by Jane Feather
Phoebe’s cry of delight was loud enough to wake the dead.
AN HOUR LATER Olivia tiptoed over the sand to where Anthony sat sketching on his rock, his back to the cliff. He was completely absorbed and around him sheets of discarded paper fluttered gently under the sea breeze. He must have been drawing ever since she had left.
She stopped on the sand and gazed at him, delighting in him, feeling almost as if she was stealing something from him by watching him when he was so unaware of her presence. Would the intensity of this love ever diminish? Sometimes it was so piercing it was as close to pain as joy.
“Come closer,” he said softly without turning or raising his head. “I want to look at something.”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I always know when you’re near.” He looked up now as she reached him. “You’ve been crying.”
“Yes, a lot.”
“Kneel down.” He gestured to the sand at his feet.
Olivia knelt and he reached forward and touched the hollow of her throat.
“This is what’s been eluding me. This little pointy bit of your collarbone.”
He went back to his drawing and she picked up the scattered papers. The sketches that covered them were all of her. Of her face caught in a dozen different expressions. She stayed kneeling in front of him, waiting for him to be finished.
“Are you very unhappy?” he asked.
“A little sad, but also happy. He understands. He doesn’t like it, but he accepts it. Did you want a dowry?”
“Doxies don’t come with dowries.”
“No, I suppose they don’t.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on his knee. “Kiss me.”
“All in good time.”
Olivia smiled and leaned in to brush the tip of her tongue over his mouth. “I am not in the mood to play second fiddle to a mere image of me.” She began to kiss his face, dry little baby kisses on his eyebrows, his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin.
Pen and paper fell to the sand as he drew her between his knees. “Now you belong only to me,” he stated with a soft finality that sent a shiver down her spine. “Body and soul, only to me.”
“As you belong to me,” she responded, drawing her head back to look deep into his eyes. “We are in thrall, you and I. Each to the other.”
The incoming tide sent wavelets creeping up the beach, but they were oblivious of all but the connection that bound them, the certainty of their union, sealed within their own circle of entrancement.
Epilogue
LONDON, JANUARY 30, 1649
“CHARLES STUART, for levying war against the present Parliament and people therein represented, shall be put to death by beheading, as a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and public enemy of the good people of this land.”
From the steps of the scaffold erected before the ban-queting-house at the palace of Whitehall, the herald’s voice rang out across the heads of the crowd. Thousands upon thousands gathered before Whitehall Gate to witness this judicial punishment of a sovereign.
The king mounted the scaffold. A dreadful expectant silence fell over the huge mass of people. Some stood on tiptoe to see over the serried ranks of soldiers surrounding the scaffold.
The king was bareheaded, his hair tied at his nape. He handed his coat to an attendant and himself removed his cravat and loosened his shirt collar. He turned to address the crowd but his voice could not carry across the deep ranks of soldiers.
In the front of the crowd, Anthony stood with his arm around Ellen Leyland. When the king knelt before the block, she turned her head into his shoulder, her body shaken with sobs.
Olivia put a hand on Ellen’s arm, offering her own silent comfort, but she could not take her eyes away from the scaffold. She watched, numbed, as the executioner raised his axe. The hush was profound. Thousands of people stood immobile, barely breathing.
The axe fell.
At the same moment, a great groan went up from the crowd, a collective moan of horror and grief.
Olivia saw her father and Rufus, standing motionless and bareheaded at the foot of the scaffold. Their names had not been among the fifty-nine signatures on the king’s death warrant. But they stood there now, stony-faced, Parliamentary witnesses to the death of Charles Stuart.
“Is it over?” Ellen whispered, unable to raise her eyes.
“Aye, ’tis over,” Anthony said softly. He followed Olivia’s gaze to where Lords Granville and Rothbury stood grim and immobile. He put his free arm around Olivia.
She leaned into him for a moment. So at last it was over. What had begun on a summer’s day eight years earlier had come full circle. Eight years of war. Eight years of bloodshed. What had begun with an execution had ended with one. She could still hear in her head the persistent raucous screams of the mob on that May afternoon in 1641 as the earl of Strafford lost his head on Tower Hill. There were no such triumphant cries today, only this somber grief-filled silence.
And what of the future?
She looked up at Anthony. Whatever happened in England now, her future and his were bound together with the indissoluble chains of love. Portia and Rufus, Cato and Phoebe, herself and Anthony. Love bound them all, and only love would direct the future.
JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over six million copies of her books in print.
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Prologue
DERBYSHIRE, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER, 1536
THE WOMAN STOOD by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.
