He missed her. The palace was full of beautiful women and there was no shortage of invitations, but he had no use for them, could not arouse any real interest in any one of them. The woman who appeared in his dreams each night was Bethany; she was the one who slipped her lovely body, naked and warm, into his bed in those dreams. She was the one who kissed him, held him, made love to him. There was not a woman alive who could make him feel as she made him feel and the yearning for her was almost unbearable.
Mary’s fanatical campaign to rid the country of heretics was getting more zealous and Richard was disillusioned now. When she took the throne, he had been prepared to lay down his life for her if necessary, but then he had believed her when she said she wanted to convert the Protestants peacefully, without bloodshed. Now he could only look on her with disgust and he understood precisely how Bethany felt, as he found it very difficult himself to be polite to the woman. He hoped she had not noticed, for all their sakes.
And then there was the boy. Over a year ago he had gone after Charles Carlisle; he had finally found out where he was hiding, where he was organising the mass exodus of Protestants to France, and when he spied on him, wanting to see how the land lie for future reference, he had seen the boy.
There was no mistaking his heritage; it was like looking into a mirror which reflected the past. What he did not know was how and more importantly, who. He had bedded too many women in his life, but none of them of the farmer class and this child was too young to have been mothered by any of them.
He had sat on his horse for a long time, watching from a hill and hidden from view by a clump of trees. The child ran to Charles Carlisle, calling him ‘father’ and that word had cut through Richard like a knife. He had no son with the woman he loved, with his wife, and it seemed unlikely he ever would, and here was a child who was so obviously his, calling another man ‘father’.
He swallowed the ache in his throat and watched some more. Only one woman could have mothered this boy; he knew the whereabouts of all the others. This one had run away with nothing, run away to hide when Richard had married her sister.
As if to confirm his conclusion, a figure in drab linen with thick, pale blonde hair cascading from beneath her cap, emerged from the farm house and scooped the child up into her arms. Carlisle stepped toward her and kissed her tenderly, then all three had gone inside together. She had found someone to love her at last, someone who appreciated a beautiful woman, unlike that deviant she married. She looked happy, and he was glad. He would do nothing to jeopardise that happiness.
As he turned his horse and rode away, he made a vow to protect this boy and his mother, no matter what it cost him, and he knew he could no longer pursue this man because of the child. He also remembered how Bethany had learned about Rachel, about his own position in the service of the Queen. She had found Julia, Anthony had told him, so it followed she must also have found Julia’s son. The realisation made him want to forget everything else and ride home to her, made him want to explain, if explanation there could be.
He left Rachel at an inn near her Finsbury house and continued on to Summerville Hall, his thoughts focused on the best way to approach Bethany, his heart focused on making love to her again. She may not allow it; he expected resentment from her, he expected her to despise him.
Rachel had been right – he had it all wrong. He could have told her the truth, even if she would never believe it; at least it would have been better than total neglect, complete indifference. She likely believed he had not given her a thought all this time, and he was not prepared to let her go on thinking it.
When he arrived the house was dark and everyone was sleeping. He smiled as he imagined waking her with a kiss, or perhaps he would undress quietly and slip into the bed beside her so that she would wake to find herself in his arms. Would she welcome him? Had he already damaged her love too much to repair?
He opened the door to her dark bedchamber. There was not a candle alight, but the drapes were not drawn and he could see by the light of the moon that the chamber was empty. He moved to the bed, just to be sure, and found no sign of his wife. He sat on her bed for a moment to savour the lingering smell of her perfume and he smiled.
His first thought was that she had perhaps gone down to the kitchens for a drink and he got to his feet, intending to go and see, but as he passed her window he glanced out to see a light bobbing among the trees beside the church.
He watched for a long time, long enough to see more torches among the trees, long enough to see a light glowing in the church window, the same church which Anthony had ordered closed up after the death of Father O’Neil.
He went downstairs and opened the door to the underground passage, saw the torches already alight in their sconces on the walls. There was but one person who could have done this, but he did not want to believe it. When he reached the crypt he waited on the steps beneath the altar and listened while a man’s voice gave instructions about a sea journey, about boats waiting to take people to France. He was about to show himself when he heard Bethany.
“Follow me,” she said and he listened to many footsteps making their way towards the doors. He waited until it was quiet then he climbed the rest of the way into the church, went to the stained glass window and watched as the people made their way to the priest’s cottage. A further vigil showed them leaving the cottage clutching purses and through the forest towards two waiting carts. He could guess what those purses contained; money, his money. And she was using his house, his church.
Richard stayed in the church for a long time, desperately struggling with his mounting fury. He had not seen Bethany come out of the cottage, so he waited; she would have to come back through the church to return to the house the way she came, but there was no sign of her and he was afraid to go and find her until he had himself under control.
She had not even tried to conceal her rank by hiding her clothes; she would get them all suspected, Summerville would be forfeit, they would all end in the Tower.
He had not felt this angry for many years, but now he was terrified of what he might do to her if he did not calm himself before confronting her. He had come all this way to explain, hopefully to feel her love again; to be faced with this betrayal was too much for him to bear, he would never forgive her for this.
***
Bethany fell asleep before the fire that night and when she woke the light was just seeping through the grimy screens. She wondered what time it was; it was hard to tell in this place. The trees let in little sunlight, even on a bright day, but it felt early. It was cold, though, since the fire had died and she shivered as she started to sit up.
A movement beside the door told her someone else was in the room and she looked quickly around for a weapon, but there was none. It was still fairly dark but she could see a shadow and feel a presence. She pulled herself up straight just as the shadow moved towards her. It was Richard.
