by Mary Wine
It hurt worse than anything she might have imagined. But the tips of the swords being pointed at him gave her the strength to move away from him. The only pain that would be worse was to see his blood staining those weapons.
She would rather see her own upon the steel.
Instead she felt her heart beating while she forced her feet to keep taking steps that sent pain through her with each crunch of the ice beneath the soles of her boots. The pain continued to grow as she was assisted up and onto the back of a horse. Her breath made white clouds but she was certain that the reason was the bitter chill coming from her heart. It was freezing solid like a lake, while she looked back to see Synclair watching her with eyes the same shade as ice. She would have sworn that she heard him inside her thoughts, for she certainly felt his rage.
But that did not stop the King’s men from turning toward Whitehall palace. They took her with them, but what finally sent the tears in her eyes spilling down her cheeks was the sight of half of those men remaining. They began to march up the stairs and into the house to begin their occupation of it. Who knew how long they would stay? Or if Synclair would escape further punishment for keeping her.
The Viscount Biddeford had many powerful friends, and it was very possible that Synclair might be sent to the tower. More than one man had lost his head for charges that were frivolous. Her heart ached more and she began to pray.
It was the only hope she had left.
Traveling was hard.
The roads were packed with snow that had frozen during the night. It made the horses struggle to make the distance to Whitehall, the animals fighting for every pace while the men marching were forced to follow behind in narrow columns, or break ice themselves.
The men in their armor must have felt the chill cutting into their flesh and it disgusted Justina to think of so much suffering for such an inglorious cause.
Well there was one thing that was worth going out into the winter weather, and that was the fact that her son was left behind, secretly safe. She did trust Synclair with more than her own welfare, but with the most important thing to her heart.
You love him ...
Justina tightened her grip around the reins and tried to force her mind onto logical thoughts. Somehow, she seemed to have lost the ability to view her life in terms of what was best and most reasonable.
Love was an insanity ...
She’d heard that said by too many to count, the Church, her father, and many other knowledgeable men. Yet none of it changed how she felt, and she realized that she did not lament the affection warming her heart.
It was the thing that kept her alive while the winter ice kept the forest and the rest of the world its prisoner. In her heart she felt that love warm away every shred of despair, leaving only a deep ache for the separation she must suffer.
That thought sobered her, for it was an all too familiar one. Whitehall came into view and she cast her gaze onto it. A deep shudder shook her, distaste welling up inside her until her stomach was nauseated with it. She doubted that she had ever loathed a place so much as she did the palace her horse was carrying her toward. Already the roads were beginning to be used by those intent on spending the day currying favor within its walls.
All Justina saw waiting for her was more demands. Rebellion rose up inside her so thick, it threatened to choke her, but she didn’t struggle against it. She suddenly understood how women chose death over dishonor. They did it because they loved and that feeling was far more important than even continuing to breathe. Still, the face of her son rose from her thoughts and she couldn’t help but be happy that she had suffered her years as a wife, for it had brought Brandon to her. Surviving had offered her the chance to taste Synclair’s kiss, and in spite of the ache burning in her heart now, she could not wish away the hours she had spent wrapped in his loving embrace. They had been the most precious ones of her life.
She would cling to the memory and hold it dear while the palace grew larger and the scent of unwashed bodies grew stronger. Along with the people moving toward Whitehall were the animals that took them there. In the grey winter morning, men badgered their beasts forward, while mothers lectured their daughters from inside closed chairs that were held between horses on long poles or sometimes carried by men. Now that the roads had frozen, carriages were kept in the stables so that the wheels might not be damaged by the ice. Men sat in the saddle, wearing fur-lined half coats with the collar turned up to protect their necks from the wind. They all struggled to reach Whitehall and the promise of power that it beckoned with. All Justina thought when she looked at the majestic building was that it was the most horrible sight she had ever seen.
But her escort carried on, moving steadily forward until they took her beneath the raised gate and into the lower courtyard. One man offered her a hand to dismount from her horse and her feet landed on the frozen ground in the yard. She could feel the ice through the soles of her shoes and it sent her lips up in a small smile.
The chill, she decided, was very fitting.
“The Lady Wincott, my Lord Biddeford.”
“Ah yes, thank you, Captain.”
Justina felt her eyes narrow with suspicion, for Biddeford sounded more cheerful than she could recall him being in a very long time. On another occasion, she might have even found his words polite, possibly charming, but she knew the man too well. The King’s man even looked surprised by the pleasant greeting, but he inclined his head and left before the viscount had time to alter his mood.
Justina remained still and watched the viscount. He stood in the midst of his grooms with his hands outstretched so that the men might dress him. They moved around him on hushed steps while securing his cuffs and waistband before a velvet doublet was brought forward and eased up his arms. Another groom began to use a small silver hook to pull the buttons through their holes. In spite of the daylight making its way through the open window shutters, candles were burning on the long table near the wall. Justina stared at the waste, disgusted by the greediness that had Biddeford expecting more light than the winter day provided. She noticed every detail that failed to measure up to Synclair and there seemed to be no tolerance inside her for the shortcomings. But she had to give Synclair time to send her son north. A few hours, but they felt like months now that she knew that the man in front of her would very shortly lose his grip on her. Patience, she needed patience, and it felt like she had none at all.
