Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  “Careful. It is razor sharp.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “My people trade as far as Trabizon on the Black Sea, and the Holy Land. That came from Damascus.” He watched her settle on the bed amid the pillows, admiring the weapon with curious excitement. A shapely leg escaped her robe. Stripping off his clothes, he put on a nightshirt. He ignored her shock and slid under the covers, turning his back to her. Catharine, he thought, I don’t know how long I can keep my hands to myself.

  3

  Catharine shifted in bed and felt cold steel against her throat. She opened her eyes. Cautious fingers closed on the sheathed dagger in its jeweled case. Sitting up, she was grateful to find herself alone. A fire blazed in the hearth, warming the room.

  Propped against the many pillows, she felt the confused feelings of last night come roaring back. She ran her hands hard over her face at the memories. The harsh arguments. The odd camaraderie. Grateful relief when he did not force her. Then the unexpected beauty of his powerful body awakening new sensations and feelings in her. She was shocked and angry. Even now her body responded to the vivid memory. Mother of God, my body betrays me. But the feelings with their yearnings did not stop. She dragged her mind away, and glanced around the room. Her gaze came to rest on the Trevor coat-of-arms above the hearth. A white hart passant faced a golden lion rampant on a field of azure with the motto running beneath: With Eyes Wide Open. Surrounding the great shield were smaller coats of arms of the families related to the Trevor’s. Easily recognizable, the arms of all the great families of England, Scotland and the Continent. She knew the histories and relationships of the great houses, for they were rich tales, far beyond her and her family which belonged to the minor nobility which served the great houses. She tried to concentrate on what she knew and had heard of her new family.

  Richard Trevor, Peter’s late father, the Seventeenth Baron, had been friends with her father. She remembered being ushered into her father’s study, warm and well lit, smelling of leather, ink, and wood, to meet two men. Seven years old, she shivered, and looked up into the face of a kind young man, His older brother, Richard Trevor, the Seventeenth Baron, stood to one side. The young man, Sir William Trevor, was her plight-troth her father said. Their clothes were rich, their jewels and gold chains without blemish, and they wore them casually.

  Catharine’s hand went to the locket the young man had given her so many years ago. Sir William Trevor had been knighted for services to the Crown her father said. The Trevor’s heir was sixteen years old, but her plight-troth had been settled with ten manors to his name and the likelihood of more to come. He had been raised in the turbulent Lancaster household of John de Vere, Thirteenth Earl of Oxford which accounted for his loyalties. Her father has been very pleased. She was marrying above her rank.

  Then ten days after the Lancaster disaster at Tewkesbury, a courier, worried and exhausted, had ridden into the manor and told the shocking news of Sir William’s execution. After that all was in confusion.

  She remembered one more story of Richard, Peter’s father. How he’d stood atop the main gate of the City of Gloucester, dressed in the blue and murry of York, holding King Edward’s banner of the Sun in Splendour, and laughing, denied the Lancaster Queen Margarite of Anjou entrance to the city, and escape across the Severn River into Wales. The angry Queen had promised to place his severed head over Gloucester gate as she had done twelve years before with King Edward’s father and brother on Micklegate Bar. But in the end and she’d been forced to move her army north in a last desperate attempt at escape. Tewkesbury had happened two days later.

  Of Peter she knew almost nothing. She knew he’d been knighted by King Edward himself after the battle for valor at ‘Bloody Meadow’. She counted back the twelve years and realized Peter must have been younger than nineteen. What must it have been like to face the sword, the battleax, the war hammer in a screaming melee of fear-driven men and frantic horses? Who was this man she was fated to spend her life with?

  The man was obviously educated and polished, confident in his role as Lord Trobridge. He live in a world she’d only been witness to, never participated in. His friends and colleagues controlled the commerce, the destinies of nations. Kings, princes of the Church, great lords, merchant princes, and master of guilds called him friend and counselor. This she understood. So what did Buckingham think she would do that would help destroy Peter Trevor, place Trevor wealth in his power?

