eyes glittered with a mercurial mischief that made the man hard to decipher.
‘Surely this cannot be my son?’ This duke did not have the calm authority of Richard of Gloucester, but his tone carried the insolent freedom of high rank. He probably expected her to be humbled by his attention but Heloise was tired of the chilling wind, the meandering rain, men, and fathers in particular. Although Miles Rushden might frighten her, she was not in awe of his betters. Living in my lord of Gloucester’s household had cured her of such inhibitions.
‘Is this my son?’ he repeated.
‘I suppose he must be,’ replied Heloise, her normal composure irritated, and blushed, realising she had just cuckolded the Duke of Buckingham’s manhood and spattered the virtue of the queen’s sister. ‘I-I mean if you are my lord of Buckingham then—’
The duke’s expression did not change; clearly he had learned not to show his emotions. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing they were observed: ‘The lady asks if I am Buckingham?’ His gaze astonishingly singled out her husband, but the rest of the Stafford retinue, paused in their unpacking, invited to observe her mortification.
Rushden briskly detached himself from his men, his whole demeanour as purposeful as a hunter. With a sinking heart, Heloise realised that the true confrontation, the humiliating unmasking she had hoped might take place in more favourable circumstances, was upon her now.
Miles stopped short, delaying his intention to proclaim his unwanted wife a calculating, mercenary baggage. What on earth was Harry making of her? Incredibly, despite the drying mud that bedaubed the wench’s hem and the honey stains bespecked with dust upon her bodice, the picky Duke of Buckingham was eyeing Mistress Ballaster with the covert cunning of a horse dealer out for a bargain.
Possessiveness unreasonably overwhelmed Miles; Heloise Ballaster was his to deal with how he pleased and he wanted neither interference nor interest shown in her until he had made up his mind how to be rid of her without the entire castle listening in.
‘Am I the duke, Miles?’
‘Yes, your grace, so please your lady mother.’
Harry turned his head at the sudden formality starching his friend’s voice. ‘How reas
suring.’ With a chill smile that promised the girl further conversation, the duke turned on his heel and strode away.
Heloise let out a quiet breath, and because the bailey was still a mess of people, managed to look her powerful enemy in the face. Tired and chastened, her courage was vanishing as the truth sank into her weary mind. Miles Rushden had been no braggart at Bramley; he was indeed the Duke of Buckingham’s trusted friend and henchman. Ned came to her rescue. He rearranged himself around her, demanding attention, and a flicker of irrational pain, dislike even, showed briefly in Rushden’s face.
‘You shall be called to answer for your actions later, madam,’ he told her coldly and jerked his right hand in dismissal. Well, women could emulate such hauteur too and with a curt nod, she hoicked the child higher and marched away. It was then that the puppy, still ribboned to Ned’s wrist, decided to demolish her dignity by depositing a steaming coil upon the cobbles. Rushden, thank the saints, had already reached the steps to the great hall and did not see.
Guffaws of masculine laughter burst from the soldiers close by. Another time Heloise would have shrugged cheerfully; instead, she hastened towards the nearest bolthole. It turned out embarrassingly to be the entrance to the garrison guardroom and a couple of soldiers caught gossiping in the passageway gaped at her, their expressions turning swiftly predatory, but old Brian had tactfully followed her in. Chuckling, he once more lifted the child from her arms and escorted her towards her quarters as if she were the one who needed a nursemaid.
Bess, bless her, had a fire warming the nursery and a small cauldron of hot water steaming over the glowing coals. The door to Heloise’s bedchamber had been kindly propped open, so that too was cosy. How wonderful to surrender Ned into Bess’s capable hands. Fragile and thankful to be alone, Heloise crept onto her bed and wept softly into her pillow. Sleep must have claimed her briefly for she dreamed of a large man fishing and laughing while the clouds above gathered into a seething miasma, before a tiny hand shook her shoulder.
‘Mistress Bess has left an ewer for you. I’ve had my bath.’ The child closed the door.
Slowly she bestirred herself, unleashed her hair from the coif and lifted the ewer to the floor, chiding herself for letting the water cool.
‘Why is your hair silver?’ Ned interrupted, returning at an inopportune moment.
Dripping with soapwort, Heloise parted the silver strands and surveyed the crinkled, bath-pink child crouched opposite the basin. It was hard to converse intelligently, kneeling with your forehead upside down in a basin. He repeated his question in case she had water in her ears.
Heloise sighed, wrung her hair, and wrapped a flannel cloth about her head.
‘Yes, Ned, silver and different from yours and Bess’s. Have you noticed people are afraid of anything that is different?’
‘Like my father because he is a duke? Or Benet because his eyes are crossed?’
‘Exactly. And because my hair turned this hue when I was a girl, people fear I am of the elfish folk.’
‘I should like to have a dewines or one of the tylwyth teg for my governess.’ His puckered smile was beseeching.
‘No,’ Heloise shook her head. She could not tell him of the visions, unasked for, frightening.
‘Oooh, could you be a changeling and not know it? I wish I had been one, then I could do mischief at night, turn the milk sour and frighten people.’ He touched her damp hair. ‘It feels the same as mine.’
She kissed her fingertips and transferred the kiss to his little nose. ‘Can we keep this a secret, sweet heart? I do not like people to know, only those I love.’
‘And do you love me? I am not afraid of your hair.’
‘I am right glad of that, and yes I believe I do love you, my little lord.’
Tiny arms slid about her neck, stroking her wet hair back behind her ears. ‘Thank you for taking me to the town. Shall you get beaten?’
