by Anne Herries
The Lord’s Forced Bride
ANNE HERRIES
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
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
Afterword
Chapter One
A ndrew, Earl of Gifford, heard the sounds of fierce fighting before he rode into the clearing that September morning. The clash of steel was unmistakable and he had drawn his sword before he came upon the violent scene. A young man was fighting for all he was worth, but he was heavily outnumbered. Surrounded by three burly men, who were clearly intent on taking his life, he had just managed to wound one in the arm when Andrew bore down on them. He swooped low in the saddle, lashing out at one attacker who was pressing the young man hard and wounding the rogue across the arm. Wheeling his horse about, Andrew rode back and slashed at the nearest villain, catching him a blow on the shoulder. At that moment, the young man finished off the rogue he had been fighting and the other two fled in disorder. Dismounting, Andrew looked at the man he had helped, and saw that he was bleeding from his left arm.
‘Let me bind that for you,’ he said. ‘I have fresh linen and water in my saddlebags.’
‘You are very kind, sir,’ the man replied. ‘You have done me great service this day. I cannot thank you enough.’
‘I did only what I thought just,’ Andrew told him with a smile that lit his eyes. ‘The odds were unfair. I thought to make them a little more even.’
‘You do not know what you did. I am on important business for…well, I cannot say, sir, for my work is secret. I say only that I shall always be grateful for your help.’
‘Let me tend your wound,’ Andrew said. ‘Then you may be on your way.’
‘You are a true friend indeed,’ the man replied and smiled as Andrew tore his sleeve and began to minister to him, washing the arm before applying a salve and linen wrappings. ‘My name is Harry…may I know yours, sir?’
‘It is Andrew.’ He finished the binding. ‘I think those ruffians have fled for their lives, Harry—but take care, for if they seek something you carry they may not be the only ones to attempt your demise.’
‘You are right,’ Harry replied. ‘I must reach Oxford by this evening. There I shall meet with friends and from then on I shall be in good company.’ He hesitated for a moment, then, ‘Would you ride with me a part of the way?’
‘It is my way, too, for the moment,’ Andrew said and offered his hand, which Harry gladly took. ‘You spoke of a secret mission. I shall ask nothing of you. We are strangers and we shall travel as such, parting with no other knowledge of each other than a name…is that agreed?’
‘Yes, for I must retain my anonymity for the time being, sir, and it is only fair that you should retain yours.’
‘Then let us ride on,’ Andrew told him with a grin. ‘One day we may meet again, and then perhaps we shall learn the truth—but for now we are passing strangers travelling together for our mutual benefit.’
Catherine wandered from stall to stall, her lovely face alight with excitement as she examined the pedlars’ wares. It was a warm September day and the annual fair had come to the village of Melford Chase, which was a cause for celebration for all who lived here in the valleys that lay on the borders of Wales and England. Catherine and her younger sister, Anne, had been eagerly awaiting this day for some weeks, because their mother had promised that they would buy silks for new gowns and lace to trim them.
Anne and Lady Melford were still lingering at the silk merchant’s stall, examining his wares, but Catherine had known what she wanted immediately, choosing a deep emerald silk. Anne could not decide between a pretty blue and a paler green, so she had left them to choose while she walked on, because there was so much to see. One stall was selling holy relics, another beads and bangles that gleamed like gold, but would turn your skin black if you wore them too long. You could find anything here, Catherine thought as she looked at spangled scarves and embroidered slippers, for only one stall away a man was selling cooking pots made of iron. A little further into the meadow were stalls selling cheeses and pies, also cakes and sweetmeats, and the smell of roasting sucking pig permeated the air, making her feel hungry.
Besides the stalls selling merchandise there were others offering a chance to play games. You might guess how many dried beans there were in a pot or throw hoops over small prizes. You could throw balls at Aunt Sally or shoot arrows at a target, and if you wished you could visit the tooth drawer, though from the cries of pain that came from his wagon, Catherine thought that she would prefer the toothache. Two teams of men were having a tug of war, and others were engaging in various trials of strength.
As Catherine waked past the area where the sports were taking place, she heard a burst of cheering and she stopped to watch what was going on. Her gaze came to rest on two men; stripped to the waist, their bodies gleamed with sweat, as if they had been working hard. They were laughing and one slapped the other on the back, clearly pleased with himself.
‘They have each won two rounds and are well matched,’ a man standing next to Catherine said. ‘Neither of them can best the other and so they have agreed to one last bout, winner take all…or they will share the prize if neither wins.’
‘For what do they fight?’ Catherine asked. Her eyes were on one of the men. He was the same height as his opponent and of similar weight and build, but there was something different about him, though she did not know what it was until he suddenly turned her way. He was surely a gentleman! The other man was one of the villagers and known to her by sight, but this man was a stranger. For a moment their eyes met and then he grinned at her, the expression in his eyes sending little tingles down her spine.
