Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  “Are you saying the Trevor marriages have all been successful?”

  “History shows a stability there, my lady. Family has always been the Trevor main focus. My family has served the Lords of Trobridge for over two hundred and fifty years. My grandfather lived at the time of Richard the Second. The family’s marriages were strong beyond the memory of his grandfather. Always great cunning was taken training the heir, and finding the right bride. Money had little to do with it, Women were sought for their spirit, brains, and loyalty. You are the first bride in living memory forced on the House of Trevor.” A slight smile formed on his lips. “Still, perhaps this marriage will prove fortunate for the Trevor’s. That is something only you and Peter can decide.”

  “He ... he’s so horribly disfigured.” She lowered her eyes.

  “Have you sought to ask why?” Anthony said. “Eight years ago he and his friend were under graduates at Oxford. A professional swordsman named Allan Carnahan challenged Peter’s friend to a duel. In the fight the friend was killed. Peter was beaten, then bound while Carnahan used his sword and slowly did what you see. The mercenary took a very long time.”

  “God! How could anybody do such a thing?”

  “Peter vowed vengeance, but his father became seriously ill, and he had to learn to run the estates and trading enterprises. Still, he has indulged his passion for the sword. Even you have heard of Adrian de Chemeau.”

  “The best of the best. My father saw him put on a dueling demonstration. He was in near ecstasy watching, and spoke of the experience with great reverence ever after.” She shook her head. “The art of killing neatly with a sword.”

  “Your husband has been studying under him for six years.”

  “He’s healed now.”

  “Physically. But raw wounds still festered inside. He can be quite savage when he sees what he believes to an injustice. Ho!” Anthony pointed.

  The men had broken off and created a large ring. In the center Peter and Adrian faced each other with sword and dagger. Steel rang and sparks flew as blades sought flesh. A running commentary in forceful broken English rose above the labored breathing and clash of steel. Twice Peter touched the Frenchman before the foreigner’s word cut Peter’s surcoat over his heart, exposing chain mail. A startled chorus of male voices exclaimed aloud. Catharine swallowed.

  The battle continued with renewed vigor. A quarter of an hour sped by without a touch. Then the Frenchman changed to a fast slashing attack. Catharine watched Peter forced back almost of the edge of the ring. He parried a thrust, seemed to fall, but came under Adrian’s guard, in seconds the sword master stood weaponless, sword and dagger whipped from his grasp.

  The black bearded giant bellowed with joy and wrapped Peter in a huge Gallic embrace, kissing him on both cheeks. “You see, he is the master now.” The others gathered around the two exhausted men. Catharine could make out his words. “You need remember, the emotions are the key. You enemy may know de sword, but you make him forget by making anger. Yes?”

  A sentry hurried over. “Rider approaching, my lord. He’s in our livery.”

  “Send down the drawbridge, John. Escort him here at once.” The deep music in his voice ran through Catharine’s body. She wished somehow to store the sound within her.

  “My lady, I am needed. You must excuse me. I will send Bess to you again.” Anthony bowed and withdrew. Catharine stood silent, staring at the tangle of excited men. It was plain Peter was very popular. He tossed in a course joke, bringing a roar of male laughter.

  The courier rode straight to the men. Dismounting, flushed and excited, he handed Peter a small scroll. Peter thanked the man, broke the seal, and scanned the paper. A silent expectation settled over the men. Catharine could feel the welded purpose of the company.

  Peter looked up. “Hugh, thirty men ready in an hour. We ride to London. It seems the Lord Constable has already started to move against us. Buckingham’s confiscated a warehouse of ours as smuggled goods.” Peter shouldered through the crowding men volunteering to Hugh, his master-at-arms.

  Outside the crowding men, Peter met Anthony and thrust the paper in his hands. Anthony read it. “We’ll be ready to go in an hour, Peter.”

  Catharine hurried down to the Great Hall, almost bumping into Bess. “What is going on, Bess?”

  “We’re going to London, Catharine. It’s a smelly dirty place, but I like it. So alive. People going everywhere.” Her blue eyes sparkled.