“I am pleased to see you, my dear.”
Justina fought the urge to choke. Biddeford turned to look at her, his lips settled into a smirk that at least she knew well. There was also a familiar look of triumph in his eyes that warned her the man was scheming, as he always was.
Just a few more hours ...
Justina swallowed her rebellion and dug her own fingernail into her hand to keep her from speaking the truth. There was another thing that she had enjoyed full well while with Synclair—the ability to speak freely. Silence was essential, for Biddeford would assume that she was properly fearful of his wrath. She kept her lips pressed together but heard another male voice speak up from the other side of the chamber.
“I find myself very happy to see you as well.”
Every muscle along her back tightened in pain. Francis de Canis sounded as insidious as her memory recalled, and he chuckled, the sound drawing her around to face him fast enough to make her skirts twist. She knew too well what his tone meant and every inch of her flesh refused the lust shining in his eyes. De Canis read the rebellion in her gaze and it made his lips twitch in enjoyment. Justina had to fight back her disgust for him. His lust for her was an ugly thing, even more so now that she knew how it felt to be loved.
“There now, you see, Francis? I have delivered what I promised. My ward will be residing at Whitehall for the rest of the winter.”
Justina clenched her hands into fists, every inch of her flesh repulsed by the man running his gaze over her. The lust in his eyes sickened her but it also inspired a flare of re
jection that was too hot and too large to ignore.
“I will not lie with you, sir.” She turned to look at Biddeford. “Nor with anyone that you attempt to direct me toward.”
The viscount’s eyes narrowed but Francis de Canis laughed. His voice echoed between the walls of the chamber while his face reflected how much he enjoyed her rejection.
“Good. That will make the moment so much more satisfying when I come for you, my sweet Baroness. You have my promise that you will not see it coming.”
The viscount cleared his throat, drawing de Canis’s gaze to him.
“I am not finished gaining what I desire. Did you bring the man or not?”
De Canis didn’t bother to mask his disgust over Biddeford demanding more attention. “He’s on his way.”
There was a scuffle beyond the outer doors to the viscount’s chambers and de Canis turned to open the doors wide. Several rough-looking men hurried another man inside and closed the doors quickly behind him.
“This is most improper, I say!” The man wore the longer robe of the Church of England. His cap was sitting somewhat askew as he was sent another few steps toward the viscount by a solid shove.
“Most improper, I tell you! What is the justification for this rough handling?” His face was flushed red, and he was sputtering with his outrage, words failing him, but that didn’t keep him from glaring at every man in the room. Justina felt a tingle cross her nape when he turned his eye upon her and she lowered herself. The man was a bishop and held a great deal of power in his own right. Biddeford was acting a fool to treat the man so, but that only sent another shiver down her spine. There was a look of victory in the viscount’s eyes that warned her that the worst was yet to be revealed.
“Forgive me, my good Bishop, but I am intent on righting a great wrong that I have done and I need your blessing.”
“A great wrong? Sir, having your ruffians drag me from my morning prayers is a great wrong! There is nothing of man, no issue of earthly life, that is of greater importance than kneeling in penitence to my Lord each morning before I do a single other thing. To do so is to place man above God and I shall not do such a thing.”
The viscount made a noise beneath his breath that at last struck Justina as familiar. She tilted her head and looked at him to see him frowning at the bishop. His arrogance was truly overgrown now, for he wasn’t even repentant in the face of the man of the Church. Only the King was above the Church, and even the great Henry Tudor had asked the Church for what he wanted.
Biddeford didn’t seem to care very much about the bishop’s displeasure. His grooms were still working hooks and buttons, while another stood quietly waiting with a hat perched carefully in his hands, awaiting his lord’s pleasure. The bishop snorted and turned toward the closed doors but de Canis blocked his way, earning another smothered sound of outrage.
“Remove yourself from that doorway immediately or risk the wrath of the Church!” The bishop shook a thick finger at de Canis.
“My matter is great, sir, and you will be compensated for your time.” Biddeford snapped his fingers and his secretary held up a solid gold coin. The flash of bright gold made the bishop snap his lips shut with a small click of his teeth. Obviously even being a humble servant of the Church didn’t keep him from thinking twice when it came to choosing between his morning prayers and solid gold.
Perhaps soiled was a better word. Justina had to bite her lip to maintain an expressionless mask over her features.
“I trust that your outrage is sufficiently appeased, sir?”
Justina had to quell the urge to smile yet again. The viscount was too arrogant by far. Bishops had a great deal of power under the King’s new English Church and they enjoyed it every bit as well as Biddeford liked his position. The viscount might just discover that he was not the only one with a large ego and the power to flaunt it.
