by Olga Daniels
“So? What are you doing here?”
Richard looked puzzled.
“That is what I wonder every day,” Meg answered. “Why am I here, Richard? Why are you trying so hard to change me? What was wrong with me before you brought me to this place?”
“Nothing, Meg. I have no wish to change you.” A husky note deepened his voice. The tone in which he spoke, caressingly soft, affected her. It weakened her, as if she had been struck by a blow in the ribs, but there was no pain, only an overwhelming joy.
Olga Daniels
A Royal Engagement
OLGA DANIELS
lives in a sixteenth-century reed-thatched farmhouse in Norfolk. Her study overlooks the beautiful gardens created by her husband, Stan. History clings to the ancient ivy-clad flint walls, the nearby round-towered Saxon church and the waterways and marshes of Broadland. It is a lovely, lonely place, the inspiration for Olga’s tales of romance and intrigue. “Love is the most intangible of all human emotions,” she says, but she has no doubt of its existence, its strength and its power.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter One
1539
It was market day in Norwich, and the city was crowded. Not only had the countryfolk walked in from the villages and hamlets round about, but most of them had brought in livestock and produce to sell. Anything and everything that might be marketable was penned or tied up or offered in baskets or sacks. On that fine summer day most of the people who lived within the high flint walls of the city were also out, filling the narrow streets. They were haggling and bargain-hunting, drinking and eating, or just gathered together for a good old gossip.
Meg, or Lady Margaret Thurton to give her full name, was threading her way back towards the nunnery, with a rush basket hooked on one arm. She lifted her skirts in a hopeless attempt to prevent them from being muddied and messed by the muck and puddles left by passing animals, or the even more unpleasant rubbish tipped from the overhanging upper storeys of the houses that lined the street. She shouldered her way through the crowd, just as everyone else did, and she was dressed just as everyone else was, too, in rough homespun garments.
She hurried down Goat Lane and turned into Pottergate, aware that she had been out for longer than usual for she had found poor old Betsy Carter so ill she could no longer move from the straw mattress on which she lay, crippled with arthritis. Meg had administered a dose of physic she had made from herbs grown in the priory garden or gathered from the heath beyond the city walls.
“Bless you, my dear,” the old woman murmured as she settled back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
She was so weak and frail that Meg was reluctant to leave her, for there was no one to look after her other than her husband, Davy, and he was blind and rather soft in the head, and more often out of the house, as now, than at home. Meg sat on beside old Betsy, gently holding her thin, twisted hand.
“I was so sorry to hear that your dear mother had died,” Betsy said, and tears glistened in her eyes. “I remember so clearly when she first brought you to see me. You were but a wee mite of a thing then.”
“That must be fourteen years ago—I was about three years old—” Meg broke off, too choked to continue.
Her mother, Lady Elizabeth Thurton, had then been newly widowed, and had been forced to flee when her villainous brother-in-law, Edmund, Earl Thurton, had seized all his older brother’s property: the castle, its vast estates and his wealth. His heartbroken widow had had no strength to resist the Earl’s claims. When she had protested, he had threatened physical violence, not only towards herself, but also to little Meg.
Knowing him to be utterly ruthless, Lady Elizabeth had fled to the nunnery on the outskirts of Norwich, where the Prioress was a distant relation. She had received them coolly, but as part of her religious duty had provided all that they needed, including the privacy of a small suite of rooms, befitting their noble status. There they had lived in modest comfort, frugally but in safety, and Meg had known no other life.
Now everything was to change. There was fear throughout the order. King Henry VIII had issued an edict for the dissolution of all religious houses, and that included the Benedictine nunnery. The future was uncertain for all the inmates, and Meg had nowhere to go, no one to whom she could turn. The one thing she knew for certain was that she had no calling for the religious life. A shiver of fear ran over her at the unknown future.
“You better go, my lady,” old Betsy said. “Don’t you worry about me—”
She would soon drift away into a sleep partly induced by the herbal sedatives.
“I’ll come again tomorrow,” Meg promised, though even as she said it she wondered if Betsy would last another day. As always, she was saddened to realise how little she could do to ease the sufferings of the poor people.
Now, out in the narrow street, she struggled through the crowd, making her way back to the priory as quickly as she could.
“Clear the way.” An imperious voice was raised above the cries of vendors and the chatter of country voices.
The shout was reinforced by the clatter of horses’ hooves.
“Make way for your betters, you scum.”
Meg looked behind her in amazement; there was scarcely space for pedestrians, let alone horses. Men and women pressed back under the eaves of the overhanging houses, pulling their children with them, lifting the smallest for safety. A narrow gap was opened, through which the horsemen were proceeding, three of them, their magnificent steeds walking, tossing their heads, blowing foam from wide nostrils, as if they had been ridden hard and disliked this slow pace.
Then Meg noticed old blind Davy. He was standing immediately in the path of the horses, gazing around him, bewildered and afraid, not knowing which way to go, unable to understand what was happening.
