by Nina Clare
Beck
a fairy tale
Nina Clare
lost&foundStories
Contents
Part 1
1. Lady Beck
2. The Young Lords
3. The Marquess
4. Lord Orlan
5. The Royal City
6. Harvest Moon
7. Cicely Rose
8. Return to Foxebury Manor
9. Dark Sun
10. Battle of the Kings
11. Myles
12. Seven Years Later
13. Lord Arthur Returns
14. The Kiss
15. Wedding Day
16. Separations
17. Journey
18. Portgua
19. All at Sea
Part 2
20. Shula-Jane
21. A Gift
22. The Slave Market
23. Sisters
24. The White Boy
25. The Garden
26. Disgrace
27. Moonrise
28. Visitors
29. Sorrows
30. Redeemer
Part 3
31. Sons and Daughters
32. The Stranger
33. Revelations
34. Remembrance
35. One Year Later
36. Homeward
37. Waiting
38. Wedding Day
39. Bride
40. The Key
41. Roses
Also by Nina Clare
About the Author
About Beck
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© Nina Clare 2016
All Rights Reserved
www.ninaclarebooks.com
Created with Vellum
To Crawford Henry Butler
Kingdom Warrior
Keeper of Royal Treasure
Fortress Dweller
and my dad
Part I
Lady Beck
It was widely presumed that Lady Beck, the young Marchioness of Stoneyshire, must be one of the happiest women in Angliana.
Her husband’s estates were prosperous – despite his penchant for dice; their castle on the border of Stoneyshire was impressive – if very draughty; the country manor was comfortable – if rather isolated. The newly built riverside house in the royal city, so conveniently sited for waterway travel, was both impressive and comfortable – excepting the pungent smells at low tide.
Her trousseau had been made by the (poached) dressmaker of the exquisitely dressed Contesa Florenza; her jewels were abundant and celebrated, and the late Dowager Queen of Umbra had been her godmother.
In addition to these accomplishments the marchioness played the harp, was said to sing beautifully, and spoke four languages fluently: Portguan, learned from her father the Marques de Baranza; Etaliano, from her mother, born the Marchesa di Folino, and a renowned beauty in her youth; Latano from Father Fernando de Olivera, her tutor, and Francan from her ama – her childhood nurse – Madame Labelle, whom she insisted on bringing with her to her Angliana.
But the language of Anglianese was not one the marchioness had mastered well, which proved unfortunate, for at the age of fifteen she was given in marriage to an Anglianese marquess – a widowed nobleman, her elder by nearly thirty years with two young, motherless sons.
Despite the disadvantages of age and offspring the match was considered good, for he had more wealth than even her own substantial dowry, and more substance in his estates than any of the potential matches in her homeland. And, wealthy though he already was, he greatly desired her dowry to fund his grand plans for the new city house, and his need for a new mother for his young heirs was pressing. And as there appeared to be no wealthy ladies in Angliana who pleased the marquess, or would have him, he reluctantly turned his attentions to the kingdoms beyond.
And so it was that the young Lady Magdalena Marguerita de Baranza conceded to the marriage out of obedience to her father. But she comforted herself that although the sandy-haired Marquess of Stoneyshire had many wrinkles, at least he did not have excessive whiskers, which was a particular displeasure of hers.
Sadly, after five years of marriage, the young marchioness still could not find in her heart a love for the unmusical sound of the Anglianese language, the wet and muddy Anglianese countryside, nor her monolingual Anglianese marquess. Though, prudent lady and dutiful wife that she had been brought up to be, she kept her true feelings veiled.
Even when the marquess determined upon growing his whiskers.
Lady Beck opened her eyes, and even with the window drapes closed, could tell by the dullness of her gold damask bed canopy that it was another grey day.
She had decorated her chamber in all shades of sunshine – gold and orange and the deep pinks of a Portguan sunset, but the endless cloud and rain of the Anglianese winters turned even her bright furnishings to drabness. She closed her eyes again, but the noise of her two stepchildren thundering across the oaken floors in the nearby nursery shattered the early morning quiet.
The arched door to her chamber opened and a maid appeared, her pale face and slight body like that of a younger child than of a girl of ten. The maid slipped inside the chamber, bearing the marchioness’s breakfast tray. She placed the heavy tray down upon the bedside table then flitted away, first to tug back the heavy drapes at the window, and then to the fireplace to give the glowing embers a deft jab with the iron poker. A shower of sparks made her jump back and anxiously check her clean, linen apron for burn marks. Old Catchpole would box her ears again if she ruined another apron.
“Anything else, milady?” she said, when she was satisfied no harm had been done.
Lady Beck waved her hand in dismissal. The maid hesitated, for her mistress usually had plenty to say in her accented Anglianese first thing in the morning. But Lady Beck was staring up at the canopy above her head. The maid tilted her linen capped head on one side as though she were listening for her mistress to speak; but nothing was said. The only sounds to be heard were of the young masters hurtling and crashing across the oak flooring.