  A knock sounded. The door was opened by a merry young maid. She bobbed a curtsey and closed the door. “Lord Peter sends his greetings, lets you know he awaits you in the solar for breakfast, my lady. He wants you to meet someone special. He hopes you will find everything you need and want. You have only to ask and it will be provided, my lady.” She gestured toward the three gowns which lay across a polished wooden trestle table. A great chest lay open, spread neat with accessories, shoes, and expensive headgear.

  Catharine walked to the chest. A wonderland.

  “Is something wrong, my lady? You’re shaking your head.” The maid’s concerned voice made her straighten.

  “No. No. I’ve just never seen anything like this before. There is so much.”

  “Look in the chest, my lady. There’s a small casket of jewelry Lady Elenor wanted you to have. Lord Peter selected certain pieces he thought fit your coloring.”

  Catharine raised the silver lid. Rings heavy with emeralds and sapphires spilled with gold chains and jeweled necklaces through her fingers to the bottom of the chest. She had never seen so much wealth. Emeralds and diamond rings, pendants of lapis-lazuli, and ruby earrings greeted her stunned gaze. One could live several lifetimes rich as an extravagant merchant with what lay there.

  “It’s yours, Lady Catharine.”

  “I must thank my lord and his lady mother.” She heard a shaken voice escape her lips. I can’t believe this wealth. She examined more of the contents, heart beating oddly fast. I didn’t know wealth like this existed.

  She had always dressed and eaten well, and had the luxury of a soft bed, and servants, but no more than that. Her family entertaining had never been lavish or frequent. She’s seen wealthier, higher ranking relatives live better, entertain more, but they never had wealth beginning to approach a small portion of this. She heard the maid clear her voice, and swung around to face her. “What is your name?”

  “Joan, my lady.” Her eyes rested on the bloodied sheet at the foot of the bed. They grew wide, but she said nothing, and bent to pick it up when their eyes met. A blush staining her cheeks. “Is there anything you need, my lady? May I help you dress?”

  Catharine wanted to smile at the maid’s discomfort, but kept her face straight. “No. Tell my husband I’ll be down shortly.” She needed time to be alone, and digest the overwhelming knowledge of her new status. Joan curtsied, and scooping up the bloody sheet and fled the room.

  Wealth like this was the stuff of legends, and extreme imagination. Even minor lords such as her father who owned several manors rarely met great lords whose wealth could approach this magnitude. She shook her head, chose two discreet pieces to match the gown she selected, and began to dress.

  Catharine entered the solar, and noticed with pleasure the startled expression on her husband’s face. The sharp light of morning did nothing to soften the harsh reality of his scar, and he did nothing to hide it. Clearly, he’d learned to accept the disfigurement long ago, and only chose to hide it when he considered it in his self interest.

  A blond girl with mischievous eyes watched her from the settle next to Peter. The girl with the ring from the wedding. What did Peter say? A niece? He stood, and inclined his head with a slight smile. “You slept well, Catharine?”

  Surprised, Catharine realized she had. “Yes. Yes, thank you.” She hadn’t felt this rested in a long time, like she’d been released from some unknown terror.

  Peter swept a hand toward the young girl. “Catharine, this is Lady Bess Trevor, my niece. Bess, my new wife,
Lady Catharine Trevor.

  Her name coupled with Trevor felt right to Catharine. This surprised her and she blushed, Lady Catharine Trevor, Baroness.

  The girl stepped forward, taking her by the hand, and led her to the settle. Sunlight crowned the child’s head. “Welcome, Aunt Catharine.”

  Catharine glanced at Peter, his voice held the same irresistible music, only deeper. He must sing like something from heaven. She’d heard one voice before equal to his, in the choir of St. David’s Abby close to home. “Thank you, Bess. I’m sure we’ll be great friends.”

  “I hope so.” The girl grinned. “May I call you Catharine? You don’t look like an Aunt. An aunt seems so old and stuffy.”

  “Indeed. I don’t think of myself as old and stuffy.”