‘For the sum of ten silver pieces,’ the informative man said next to her. ‘It is the best prize of the year.’
‘Oh, I see…’It was a considerable sum, enough to feed a family for some months.
Catherine felt her cheeks grow warm, for the look the stranger was giving her was too forward, too bold. She dropped her eyes, determined to move on, and yet as she heard the murmur of approval from the crowd, she looked up and saw that the contest had begun once more.
It was immodest of her to stand and watch, as she knew that her mother would not approve, and yet something held her. She saw at once that the two men were clearly skilful at wrestling. She had caught sight of other wrestling matches on fair days, but never before had she been tempted to watch the outcome. Today she was fascinated, and knew that she wanted the man with the deep blue, intelligent eyes to win.
She caught her breath when the other man threw him to the ground, but he could not hold him, and in another second he was back on his feet and the situation was reversed. Again and again, the men threw each other, but neither could hold the other down long enough to be called the winner.
Catherine’s nails had turned into the palms of her hands, for she was tense with excitement, and only her natural modesty prevented her from calling out with the other spectators as the contest continued. Oh, who was going to win? She did hope it would be the handsome stranger…
Suddenly, the stranger stood back and held up his hands, a hush falling over the crowd as he spoke. ‘I give you my hand, friend. We shall share the prize. Come, take my hand and we�
�ll drink on it…the ale to be paid for with my share of the winnings…for all of you…’ His eyes embraced the crowd, inviting them to share his good fortune.
His opponent hesitated and then took his hand. They started laughing and the crowd joined in, everyone cheering them as, arms about one another’s shoulders, the wrestlers went off in the direction of the ale tent, followed by a score of others eager to take advantage of the stranger’s good nature.
‘I’ve never seen that done before,’ a man said behind Catherine. ‘Our Seth has bested every challenger to come against him.’
‘Well, he’s met his match at last,’ his companion said. ‘Do you know who the challenger is?’
‘He didn’t give his name. No one knows him, but he speaks like an Englishman.’
Catherine walked away, back towards the stalls where her mother and sister were now examining some pretty lace. Lady Melford turned to look at her daughter.
‘There you are, Catherine. I was beginning to wonder where you had gone. Come and look at this lace. I thought this would be pretty to trim the sleeves of your gown—do you like it?’
Catherine looked at the beautiful lace her mother had picked up and smiled. ‘It is lovely,’ she said. ‘But I think the heavy cream lace is perhaps more to my taste.’
‘Well, they are both pretty,’ Lady Melford said. ‘I think we shall take them both, for you may decide at your leisure which one suits you when your gown is made and lace of this quality is no ill store.’ She turned to her younger daughter. ‘Now, Anne, have you decided on what you would like?’
Catherine’s mind wandered as her sister and mother began a long discussion about the various pieces of lace and their merits. She glanced towards the ale tent, into which the wrestlers had disappeared, along with the small crowd of men and women who had been watching them.
Who was the stranger and why had he come here? Was it simply to take part in a wrestling match? They had few strangers here in her father’s village, except for the pedlars at fair time, and he certainly had not looked like a merchant. So what was he doing here?
‘I think we shall go home now.’ Lady Melford’s voice broke into Catherine’s thoughts. ‘What are you thinking about, Catherine? You do not seem very interested in your new gown. Are you not happy with the silks we have chosen?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, Mother,’ Catherine said. ‘Forgive me. I was just thinking that the smell of roasting pig is very good…’
‘You are hungry,’ Lady Melford said. ‘We shall go home and see if your father has returned from his business.’
Andrew came out of the ale tent, having drunk but one tankard himself. He had spent the five shillings he had won on buying drinks for the men who had watched the wrestling bout, accepting their praise and good wishes in the spirit of the day. He had been angry when he offered his challenge, but, finding himself matched against a worthy opponent, his anger had evaporated—and catching sight of a pretty girl in the crowd had lifted his mood still further.
He had come here to the Marches to try and settle the long-running dispute between his family and Lord Robert Melford, and to bring him news, but he had been turned away without a hearing. Lord Melford’s steward had told him that his master had been called away to Shrewsbury and was not expected back until later that day. He had apologised for the inconvenience, but Andrew was almost certain that it was merely an excuse, a way of avoiding him. It had made him angry, because the quarrel was none of his making, and, despite his mother’s wishes, he had wanted to settle the business without laying a complaint before the King. His mind went back to a recent conversation with his mother, her words still echoing in his mind despite his efforts to shut them out.
‘Listen to me when I tell you that we were robbed of our inheritance!’ Lady Gifford’s voice had been shrill, harsh with bitterness. ‘Robert of Melford took Gifford by force and we were driven from our home. The King must listen to you, Andrew. He must make reparation.’
Andrew Gifford had looked at his mother with barely concealed impatience. ‘Have I not told you a hundred times, Mother? My father betrayed his promise to give himself up to the King and it was his betrayal that led to his death. Our estate was forfeit and the King gave it to Lord Melford. He had the right to sell it as he pleased.’