Kat looked in the direction of the nursery as if to gauge which of the boys it was who was striking something with forceful and repetitive onslaught upon the floor. Nurse, who was near deaf with age, would be breakfasting in her antechamber, which meant Penny would be struggling alone. She’d certainly be in want of Kat’s help to get that young wildcat dressed and ready for his tutor. She gave one more puzzled glance at the marchioness, dipped a curtsey, and left the chamber, her white cap ribbons streaming behind her.
Lady Beck was still in her torpid position when Madame Labelle glided in with the marchioness’s new taffeta gown across her arms.
“Bon matin, my lady,” greeted Madame Labelle. She laid the gown down gently across a high backed chair and glided over to the windows to straighten the folds in the velvet drapes. The Anglianese maids never arranged the drapes correctly, or smoothed the bed coverings sufficiently, and their ironing – quelle barbares!
She examined the aspect from the window, assessing the day’s weather to decide which furs my lady should wear for her morning walk. A pale gleam of hazy morning light suffused the room behind her, and dust motes rose up from the tapestry carpets. Madame Labelle approved of her lady’s refusal to submit to the Anglianese habit of strewing ugly rushes about the floor in her own chamber. If she could not have the beautiful tiles of her homeland, she would make do with carpets. If only the marquess did not object to the expense, her lady would have carpets on every floor of the manor.
She turned toward her mistress and paused in the window alcove, the silvery streaks in her black hair gleamed in the light beneath the Francan head-dress s
he always wore, despite the marquess’s displeasure for foreign garb. She noted the prone and unusually silent position of her lady; she pondered the strange absence of interest in the new gown she had carried in; she perceived the breakfast of untouched cinnamon cake, whose sweet, new-baked fragrance reached her aquiline nose.
There were only two explanations for my lady’s silence and for Cook’s cake remaining uneaten.
She moved to the canopied bed, placed a hand on my lady’s olive-complexioned forehead, and uncovered the lace edging from my lady’s wrist to measure her pulse.
My lady was not feverish. My lady’s pulse was as strong and sound as it had been from her childhood years. Therefore only one explanation sufficed.
“How long, my lady?” queried Madame Labelle.
Lady Beck turned her large, near-black eyes languidly to her ama.
“How long since your last menses?”
Lady Beck blinked twice, as if struggling to comprehend. Then her eyes widened as understanding dawned like a rapid rising sun. She sat bolt upright in bed and gasped out – “No!” Her dark hair tumbled down around her shoulders, her face paled – “No, it cannot be that!” She stared wildly at the bed covers, seeming to be thinking hard.
The marquess had rarely disturbed her in her bedchamber since the loss of their second son. Both infants had been stillborn, and she lived in dread of enduring a third tragedy. So she had been relieved that the marquess chose to satisfy his desires in the arms of the pale Anglianese village roses, who were more to his liking than his dusky pomegranate-flower wife.
But the night of the New Year celebrations, when there had been thick snow on the ground and he had not been able for many days and nights to travel abroad and visit his current amour. That night, seven, no, eight weeks ago, he had indeed entered her bedchamber.
It had been mercifully brief, the scratching of his sandy whiskers.
So it was true.
She had not had a monthly bleed since that night.
She had not thought of it until now. And always she experienced this strange empty and sickening feeling in the beginning of the third month of her pregnancies.
“Oh, Ama,” she breathed out. “It is so. It is so. Oh Ama!” and she burst into loud sobs and threw herself into Madame Labelle’s waiting arms.
When Lady Beck had exhausted herself of weeping, and had fallen back against the bed pillows, Madame Labelle patted away the tears with her handkerchief. “Perhaps heaven will grant you a little girl. Hm?” she suggested.
A ray of hope lit up Lady Beck’s eyes. She thought for a moment. “We must pray,” she urged. She sat up again and grasped the bed-covers. “Send to the abbey – they must pray for me. And you must send for Mistress Wheedle!”
“Oh, my lady, not that woman!” objected Madame Labelle. “Surely not!” Her aquiline nose wrinkled in distaste.
“Yes, yes!” insisted Lady Beck, clutching tightly at the embroidered covers. “She will tell me if it is a girl – it must be a girl – I cannot bear to lose another boy – I am cursed from bearing sons!” And she burst into fresh sobs so passionate that Madame Labelle was forced to promise she would indeed send word to Mistress Wheedle to attend urgently upon the marchioness. But the physician must likewise be sent for to confirm my lady’s condition, for the marquess would not rely on the word of Mistress Wheedle, nor of Madame Labelle.
The Young Lords
Young Penny was indeed struggling to maintain order over the two young lords of the manor. Arthur was hammering his wooden hobbyhorse into the floor to mimic the sound of thundering hooves, whilst mercilessly beating its wooden body with a makeshift crop. Percival was scampering about the floor on all fours in his nightgown.
“Lord Percy, why are you not dressed?” demanded Kat, as she appeared in the nursery. Nurse is on her way and expects you ready for your walk. And Lord Arthur – Master Sidney is coming up the stairs as I speak!”
“But I have to be the fox,” Percy informed her, looking very fox cub-like at that moment with his sandy hair flopping about his face and his eyes shiny as beads from high spirits.
“And I am hunting him down to see him ripped to pieces by my hounds!” yelled Arthur, whipping his wooden horse with extra vigour.