“Watch out, Davy,” shouted someone. “Hosses a’comin’.”
One of the horsemen flicked a whip in the direction of the old man; it caught him on the shoulder of his ragged shirt. He tried to turn, to move, too quickly, and his feet slipped in the slime of the gutter. He fell in the path of the horseman.
“Out of the way, old man. Make way for Sir Richard.”
Meg dashed forward. She glared at the horseman. He sat high in the saddle, a dismissive sneer on his haughty face, lank blond hair hanging from beneath his blue velvet cap. His expression betrayed a callous disregard for the people around him.
“Move back,” she shouted.
“Tell him to get up—quick—or he’ll be trampled under the horse,” the man growled impatiently.
“Give him time—and space,” Meg flung back at the horseman. “Old Davy can’t see—”
“Shouldn’t be out in the street, then.” Sir Richard’s man tried to push Meg aside, but she stepped forward and stood defiantly between the horses and old Davy.
“He has as much right as anyone to be out on the King’s highway,” Meg said, loud and clear.
“Leave him, Gervase.” The voice was coolly authoritative.
She looked beyond the first rider and caught the eyes of the gentleman behind him, instantly assessing him to be the highest ranking of the three, the one referred to as Sir Richard. The third man remained a few paces behind. He might once have been handsome, b
ut his face was disfigured by a scar that puckered his left cheek. Sir Richard, mounted on a powerful black charger, towered over all. Dark brown hair curled up the sides of his flat hat of crimson velvet, decorated with an ostrich plume. He was richly clad in a broad-shouldered doublet, cut square, revealing a strong neck that proclaimed strength and masculinity, and he carried his head proudly.
He returned her gaze and she felt her heartbeat quicken. She was unaccustomed to such a searching look from a gentleman. It infuriated her, yet she gazed back at him, strangely mesmerised, for there was something arresting about his face, something that demanded respect. And though she did not find it handsome—it was too rugged for that—she could not help admiring the strength of his cleanshaven features.
His expression, however, showed only disdain, making her aware not only of the poverty of her costume, but also how dirty and dishevelled she had become from the muddy gutters and the animals’ droppings. Still she stared back at him, determined not to allow herself to be cowed by this man, despite the curious effect he was having upon her.
“If he’s your grandfather, you should take better care of him, young woman,” he said.
He spoke slowly, with an edge to his voice, as if he had chosen his words deliberately to annoy her, or maybe just to test her reaction. All the while he continued to run his eyes over her, and, inexperienced though she was, she knew that look was triggered by the male in him. How dare he regard her like that? Yet she could not deny that something deep in her being throbbed in response—and that infuriated her.
“You should watch where you’re going,” Meg replied, with a sharp toss of her head.
She might at that moment look like the scum of the earth, and was indeed virtually penniless, but she knew her own standing. Through her mother she was descended from one of the ancient kings of England, though she could never remember which. Her self-esteem and the rightness of her attitude gave her assurance and enabled her to stand her ground.
Sir Richard reined in his horse, bringing it to a standstill as the crowd gathered around, listening in awed silence to Meg’s boldness. They knew her as the young lady from the priory who, as a child, had accompanied her mother on errands of mercy to the poor. When the sweet and kind Lady Elizabeth had become too ill to carry on with her mission, Meg had continued to visit those in greatest need. She was safe amongst them, even though she walked alone, taking herbs and lotions to those who were sick, loaves of bread to the starving. They would have defended her if one of their own had dared to molest her, but to challenge the powerful lords, as she was doing now, was a different matter.
Her usually soft blue eyes flashed with fury, but she controlled it and spoke with her normal cultured precision of tone, which was directed at Sir Richard.
“Kindly move back, sir.”
Careless of her own safety, she moved almost under the nose of the great horse. She heard the intake of breath from the crowd, followed by a tense silence. She stood absolutely rigid, staring up at Sir Richard. She had never been so frightened in her life. Time seemed to stand still. Then unexpectedly he lifted his elegant velvet hat in a flamboyant gesture, which could have been gallant had not a sardonic smile twisted one corner of his shapely lips. Then, to her relief, he drew his horse two steps back.
Immediately Meg put a hand under the blind man’s arm. “Are you all right, Davy?” she asked gently.
“My lady—help me. Please help me.” He recognised her voice.
“It’s all right.” She spoke to him calmly. “Try to stand.”
“You knows I doesn’t mean no harm.”
“I know, Davy. I won’t let them hurt you,” she said. “Now, then, up on to your feet.”
A young man came forward out of the crowd and took hold of Davy’s other arm. Everyone had been afraid to get involved until Meg had moved, but now several willing hands reached out and helped the old man back close against the walls of the houses.
Only Meg now prevented the horsemen from moving on again. She was very much aware of them. The breath from the horses’ nostrils wafted over the thin linen of her cap and she kept a watchful eye on their strong sinewy legs. Their hooves pawed restively on the cobblestones; the animals were anxious to move on. She had to trust their riders to hold them back, yet forced herself to ignore them, hiding her fear. She didn’t mean to look up, she didn’t want to meet that disturbing gaze again, yet perversely she felt drawn to do that.