  Peter entered the Great Hall with Anthony. “I’m sorry, Catharine, I’ll be going to London.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Peter’s face changed to irritation and then went blank. “You need time here to collect yourself. Get used to the people and your new home.”

  “There may be no new home with the way Buckingham is moving,” she said, trying to stifle her anger. “He wastes no time.”

  “It’s too dangerous, Catharine.” Peter’s face remained wooden.

  “You forget, my lord, I lived with Buckingham for four years.” She willed herself to be heard. “There is information I could give you that might prove useful.”

  Peter stared at her.

  “You don’t trust me.”

  He shifted his feet. Sweat from the duel stood out on his forehead, darkening his hair. “You have impeccable Lancaster background from both your family and former guardian,” he said. “No, I don’t trust you.”

  She looked down and smoothed her gown, irritated that her future lay in another’s hands. Schooling her expression, she looked up. “I may know people who would be useful to you. With Buckingham you can’t leave one stone unturned. The man is too clever.”

  She felt his golden eyes resting on her. A chill ran down her spine. She wanted to touch his face tenderly, not turn away in revulsion or slap it. How could this be? The wanting. This pounding in her heart. This growing need within to touch, to hold, to be part of ... She felt the blood rising in her face.

  Peter smiled, wrinkling the savage scar. “You blush becomes you, Catharine.”

  The music in his voice ... She wanted more. To touch the source of this ravaging music. To make it part of her. In her mind she began the forbidden - the touching.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, thankful no one could read her thoughts. But opening them, she wasn’t so sure. His leopard golden eyes studied her, creating within her a compelling want to touch him. She stamped her foot, tightening her fists, and turned away exasperated.

  “I’m sorry, Catharine.” Again the irresistible music raced through her. “You’re right. You might be useful in solving this problem. Buckingham is ruthless. He has something more in mind than my wealth. That is only part of the picture.” He paused and chuckled. “You’ll find Agnes in our chamber. Pack one small chest. Everything you need you’ll find at our Great House in London.”

  Acute relief flooded her as she hurried up the wide staircase to their chamber. Pausing at the landing, she stared at her trembling fists, and cursed the feelings and thoughts that betrayed her. First her body, and now her emotions. She glanced down at Peter still speaking with Anthony. How in God’s sweet name could this be happening? She wanted him, yet she hated what he was, a Yorkist merchant with a noble pedigree she could only wish for. He had no loyalties except to himself and his estates. Tears of frustrations wet her cheeks, and she wiped them away. Glancing down again, she found his intense and unreadable gaze resting on her. She tried to smile. He returned the smile, sketching a bow of encouragement. God, why this man?

  Dust and drying sweat coated Catharine. Six hours of rocking side saddle had made her back ache and chafed her in places she didn’t care to think about. She stared in irritation at her husband, still unnaturally fresh, and obviously enjoying the ride. Grey Harold tossed his mane, and Peter let the great beast have his head and race far ahead of the cavalcade. The beauty of the man and horse, together as one, could not be denied. Peter was in his element. Surely she could enjoy that, and still despise the marriage.

>   Agnes, her maid, rode on a mule next to her. The admiration in her ancient wrinkled face was plainly evident. “Ye married a feisty one there, my sweet. I’ll warrant he’ll make healthy children when the time comes.”

  Catharine growled.

  “You don’t like him, your Yorkist lord?” The old lady’s lips curled.

  “More like a merchant.”

  “All lords are merchants. You’ve filled yer pretty head with tales of handsome knights, and lords who only hunt, and hawk, and pay court to the ladies. Egads, girl, how do you think they have the money to do that? They spend a lot of time tending their lands and people, at least the better ones do. You have your head in the clouds, lass.” She glanced at her charge, a shrewd twinkle in her eyes. “He’s a handsome one too.”

  “Have you seen his face?”

  “What’s a scar to two, Catharine?” She cracked a grin. “It enhances the landscape, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. I don’t know what you mean. And I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, if you don’t mind.”

  “I mind, lass. The deed is done,” the old lady said matter-of-fact. “The problem is you haven’t figured that out yet.”