  Peter rang the bell. Instantly a servant appeared. “You must forgive me, Catharine. I’ve eaten long ago. There is business to attend to.” He smiled and arranged some papers he’d been writing. “You looked as if you could use the rest, so I let you sleep. You have only to ask, and Robert will bring you whatever you wish to eat and drink. Bess will stay, and give you a tour of your new home until time for her lessons.” He saluted her cheek, bowed and left the room. The feel of his warm lips on her cheek, the musical timber in his voice, and his fresh scent left her warm. Her eyes followed him.

  “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

  Catharine turned to the smiling girl. “Love? I’m afraid it isn’t like that. We were required to marry each other.”

  “I know.” Bess’s lips continued to smile, her young voice pleased. “But it could be. Don’t be put off by his scar, Catharine. He’s very sweet inside.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.” Bess grinned. “Peter says I’m twelve going on twenty-five.”

  Catharine found herself laughing. Robert bowed, offering a silver plate. “My lady will find an array of food on the platters before the windows. There are four choices of wine or ale this morning. If you wish, I can serve you or you may see fit to fill your plate.” The silver haired man, impeccably dressed, waited, his ruddy face beaming with expectation. “Mary belle, the cook, sends her regards.”

  “Thank you, Robert. I’ll see for myself.” Catharine swallowed in disbelief at the display of food. The quality and variety took her breath away. Asparagus in white cream sauce, sturgeon baked in cinnamon, pike stuffed with chestnuts. A variety of breads, tarts, and meat pies waited on the side board with the watered wines and ales. She filled her plate with sparing delicacy, and accepted ale in an inlaid green glass goblet. Glass windows were common in great houses and castles, but goblets such as this she’d never seen before.

  “It’s from Lord Peter’s glassworks in Antwerp, my lady.”

  “I thought Venice kept this sort of thing a closely guarded secret.”

  “The knowledge escaped to Germany,” Peter said from the doorway.

  Catharine jerked, startled. Ale from her goblet sloshed, but did not spill.

  “We import it from both places,” Peter said. “My masters experiment to their joy and our profit.”

  The deep full music of his voice filled her. She wanted it to last forever. But anger from the forced marriage and their disagreements blasted to the surface. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to settle her jagged emotions. His golden eyes were hard to read. I married a merchant. Not a lord. The anger trembled in her throat, and she fought it down.

  “You will be meeting my people in a great dinner tonight, Catharine. It’s in your honor.” His smile, light and charming, puckered the scar.

  She averted her eyes from this thing of savage violence. Her anger at the scar worked raw and unbidden, catching her breath. She shook her head, astonished at the anger’s virulence. Spoiling such a beautiful face. How can I hate a scar or a marriage that hasn’t happened yet? “Thank you, my lord.”

  “My name is Peter, Catharine.” His flint topaz eyes searched hers. “Try saying it sometime, but not until it pleases the tongue.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk, turned and clapped Robert on the shoulder, disappearing as silently as he’d come. Catharine sucked in her breath. She could feel his chill, his anger. She looked over at Bess.

  The girl stared back. “Do you always attack what you fear? Why do you fear him? What has he done to deserve this?”

  Wiggly bundles of blond fur squirmed single-minded toward the waiting mother, and attached themselves greedily to her teats. “This is Mary, Peter’s wolf hound bitch.” Bess petted the mother, who licked her out stretched hand. The mother lay contentedly on her side in the hay. Catharine glanced around the large stall in the extensive stable. No expense had been spared.

  A nicker sounded above her head. A giant grey horse stared down at her over the side of the thick stable wall. She stood uncertain while they eyed each other. She could have sworn she was being sized up.

  “Grey Harold, Peter’s battle stallion,” Bess explained. “His favorite horse.” Bess walked toward the Great Horse.

  Catharine caught her by the arm, alarmed. “Wait, destriers, war horses, kill.”

  Bess smiled and gently released her arm. “Not Grey Harold. He’s something else. Gentle. You ought to see them together.” The war horse nuzzled her hand affectionately. “They put on riding demonstrations for the castle folk and his soldiers.”

  “He knows a lot about horses?” Catharine kept her distance from the horse.

  “They are one of his passions.”

  “And Mary?” Catharine let the female wolf hound smell her hand.