The bishop drew himself up stiffly, his nose rising into the air. “Matters of God are not for hire nor negotiation.”
“Nonsense, of course you can negotiate. I require you to perform a wedding, sir. Is that not a service you do provide?” Biddeford looked at his secretary and the man held up a second coin.
Justina felt a prickle of foreboding invade her. Dread began to twist through her as she looked about the room.
“I will be most agreeable to giving you the blessing of the Church, once you are in a church, sir.”
“That will not be possible. I need to wed here and now before the gossips have anything to sharpen their tongues with.” The hat was placed on the viscount’s head and he made a small sound of satisfaction while admiring his appearance in a mirror. He turned when he was finished inspecting his reflection to find the bishop frowning at him.
“My good Bishop, this cannot be the first early morning wedding that you have performed in order to cover up an excess of nighttime passion.”
There was a poorly smothered laugh from de Canis. Biddeford snapped his fingers at his secretary.
“My good man has all the papers penned and with your seal on the matter, there will be no need for any gossip about Bessie Portshire and her lack of virtue this morning.”
“What have you done to Bessie?”
The viscount turned a deadly glare to her. “You shall remember your place, Justina! Do not mistake my good humor for any manner of forgetfulness of what trouble you have put me to these last few days.” He snapped his fingers once again and pointed his secretary toward the long table that ran along the wall.
“The women in this country still do not appear to know their place.”
The bishop began nodding. “A woman should have a husband and follow his direction. That is God’s order.”
The viscount slowly smiled. “Perhaps we should have a pair of weddings this morning. How does that strike you, Francis?”
“I want guardianship of her son, too.”
Biddeford scoffed at him. “You ask too much. I am keeping that boy and his fortune. You can wed her and gain her widow’s thirds but I will not transfer the guardianship.”
“Where is Bessie?” Justina didn’t bother to protest about Biddeford’s suggestion that she wed de Canis. The man wouldn’t listen to her will in any event. What ate at her too much to ignore was her rising fear for her friend.
He clapped his hands and his grooms snapped to attention. “Bring me my bride! Bishop, name your price but set your signet ring into wax and wed me, for I have spent the night in sin with Bessie Portshire.”
“The Duke of Portshire’s daughter? Are you mad? That man is known for his affection toward his only daughter.”
“An affection that smothered her, I tell you! I have paid her court for many months and her father’s jealousy has been a barrier between us until last night when we took solace in each other’s company.”
“That is a lie! Bessie refused your suit, she told me so.”
Biddeford chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down Justina’s back for she knew it too well. The cruelness that she had so often tasted from his hand had clearly been dealt out to her friend.
The curtains were shoved aside and Bessie stumbled into the room. She wore only a tattered chemise that was stained brown with her own virgin’s blood. The girl’s hair was pulled from its neat coif in many places and she stumbled on one shoe. Justina gasped and caught her friend before she collapsed onto her knees. Bessie shook, quivering like a dry leaf in a strong wind. Her hands were as cold as ice and clutched desperately at her arms, while her eyes were full of wild fear.
“I ... can ... can ... not ... remember... .” Her voice was dry and hollow. Justina looked at her closer, for the pupils of her eyes looked too large. It was unnatural and the scent of spices on her breath brewed suspicion in Justina.
“What did you give her, Biddeford? You have used foul means to do this deed.”
The bishop looked up from where he faced the door. His face drained of color as he took in Bessie’s stained chemise.
“What matters is that I
have had her, and there is no bruise upon her to prove rape.”
“That does not mean it wasn’t rape, sirrah!” Justina spat out the insult without any hesitation. Brandon had Synclair now, and she would trust in her knight to safeguard her child. That knowledge allowed her to cast aside the chains that had bound her in obedience to the horrible creature standing in front of her.
“Bessie is not in her right mind and that ensures foul means.”
The viscount’s lips twisted into a smirk. “But she is quite well and truly deflowered. There are witnesses to her loss of virtue which makes it very much in her interest to wed me.”
“Before the rest of the court learns the colorful details of last evening.” Francis de Canis spoke up, his tone full of enjoyment. “And be very sure that they will know of it, in graphic detail, if the Bishop does not wed the couple immediately.”
“No ... don’t... .” Justina soothed her friend’s arms, feeling her temper rise up in defense of the kindhearted girl.
“You are both villains of the worst sort.”
Biddeford turned his back on them and pointed at the bishop. “I have had her and there is no sign of rape. Marry up!—now, or face the scandal that this event will produce in this court.”
“A scandal that will darken your name.”
The viscount turned a furious look at her but Justina refused to remain silent. No woman deserved to be bound to such a man.
“I do assure you that I will survive the storm of gossip.” He turned to look at the bishop. “Bessie will no doubt cry at her father’s feet and swear that it was all my fault. He is far too soft with the girl, otherwise she would not have been able to spend the night here, with me, without being discovered. Think of the example it will set for everyone if she doesn’t have to wed me.”