She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.
The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.
“By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.
The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.
For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt he bellowed in drunken rage.
As he reached her, one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes, she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.
For a second he seemed to hover at the very brink of the dark space beyond the low-silled window, then he twisted and fell. A shriek of astounded terror accompanied his plunge to the flagstones beneath.
The woman twitched aside the curtain so that she could look down without being seen. At first in the dark depths below the window she could make out nothing, then came the sound of upraised voices, the tread of many feet; light flickered as torchmen came runn
ing from the four corners of the courtyard. And now, in the light, she could see the dark crumpled shape of her husband.
How small he looked, she thought, clasping her elbows across her breast with a little tremor. So much malevolence, so much violence, reduced, deflated, to that inert heap.
And then she seemed to come to life. She moved back swiftly to the far side of the chamber where a small door gave onto the garderobe. She slipped into the small privy and stood for a second, listening. Running feet sounded in the corridor beyond her chamber. There was a loud knocking, then she heard the latch lift. As the door was flung wide she stepped out of the garderobe, hastily smoothing down her skirts.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway in her night-robe, her head tucked beneath a white linen cap. “Ay! Ay! Ay!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What is it, my chuck? What has happened here?” Behind her, curious faces pressed over her shoulder.
The woman spoke to those faces, her voice measured, calming. “I don’t know, Tilly. Lord Stephen came in while I was in the garderobe. He called to me. I was occupied … I couldn’t come to him immediately. He grew impatient … but …” She gave a little helpless shrug. “In his agitation, he must have lost his balance … fallen from the window. I didn’t see what happened.”
“Ay … ay … ay,” the other woman repeated, almost to herself. “And ’tis the fourth! Lord-a-mercy.” She fell silent as the younger woman fixed her with a hard, commanding stare.
“Lord Stephen was drunk,” the younger woman said evenly. “Everyone knew it … in the hall, at table. He could barely see straight. I must go down.” She hurried past the woman, past the crowd of gaping servants, gathering her skirts to facilitate her step.
Her steward came running across the great hall as she came down the stairs. “My lady … my lady … such a terrible thing.”
“What happened, Master Crowder? Does anyone know?”
The black-clad steward shook his head and the unloosened lappets of his bonnet flapped at his ears like crow’s wings. “Did you not see it, my lady. We thought you must have known what happened. ’Twas from your chamber window that he fell.”
“I was in the garderobe,” she said shortly. “Lord Stephen was drunk, Master Crowder. He must have lost his footing … his balance. It was ever thus.”
“Aye, ’tis true enough, madam. ’Twas ever thus with his lordship.” The steward followed her out into the courtyard where a crowd stood around the fallen man.
They gave way before the lady of the house who knelt on the cobbles beside her husband. His neck was at an odd angle and blood pooled beneath his head. She placed a finger for form’s sake against the pulse in his neck. Then with a sigh sat back on her heels, the dark folds of her gown spreading around her.
“Where is Master Grice?”
“Here, my lady.” The priest came running from his little lodging behind the chapel, adjusting his gown as he came. “I heard the commotion, but I …” He stopped as he reached the body. His rosary beads clicked between his fingers as he gazed down and said with a heavy sigh, “May the lord have mercy on his soul.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Lord Stephen’s wife. She rose to her feet in a graceful movement. “Take my lord’s body to the chapel to be washed and prepared. We will say a mass at dawn. He will lie in state for the respects of the household and the peasants before his burial tomorrow evening.”
She turned and made her way back through the crowd, back into the house, ducking her head as she stepped through the small door that was set into the larger one to keep the cold and the draughts from invading the hall.
Lady Guinevere was a widow once more.
One
LONDON, APRIL, 1537
“HOW MANY HUSBANDS did you say?” The king turned his heavy head towards Thomas Cromwell, his Lord Privy Seal. His eyes rested with almost languid indifference on his minister’s grave countenance, but no one in the king’s presence chamber at Hampton Court believed in that indifference.
“Four, highness.”
“And the lady is of what years?”
“Eight and twenty, highness.”
“She has been busy it would seem,” Henry mused.
“It would seem a husband has little luck in the lady’s bed,” a voice remarked dryly from a dark paneled corner of the chamber.
The king’s gaze swung towards a man of tall and powerful build, dressed in black and gold. A man whose soldierly bearing seemed ill suited to his rich dress, the tapestry-hung comforts of the chamber, the whispers, the spies, the gossip-mongering of King Henry’s court. He had an air of impatience, of a man who preferred to be doing rather than talking, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes, a natural curve to his mouth, and his voice was as dry as sere leaves.