  “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

  “He doesn’t want the marriage either, from what I hear,” she said. “But the bloody sheet the people were parading around the town puts aside any chance of annulment.”

  Catharine felt the blood soar to her face.

  Agnes cackled. “Girl, you’ve got to understand, you might not choose the land, but you plant the garden.”

  Torches lit the courtyard, casting uneven light and creating deep shadows. The Inn of the Black Swam thronged with tired travelers. Sir Hugh Addison, Peter’s master-at-arms, ordered camp set up in the field behind the inn. After Peter and Anthony handed down Catharine and Bess from their mounts, Peter turned to Agnes, “Mistress Scoville, may I help you down?”

  “Thank you, Sir Knight.” The easy banter between the two irritated Catharine whose sore body ached in every possible place.

  An angry roar erupted from the interior of the inn. A burly red headed man shot out of the front door and landed in the dirt at Catharine’s feet. The irate innkeeper stomped out, looking like an enraged bear. “If ya canna pay for the ale, donna be askin.” He kicked dirt in the man’s flush face, and started back in. The man snarled, pulled a dagger, and lunged at the innkeeper’s back. Peter stuck out his foot, and the man sprawled on the ground. He looked up and cursed, raising the dagger at Peter, but Anthony kicked the blade out of his hand.

  Three men-at-arms instantly pinned the struggling man to the earth. A naked sword blade rested on his throat. He lay still.

  “Wouldn’t ya know? Some rich lording ... ” A mailed fist backhanded across the offending mouth, leaving welling blood, and silence.

  “What do you want done with him, my lord?” Torch light wavered in the breeze, sending shadows shifting.

  “Let’s see if his manners have improved,” Peter said. “What is your name?”

  The man’s sullen eyes glared. “You’re not afraid with your men-at-arms here. But if you would cross a sword blade. I could teach you a thing or two.”

  “Shall we teach him some manners, my lord?”

  “Indeed we shall. The men are in need of entertainment. Have them create a ring. I’ll teach him some manners myself.” Harsh male laughter crashed into the night. In minutes, thirty men had ranged themselves into a circle of chain mail, faces expectant. Several more torches burst into flames, lighting the darkness.

  Catharine and Bess stood behind Hugh and Anthony at the inn door. Patrons of the inn poured out at the hint of the duel, and ranged themselves on fences, balconies, and out buildings. Soon a brisk trade in bets, advice, and opinions erupted. The heavy garlic breath of the innkeeper flooded around Catharine. She wrinkled her nose, and eased away from him.

  “Release him.” Peter stood in the circle, a spare sword in his callused hand. He tossed the weapon at the man’s feet, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. “You said you were going to instruct me. So pick up the sword and educate us. Remember what your sword master taught you.”

  Catharine held her breath. If Peter were to die ...

  The man retrieved the weapon and tested the steel. He nodded. “Good weapon. I’ll be pleased to bury it in your flesh.”

  Peter laughed. A low rumble of amusement ran through his men. The stranger attacked in earnest. Peter parried, but the man over reached himself. His momentum drove him past Peter who whacked him with a resounding slap on the bottom with the flat of his sword. When the man staggered and fell to his knees, the ring of men laughed. Catharine smiled, but her heart beat quickened.

  “What is your name, swordsman?”

  “Castor Breckenridge.” The torches fluttered in a breeze, making shadows run and dance.

  “My God. A man of mythical proportions. Who is your sword master, lad?” Peter asked.

  “Allen Carnahan.”

  Startled, Peter hesitated for the briefest second. The man growled and lunged. But Peter parried, and Catharine sensed a hardening and a wariness in her husband.

  “Remember, gentlemen, about anger,” Peter commented, countering a furious attack. Castor backed off.

  He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and spat into the dirt. Chest heaving, he studied Peter. Then he nodded, and began to attack again. Twice Castor came close to touching Peter, who countered, sending him on the defensive. Catharine watched the confusion growing in Castor’s eyes to be replaced by desperation.

  “First blood takes your woman,” Castor snarled.

  An angry growl rose from the men and some edged forward, swords out of their scabbards.