‘No, not any more,’ she said firmly. ‘Now shall we take supper in the nursery?’
His reluctant governess was halfway through coaxing buttered leek into him while she unfolded the tale of the Loathly Lady and Sir Gawaine, when Bess knocked to inform her that they were both to attend the duke before supper. To be carpeted, no doubt. Heloise felt sympathy for defenceless rabbits and wondered which might prove her greatest enemy now, the fox-haired duke or his heartless shadow.
*
The lavender damask overgown was elegant but not subversive, Heloise hoped, as she tugged the matching cap down over her coiled braids and made the wire framework that propped her veil comfortable about her ears. Angling the silver mirror back from her, she decided that the gown’s sloping collar, with the respectably high inset of silk across her breasts, surely did not bespeak wantonness nor ambitions above her station. If she could only survive the talons tonight. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and set out for dangerous open meadows.
An astonishing change had taken place. Now that the duke’s retinue had returned, the great hall was almost as grand as Middleham’s. All the candles and cressets were alive with light, logs were burning in the main hearth, tapestries and painted arras hung upon the walls, and a long white cloth, its folds stylishly pleated about a pace apart, covered the board that sat across the dais. A golden salt in the shape of a mermaid presided over the silver platters set before the chair of estate. The long trestles for persons of less estate were already covered with cloths and, as was usual in great lords’ households, messes of bread, each sufficient to serve four, were set at intervals. The delicious smell of roasting meats laced air perfumed with pine.
The hall usher was placing the knights and men-at-arms, but there was not a gentlewoman to be seen.
‘Lady Haute?’ The duke’s chamberlain, Sir Nicholas Latimer, introduced himself. ‘From now on you are to be seated there.’ He pointed his wand of office to a place not far below the dais. ‘But his grace will speak with you in the great chamber first.’
Interested faces watched as she was conducted through the hall and up the steps to the door behind the dais. She had hoped she would be scarcely recognisable as the emburdened nursemaid, but one of the esquires giggled and said ‘woof’ and a knight gave her a wink and a friendly, canine ‘grrr’.
She should have had her hackles raised. His grace of Buckingham, with his leather-slippered heels resting carelessly upon a small table, had already chastened a weeping Bess and was primed like a crossbow to shoot bolts into his next victim’s self-esteem as well. The younger woman drooped before him like a penitent, tearful-eyed and hands piously clasped. Sir William was there too, standing akimbo at the casement, his back huffily turned and thumbs a-twiddle. Had his grace been berating him too, or was it the well-stacked fire that had heightened the older man’s colour?
‘Lady Haute.’ The tone was mocking. Ringed fingers directed Bess to step aside and make room for the new prisoner. If this had been Middleham, his grace of Gloucester would have taken Heloise’s hand courteously; this duke remained seated. She curtsied; it was one of her best and wasted since he did not acknowledge it.
‘You are younger than we expected.’
‘I have sufficient grey hairs, so please your grace.’
Buckingham’s expression remained inscrutable at her impertinence and he rose irritably and paced to the hearth, fingers slapping against knuckles behind his back. There was a sense of player about him, Heloise realised, and wondered how long he expected her to quiver in servile trepidation before he turned to deliver a coup de grâce. ‘I believe, however, that I have established a satisfactory understanding with your son, my lord,’ she informed his back in her most cheerful manner.
‘Satisfactory understanding,’ he echoed scathingly, swinging round to face her. Heloise waited for the blast and it came with excellent timing. ‘Taking my son where there is risk of infection.’ He let that sink in and continued in chilling tones: ‘Wasting good money on trinkets and some pesty cur when our castle is overrun with a plague of puppies al
ready.’
‘That may be true, my lord,’ she countered, ‘but Lord Stafford did not wheeze a single time at the market and Bess has bathed the little dog most diligently and combed out all its fleas. Has Ned spoken with you yet? He was most anxious to tell you about the sword swallower.’
A swift sideways glance came at her; Sir William sucked in his cheeks and displayed a sudden artistic interest in the gilded ribs of the ceiling.
‘Sword swallower!’ Buckingham folded his arms, intending no doubt to stare her down. ‘Would you by any chance be telling me my business?’
‘Yes, your grace.’ Investing in another curtsey, Heloise raised candid eyes to discover that he was not looking at her.
‘What do you say, Miles? Shackle the lady in our best dungeon with a score of Brecknock’s largest rats?’
Her husband left the doorway and stepped past her skirts. The smooth cut of his unembellished grey doublet made Buckingham’s hectic brocade and glittery buttons fulsome. ‘Oh yes,’ he answered dryly, ‘as many as will make her merry,’ and half-seated himself upon the table, one of his splendid hanging sleeves almost touching her knees.
‘Rats have feelings too, your grace,’ answered Heloise recklessly, and stood up unbidden. ‘Do you need to punish them as well?’
But the duke’s amusement had been merely stubble-deep. ‘Dear God, my lady, are you seriously expecting me to surrender my son into your seditious keeping? You will have him wishing to be a silly ploughman.’
Heloise shook her head, ‘I did consider ploughing might keep him occupied for half an hour but no, I do not think that is a good notion, so please you.’
‘Ploughing,’ echoed his grace ambiguously, exchanging looks with Rushden. Sucking in his cheeks, he turned to face the fire again, leaving Heloise confused as to whether she was being indulged, condemned or merely laughed at. It also left her almost nose to nose with her enigmatic husband.
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