“And perhaps your father will show you his whip if he hears you have not been at your lessons again,” said Kat, snatching the crop from Arthur’s hand.
“I’m seven years of age – I don’t need a tutor!” bawled Arthur, banging his hobbyhorse in time to his words.
“You tell that to your father,” said Kat, “for he is coming up the stairs behind Master Sidney.”
Fear froze both boys’ faces.
“You’re a liar,” said Arthur, but with uncertainty. Kat said nothing but handed Percy his gown; he jumped up to pull his nightgown off and his daygown on. Penny ran for the hair comb and his cap and cloak, flashing her older sister a grateful smile.
When Nurse came in, a line of beer froth on her whiskered upper lip from breakfasting, she found both boys dressed with hair almost neat.
“Why are you malingering up here?” she snapped at Kat. “Get on with your work.”
Kat fled the nursery by the servants’ stairs down to the kitchens. She saw Arthur stick his tongue out at her as she turned in the doorway.
Master Sidney took a deep breath before he opened the door to the schooling chamber. He would not get the better of him today. Not today. He was only a boy, a mere child. While he – Humphrey Sidney – was a man of six and twenty years – a graduate, a scholar, he had even travelled as far as Svessenland. As tutor to the son of the Earl of Cobham, he had accompanied him to the academies and universities of Franca and Dorten. He had mastered languages. He had dined with ambassadors and bishops. He was a sophisticated man of the world. What was one small boy? A mere babe. He would not get the better of him. Not today. He pushed open the door and a tin cup filled with water clattered down upon his head with a discomforting blow and a shock of wetness.
He heard a snigger as he removed his soaked cap and wiped the water from his eyes. Arthur’s face had the usual impish leer upon it. Master Sidney sighed. He knew he ought to whip him, but he had no heart for violence. All he really longed to do was write poetry. So he said nothing as he moved to his desk, comforting himself that a small drenching was not so bad as the pair of impaled frogs he had found in each of his shoes the previous morning.
Another long, wintry morning of Latano lessons began.
When Kat returned to Lady Beck’s chamber to remove the breakfast tray she was delighted to see the two slices of cake sitting untouched. She whisked them from the platter, tucking them under her apron band; what a rare treat to share with Penny later.
As she picked up the tray she heard the voice of Madame Labelle from Lady Beck’s antechamber. “I will make sure the physician calls today to confirm the baby,” she heard her say. Madame Labelle appeared in the doorway to the bedchamber and stopped short when she saw Kat standing there. Kat could never read Madame Labelle’s moods, for her face was always the same, but she knew that she was probably not meant to have overheard anything about a baby.
“Give this to Bellchior,” Madame Labelle said, holding up a sealed letter in her long, tapered fingers.
Kat felt a pang of anxiety lest Madame Labelle should notice the empty platter where the cake should have been. Stealing food was a grave misdemeanor. Catchpole’s punishment for such a crime was to have one sit at the meal table with everyone else at dinner, but have nothing but acorns sitting on one’s trencher. “Those who act as a wild pig can eat as a wild pig,” was her pronouncement on such occasions.
Madame Labelle did glance at the empty platter as she placed the letter on the tray. But she merely pursed her lips. “Tell Bellchior the letter is for the physician. And when he has delivered it, he is to go to the house of the midwife, the one who dwells in the woods, and tell her my lady wishes her to call. He must take a pony for her to ride so she can come this very day.”
Kat bobbed a curtsey of acquiescence as best she could while bearing the heavy tray.
“And be warned, child,” added Madame Labelle in a low voice, speaking with careful distinction so as not to be misunderstood through her thick Francan accent. “Be well warned not to speak a word of where Bellchior is going or anything you have just heard.”
Kat gave another bob of obedience. The tray was causing her thin arms to ache. Madame Labelle tapped a fingernail on the empty platter, and Kat understood perfectly. Madame Labelle would not betray Kat’s secret just as Kat must not betray hers.
“Go. Rapidement!” ordered Madame Labelle, resuming her usual quick tone, and Kat hurried out.
Kat placed the tray down in the scullery, hid the slices of cake inside a copper pan, snatched the letter up and hurried out to the stables. She found Bellchior grooming the marquess’s favourite stallion. She observed him for a moment, as she caught her breath. She never failed to be fascinated by Bellchior’s dark, exotic appearance. He was the first black man she had ever seen. At the abbey, where she and Penny had lived as orphans, there had been an old nun with black skin and no teeth who would grin and talk very fast, so that Kat could never understand what she was saying. Penny had been frightened of the black nun, hiding behind her big sister whenever she saw her. But Bellchior was the first black-skinned man Kat had met. And he was not old, nor toothless. She did not know what age he was, about twenty, perhaps, and his teeth were so white against his shiny, black skin.
Bellchior saw Kat out of the corner of his eye and paused in his rubbing down of Duco, the marquess’s equally glossy, black-skinned horse. Kat held out the letter. He slowly moved towards her, she noticed he did everything without seeming to hurry. He never moved in an awkward or jerky manner. She thought that he somehow seemed to ripple like water, when he moved. He took the letter with a look of enquiry.