“It would seem you have the right of it, Hugh,” the king responded. “And how is it exactly that these unlucky husbands have met their deaths?”
“Lord Hugh has more precise knowledge than I.” Privy Seal waved a beringed hand towards the man in the corner.
“I have a certain interest, highness.” Hugh of Beau-caire stepped forward into the light that poured through the diamond-paned windows behind the king’s head. “Lady Mallory, as she now is … the widowed Lady Mal-lory … was married to a distant cousin of my father’s when she was sixteen. He was her first husband. There is some family land in dispute. I claim it for my own son. Lady Mallory will entertain no such claim. She has kept every penny, every hectare of land from each of her husbands.”
“No mean feat,” Privy Seal commented. “For a woman.”
“How could she do such a thing?” The king’s eyes gleamed in the deep rolls of flesh in which they were embedded like two bright currants in dough.
“She has some considerable knowledge of the law of property, highness,” Lord Hugh said. “A knowledge the bereaved widow puts into practice before embarking on a new union.”
“She draws up her own marriage contracts?” The king was incredulous. He pulled on his beard, the great carbuncle on his index finger glowing with crimson fire.
“Exactly so, highness.”
“Body of God!”
“In each of her marriages the lady has ensured that on the death of her husband she inherits lock, stock, and barrel.”
“And the husbands have all died …” mused the king.
“Each and every one of them.”
“Are there heirs?”
“Two young daughters. The progeny of her second husband, Lord Hadlow.”
The king shook his head slowly. “Body of God,” he muttered again. “These contracts cannot be overset?”
Privy Seal lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I have had lawyers examining each one with a fine tooth-comb, highness. They are drawn up as right and tight as if witnessed by the Star Chamber itself.”
“Do we join Hugh of Beaucaire in his interest in these holdings?” Henry inquired.
“When one woman owns most of a county as extensive and as rich in resources as Derbyshire, the king and his exchequer have a certain interest,” Privy Seal said. “At the very least, one might be interested in adequate tithing.”
The king was silent for a minute. When he spoke it was again in a musing tone. “And if, of course, foul play were suspected with any of these … uh … untimely deaths, then one would not leave the perpetrator in possession of her ill-gotten gains.”
“Or indeed her head,” Privy Seal murmured.
“Mmm.” The king looked up once more at Lord Hugh. “Do you suspect foul play, my lord?”
“Let us just say that I find the coincidences a little difficult to believe. One husband dies falling off his horse in a stag hunt. Now that, I grant your highness, is a not uncommon occurrence. But then the second is slain by a huntsman’s arrow … an arrow that no huntsman present would acknowledge. The third dies of a sudden and mysterious wasting disease … a man in his prime, vigorous, never known a day’s illness in his life. And the fourth falls from a window … the lady’s
own chamber window … and breaks his neck.”
Lord Hugh tapped off each death on his fingers, a faintly incredulous note in his quiet voice as he enumerated the catalogue.
“Aye, ’tis passing strange,” the king agreed. “We should investigate these deaths, I believe, Lord Cromwell.”
Privy Seal nodded. “Hugh of Beaucaire, it if pleases your highness, has agreed to undertake the task.”
“I have no objection. He has an interest himself after all … but …” Here the king paused, frowning. “One thing I find most intriguing. How is it that the lady has managed to persuade four knights, gentlemen of family and property, to agree to her terms of marriage?”
“Witchcraft, highness.” The Bishop of Winchester in his scarlet robes spoke up for the first time. “There can be no other explanation. Her victims were known to be learned, in full possession of their faculties at the time they made the acquaintance of Lady Guinevere. Only a man bewitched would agree to the terms upon which she insisted. I request that the woman be brought here for examination, whatever findings Lord Hugh makes.”
“Of what countenance is the woman? Do we know?”
“I have here a likeness, made some two years after her marriage to my father’s cousin. She may have changed, of course.” Hugh handed his sovereign a painted miniature set in a diamond-studded frame.
The king examined the miniature. “Here is beauty indeed,” he murmured. “She would have had to have changed considerably to be less than pleasing now.” He looked up, closing his large paw over the miniature. “I find myself most interested in making the acquaintance of this beautiful sorceress, who seems also to be an accomplished lawyer. Whether she be murderer or not, I will see her.”
“It will be a journey of some two months, highness. I will leave at once.” Hugh of Beaucaire bowed, waited for a second to see if the sovereign’s giant hand would disgorge the miniature, and when it became clear that it was lost forever, bowed again and left the chamber.