‘So you say,’ Lady Gifford retorted, her eyes cold with hatred. ‘Why will you not make a plea to his Majesty? It is the custom to grant boons at times of celebration. They say the King’s eldest son is to marry later this year to the Princess of Aragon…you should use the opportunity to ask for some compensation for our loss.’
‘May I remind you that the loss was mine,’ Andrew said and for a moment his blue eyes had been as cold as ice. He had seen Harold of Meresham enter the room and it angered him that his mother kept the man here when she knew her son disliked him intensely. He would never understand why she had taken him in when he came to her as a fugitive, having escaped from custody by a fluke of the law, then married him, though insisting on keeping her former husband’s name. ‘Father’s lands should have passed to me. I have made my own way in the world and I am not poor. The King saw fit to bestow monies on me for services rendered, which I have put to good use.’
‘You have a small estate,’ his mother sneered, though it was in truth larger than her own. ‘But Robert of Melford is rich beyond compare. You should demand what belongs to you!’
‘Enough!’ Andrew’s face tightened with anger. ‘I have heard sufficient of your complaining, Mother. You never cease your demands and yet you do nothing I ask of you.’
‘Why should I send Harold away?’ his mother cried, furious in her turn. ‘He is my husband.’
‘I know well that you married him, but he does not behave as a husband to you,’ Andrew said, looking scornfully at the man. ‘If he showed you respect, I would understand, but he does not.’ He turned away, his back stiff.
‘Where are you going?’ Lady Gifford cried, a harsh note in her voice. ‘I demand that you listen to me!’
Andrew swung round to face her, his eyes glinting. ‘I am no longer a child, madam. You may not command me. I may speak to the King, but if he does not care to listen I shall make no demands of him. Too many years have passed. I am content to win favours and riches for myself—and I should advise you to forget what has gone.’
Striding from the room, Andrew had wondered why he bothered to visit his mother and her husband. He had hated Harold of Meresham from the day his mother had wed him when he was but a lad of seven years, and he knew the two of them had plotted revenge on Lord Melford. Lady Gifford had sent endless petitions to King Henry VII asking that her husband’s estate be returned to her or reparation made, and the King wearied of it. Had Andrew not won favour in Henry’s eyes, the King might have made an example of her before this—but she would not be told.
However, a month past Harold had been lain low of a fever and died suddenly. Returning for the funeral, Andrew had found his mother chastened and silent. He knew that Harold had played a large part in her bitterness, and his hope was that she would now cease her endless demands for recompense. It was, after all, he who had suffered the worst loss, for although he was still entitled to call himself the Earl of Gifford the lands and property that should have been his belonged to another. It was a cause for anger and yet he was not bitter despite all the years of hearing his mother’s complaints.
He had his own estate and his wealth was invested wisely. Perhaps he was not yet as rich as his father had once been, but he was determined that he would make his own way in life—and when he was ready he would take a bride. He had made up his mind then that he would seek Lord Melford out and try to heal the breach that had begun so many years ago.
Andrew’s mind came back to the present and the expression in his eyes was angry once more. He had come here in good faith, hoping to speak to Lord Melford and tell him that Harold was dead, as he had been some kind of relation to Melford’s wife. It was a time for reconciliation, a time to heal
old quarrels, but his reception had been cool, barely courteous, and that had made him angry. He had been about to return to London and the court when he caught sight of the fair. The wrestling match had restored his temper and he realised that it would be foolish to leave without accomplishing what he had come for—besides, there might be other diversions to keep him here a while.
He looked around the meadow, hoping to catch sight of the pretty girl once more, but there was no sign of her. That was a shame, but perhaps if he lingered at the inn for a few days he might catch sight of her in the village—and he would return to the Melfords’ house the next day to make another effort at settling the foolish quarrel that had festered on so many years.
‘Catherine, my love,’ Lady Melford said the following morning, ‘I wish you to walk to the village for me with this basket of food and medicines for Widow Hale. Her son told me that she has been poorly for a while, and I believe these restoratives may help her.’
‘Of course I will, Mother,’ Catherine replied with a smile. ‘I am sorry that she has been ill. Is Anne to accompany me?’
‘Your sister has other duties,’ Lady Melford told her. ‘And none of the servants can be spared from their work. You need not linger on the way, and I doubt you will meet many strangers, for the fair folk will be busy packing their wares to move on.’
‘I am not nervous of walking to the village,’ Catherine replied. She had asked only because she knew Anne would relish an hour of freedom away from the house. Her sister was a rebellious girl and avoided her chores if she could. ‘I shall go straight there and back. Besides, none would harm me, for Father is loved and respected by his people.’
‘Yes, he is,’ her mother agreed. ‘Go then, dearest. When you return we shall begin work on your new gown, as your father talks of taking us to London if the marriage of the King’s son takes place as is hoped.’