Her eyes clashed with his. “What is your name, young woman?” he asked.
“What is that to you?” she countered.
Coolly she picked up the basket which she had set down on the cobbles when she’d gone to Davy’s aid. One more glance towards the old man, to make sure he was safe, then, satisfied on that score, she turned sharply. For a few paces she marched along in front of the riders. The sound of their hooves told her they were moving slowly behind her. Nervous though she was, she would not increase her pace, until she reached an alleyway with a steep set of steps. She ran then, through the bystanders, who parted to make way for her, and darted down it, fleet, sure-footed, even in her wooden-soled shoes. It was in the wrong direction, and it would take her half an hour longer to get back to the nunnery and she had already been out longer than usual, but that couldn’t be helped. Her one desire was to get away.
Her courage had been false. She was shaking and mightily relieved when she stopped, close to a high wall, and looked back to see the horsemen pass on along the street above. Breathing heavily, she leaned on the wall, glad of its support. Never before had she been so close to gentlemen of quality. It was that, more than the event, that had unnerved her. Until that morning she had spoken to very few men, other than the priests and poor labourers. They had been cringingly subservient, knowing that she was a relation of the formidable Prioress. Never before had she encountered anyone whose eyes had met and held hers with such a challenge. Sir Richard had seemed to be looking right into her inner being, as if he knew some of her secret thoughts—thoughts that she would never have spoken even at confession. She blushed at the very idea.
Thank goodness she was never likely to see him again!
Back at the priory, Meg slipped in through a small side door that led into the cloisters. She stood for a moment, savouring the cool, calm peace of the place. This was the only home she had ever known.
Her childhood had not been unhappy, for she’d had the love of her gentle mother. Lady Elizabeth had been intelligent and better-educated than most women of her age. She had passed on her knowledge to her daughter, instructing her in those social graces necessary to a lady of breeding as well as reading and writing. An elderly priest, who had been like a grandfather to Meg, had added to that by teaching her Classics and mathematics, as if she had been a boy.
At other times she’d had free run of a large part of the extensive buildings and the well-kept gardens of the nunnery, though there were some parts she was not permitted to enter. These were the magnificent rooms which the Prioress had built for her own private use. That lady was a being apart, aristocratic and wealthy, quite unlike most of the nuns, who came from all walks of life, some from very humble families. Most of them were kind and friendly, and, whenever they were free from their devotions and their work, the younger ones had enjoyed playing with the pretty little girl whose unfortunate mother had so often been unwell.
Slowly, at a pace befitting her surroundings, Meg made her way along the cloister to the suite of rooms that she had shared with her mother. Sarah Wilgress was sitting beside the empty chair which Lady Elizabeth had occupied for many hours in the last months of her life.
“Thank goodness you’re back, my lady.” Sarah jumped up as Meg entered. “You’ve to get changed into your good clothes and go to the Lady Prioress at once.” She began to pull Meg towards her bed-chamber.
“Why? What has happened, Sarah?”
“All I know is that Sister Obligata came to say the Prioress wanted to see you immediately, and that was half an hour ago. I
said as how you was out visiting the sick, just as your dear mother did before she was took ill. Sister Obligata seemed upset about that—well, you know the Prioress never did approve of you goin’ out on your own. Now come on through here, an’ be quick about it, do; she’ll be back a-clackin’ on again.”
“I can’t possibly visit the Prioress in this state—”
“That you can’t, my lady. You gotta get washed and changed right away.” Sarah began to unfasten Meg’s clothes even as she spoke. “You know the Prioress don’t like to be kep’ waiting.”
“I know, but the town was crowded—and poor old Betsy was so poorly—”
“That I have no doubt, mistress. But do get changed double quick. I’ve got water in the kettle, an’ I’ve kep’ it a-simmering, so’s you can get properly cleaned up. Sister Obligata’s been back here twice already looking for you. I’ve put your best gown out—”
Sarah had been brought to the nunnery as a child, orphaned when her parents had died of a fever that had ravaged the countryside. Lady Elizabeth had taken the poor, sad and undernourished child into her motherly care, and she had grown healthy and strong.
Two years older than Meg, Sarah had played with her, and they had grown up like sisters. Sarah had been encouraged to take part in some of Meg’s lessons, and had learned to read and write, but she had found little interest in other subjects. She had been happiest when she was sewing or cleaning, or looking after Lady Elizabeth, whom she had adored. When the elderly woman who had been Lady Elizabeth’s servant had died, Sarah had insisted that she should be allowed to take her place. No one could have been more loyal and conscientious. She mourned the death of her mistress as deeply as did Meg.
For both of them, as for all the inhabitants of the priory, the King’s threats to the monasteries made their future uncertain. But Sarah willingly tackled her daily tasks and sang the old songs of the countryside as she worked. If the Prioress was not about she’d dance too, clattering her wood-soled shoes on the stone floors.