  “He’s giving half of the puppies to the castle folk. Three go to his noble friends,” Bess said, pleased.

  “The puppies must be worth a great deal of money.”

  “He likes his people to prosper.” Bess stroked the Great Horse’s nose. “You must understand that Peter believes that people who live below the salt have dreams and hopes too. So he finds those dreams and feeds them. He doesn’t give the dream. But he makes it so they have the ingredients to create the dream. That is why his people love him.”

  “But isn’t he afraid of his people leaving?” Catharine remembered his father’s anger when his tenants fled the manor for the city to live a year and a day to gain freedom.

  The girl chuckled when Grey Harold raised his upper lip and nickered. “His people don’t flee his manors. They are welcome to leave whenever they wish,” she said. “But they don’t. Peter pays much better than anyone else.”

  “And if a man commits a crime?”

  “If it’s not a crime of violence, he gives a second chance. The next time he’s turned off the lands forever. Everyone knows this. Come,” Bess said leading the way out of the stables. “I want to show you the King’s Chamber.”

  “King’s Chamber?”

  “Where King Edward used to stay when he visited.”

  “King Edward stayed at Trevor’s Mist?”

  “You’ve seen the flocks of sheep. His Grace was a wool merchant. Peter used to help.” They were mounting the wide staircase to the second floor.

  A merchant for a King. The darkening idea carried a bad taste in her mouth. But she wasn’t surprised. Edward kept the merchants of London happy, she knew, even at their suggestion once trying to evict the Henseatic League from their freehold in the Steelyard, in the heart of London. He failed, but bore no grudges, and business continued as usual.

  The chamber, heated with a massive tile stove from Germany, dwarfed any chamber in the palace. A great four poster bed, now bare of hangings, dominated the room. Four giant chests lined one side of the wood paneled room. “His Grace visited us six times during his reign.” Bess said.

  They moved to the balcony overlooking the green before the palace. A hundred men-at-arms were ranged in pairs, practicing sword play under the direction of Peter and a tall black bearded man whose bellowed broken English carried a French accent.

  “That’s Peter’s French sword master, Adrian de Chemeau. He swears something fierce, but has a heart of gold.
A sword is like a living thing in his hand. Peter is almost his equal.”

  “Lady Bess.” A man’s amused voice rang out. Bess tried to duck behind Catharine’s skirts. “Master Thatcher is waiting for you, young lady. In the solar.” Bess straightened and made a face.

  Anthony Will, Peter’s Chief Steward, smiled. “I’m sorry, Lady Catharine, to interrupt your tour. But Lady Bess is carefully dodging her lessons.” Bess shrugged, smiled and left, skipping as she went.

  “Anthony.” He had helped her in the hours after the sudden wedding, arranging for her comfort. Catharine felt she already knew the man. She had heard much from the castle staff. Graying at the temples, generous, competent, Anthony had given his strength and honesty to the House of Trevor for nearly forty years.

  “My lady, I’m sure you will see her later in the day. A well meaning child. A healthy mischievous mind. Peter requested I take over your tour, and answer any questions you may have to settle your mind.”

  “Thank you.” She turned toward the clash of arms and sounds of straining sweating men. “How many barons have a hundred men-at -arms?”

  “Lord Trobridge can muster near two thousand men-at-arms in two weeks’ notice. This is a small number of his immediate following.”

  “My father had ten men-at-arms and three knight’s fees. Wealth like this is hard to understand.” Anthony waited in patient silence. “I found a velvet-lined box in the chest this morning. It held a number of rings made of iron, like my wedding band.” She twisted the iron band on her finger.

  “They weren’t meant to be there.” Anthony’s alert eyes darkened, his mouth tightened.

  “I also noticed the Dowager Lady Trobridge wore an iron wedding band. Come to think of it, the priest was terribly pleased about the band at the wedding. Why?”

  Anthony stiffened. “The Trevor women have worn iron wedding bands for three hundred years, Lady Catharine.”

  “But why? Gold is far more expensive.”

  “True. But the Tenth Baroness decreed that every bride of Trobridge would wear an iron wedding band. So it has been. No bride has ever repudiated the ring.”