  “Put up. Hold the ring. It’s almost over.” The men fell back at Peter’s command. Castor stood eager.

  If Peter makes one small mistake ... I’d be free. Free. The richest heiress in England. The unbidden thought thrust itself into Catharine’s mind.

  “Almost over?” Castor attacked again, and Peter feinted. Too late, Castor tried to correct, and found the sword jerked out of his hand. He knelt, Peter’s sword at his throat. “You won’t kill me,” he blustered. “I’m part of the Duke of Buckingham’s household. He’s Lord Constable.”

  “I never said I intended to kill you. Only teach you some manners. But hiding behind your master won’t help if you insult my wife again. Do that and I will kill you, and your master will do nothing.” The torchlight held steady.

  Castor’s yellow teeth showed under a breaking sneer. “You have such a pretty face.”

  Peter’s sword bade rose and fell. Castor howled in pain, nursing damaged knuckles. “Next time you mention my pretty face you will lose the use of your sword hand.” Peter’s sword twitched. Castor, shaking, stared up as the steel pinned his hand to the earth. The torches glutted in a strong breeze. A low murmur ran through the spectators. Catharine could feel the man’s agony.

  Peter said, “Can you see yourself without your sword hand? Would life be worth living if you no longer had the means to bully people? I think not.”

  Castor breathed in tight tortured gasps

  “Will you see the Butcher?”

  “Yes.” Agony, raw and shaking, charged the air.

  “Tell your master the Lord of Trobridge will repay him for this pretty face.” Peter withdrew the sword point. Castor slumped back from his knees, bloodied hand cradled in his lap. “Leave this place, Castor Breckenridge. My anger may yet get the best of me. You are safer gone.” He gestured and two men-at-arms grabbed the shocked man and dragged him off. A resounding cheer went up from Peter’s men. “An extra barrel of ale for the men,” he said. Another cheer echoed.

  Peter handed his sword to Hugh as Catharine came up to them. “You enjoyed yourself out there.”

  “I did. The drama proved useful. They are of the same mold. Carnahan will reintroduce himself.” His lips curled with pleasure. His eyes cold.

  “Haven’t yo
u enough trouble with Buckingham?”

  HIs golden eyes smiled with his generous mouth. “And you, Catharine? Lancaster born and bred.” His eyes narrowed. “Forbidden thoughts, my lady? Don’t fight them. It’s a symptom of being human. What did the poet, Richard Chastain say? ‘They creep in on mouse quiet feet without guilt or sin, quicken the soul with a hundred gut wrenching questions and possibilities.’” He brushed her arm with his hand. She felt an electric shock run the length of her body. “There is no need to seek confession over this, my dear. I can survive the experience if you can. I don’t think we need to give up on each other yet.”

  “That is hopeful news.” Catharine smiled through stiff lips, and cursing her secret thoughts, followed Peter into the inn.

  4

  Peter raised a gloved hand. The iron-bound double gate swung in on well-oiled hinges, exposing the wide courtyard to the tumult of Bishopgate Street. Cobbled paving stones rang with the clip-clop of horse and mule hooves, the heavy thud of wooden cart wheels. A host of smells assaulted Peter - earthy vegetables on their way to market, fresh hay from the countryside, and the stronger stench of unwashed bodies scurrying about their business.

  He caught Catharine’s curious gaze. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. She blushed to the roots of her chestnut hair, and turned her face away. A wisp of lavender flashed him back to last night when he’d become aware of her warm body snuggling against him in the dark. Reaching out a tentative hand he’d come upon a warm curved thigh pressed against his leg. They’d both pulled back suddenly, wide awake. The tension lay charged between them.

  Desire and caution warring, Peter left the bed, and taking tinder and paper from the flax box, lit a candle. The flame created a window through which they stared at each other. Her dark chestnut hair spilled around her face, framing her look of alarm. Her sleeping shift caught at breast and hip, accentuating her curves. She scrambled to her knees, searching for the dagger. Peter retrieved it from under the edge of his pillow and handed the weapon to her. Growing conscious of her shaping night dress, his interested eyes, she pulled a large green robe over herself.