Her heart jumped with fear. How long had he been here, how much had he found out? He could not have been here when the carts left, could he? Of course not, he would have stopped them. But he just stood and stared at her and his jaw was clenched in rage, his angry scowl murderous.
“Richard,” she whispered, getting to her feet and desperately searching her mind for an excuse for being here.
“Are you trying to get us both killed, My Lady?” He demanded angrily, his fists clenching at his sides, and she was sure he was trying to keep from using them on her.
“What do you mean?” She lied. “I fell asleep. I came to see if anything could be done to this place, if it could be used as a home for some poor soul.”
“Please, do not compound your sins by lying to me.”
Bethany could not recall ever being so afraid and she began to shake, yet still the sight of him made her heart tremor with longing. She should be fleeing for her life, or begging on her knees for forgiveness, but all she wanted was to hold him in her arms, to snuggle her head against his chest, to kiss his lips. W
hat a fool she was!
He stood staring at her, his dark eyes piercing with anger, but he remained calm, dangerously calm. She knew he had discovered what was going on, that he would now be compelled to act on the information. He was Mary’s right hand, the arch papist; what would he do? Would he condemn his own wife, have her taken to the Tower and beheaded for treason. Or would he condemn her to the flames as she had told Martin he might well do. She felt for the little leather purse of toxic berries which hung at her waist.
She moved toward him, intending to hold him, but he shook his head and held up his hand to ward her off. She thought of the wife beater and wondered how many others had met their end when they got in his way. Rosemary? Her death was certainly timely. This dawn she was sure would be her last.
“Richard, please…”
Once more he shook his head, slowly, threateningly.
“Please do not speak. You can have nothing to say to me that I might want to hear.”
So, she was not even to be allowed to beg forgiveness. This was the pretext he wanted to ease his conscience, to discard her and replace her with the beautiful Rachel.
Her memory showed her the two of them, laughing together as they drove through the park, and that memory made her angry. She clung to that anger to give her courage.
“So have you had your cousin spy on me, My Lord?” She asked. “Is that why you have come back?”
His mouth went down and she thought she saw regret in his eyes, but he did not answer her question.
“Here is what will happen,” he said angrily. “This afternoon I shall bring the carriage to convey you to court.”
To court? What was he talking about?
“What about your whore, My Lord?” She demanded.
She looked for a reaction, but he did not seem to feel it necessary to defend her honour, nor did he seem in the least ashamed that Bethany knew about her. Of course not; he had told her at the start how things would be. He had told her other things as well which she had chosen to ignore.
“Do not concern yourself with her,” he replied. “You are not really going to London; that is merely what the household will believe.”
She could only stare at him, feeling her heart hammering and her lips trembling but having no control over either of them. She was to climb into the carriage and then what? A convenient accident, no doubt.
“Am I then to be a party to my own death?” She said, biting back the tears.
There were just the two of them here. He could strangle her with but one of his strong hands and no one would ever know what had become of her. Why should she help him to do away with her by playing the part he demanded?
“Death?” He repeated with a frown, as though he had not understood her words. “If I wanted you dead, you would not now be breathing.”
“What then? What do you have in mind for your treacherous, heretical wife?”
He stared at her for a few moments before he answered and she could see hurt behind the anger. That hurt made her realise for the first time what she had done; she had broken all her promises, had used the home which he loved to aid his enemies, and her betrayal had hurt him. Well, good, she thought. His betrayal had hurt her too, his betrayal with his trollop, but even as she thought it she knew it was unfair. He had given her everything he promised, he had nothing with which to reproach himself. He did not love her, he had never pretended to love her; was it his fault that she adored him?
He drew a deep breath then spoke at last.
“You will have your clothes packed and loaded on to the carriage,” he said. “You will tell everyone I am taking you to London. But you will come here.”
She looked around the place, the sparse furnishings, the mud floor, the darkness which never lifted, not even in the winter when the trees were bare. It was not as bad as it could have been had Father O’Neil not lived here, but it was far removed from what she was accustomed to. He could not mean it; he could not really expect her to live here.
“Here?” She asked, her voice shaking.
“Yes,” he said. “Since you like this place so much, you may stay in it. Nobody will know you are here. As far as anyone is concerned, you are at court. Only Anthony will know you are not. It is well hidden among the trees. Before King Edward, before the church was locked up, food was left there for the poor to collect at will. It is a tradition I have been meaning to revive and now seems as good a time as any, but you will keep out of sight. I want no one to recognise you.” He paused then frowned in concentration. “There will be no more fleeing heretics from this place.”
Food left in the porch? No one to serve her, to cook for her? She would never survive. She bit her lip to keep from crying.
“What about Alicia?”
“What about her? She has nurses, she will be told the same story should she ask. If you go anywhere near her, she will know. She will not know to keep quiet. You will promise me?”
“No,” she replied. “You ask too much, My Lord. I am her mother, she needs me. I will stop helping the Protestants, I swear it, but I cannot be kept from my child.”
“You will do as I say, Madam,” he insisted, then he took a step toward her and his powerful hands came to rest on her neck. She felt his heart beating rapidly, felt his fingers on her throat twitching with rage. “If anyone, anyone at all should find out who you are, I will kill you. That is a promise you may depend on.” His hands tightened around her throat, not enough to choke but enough to make it hard to breathe and let her know just how easy it would be. “Had you concentrated your efforts on being her mother, instead of a heretic and a traitor, we would not now be having this conversation.”
She wanted to plead with him, desperately wanted to beg his forgiveness, but she was terrified. She felt sure if she showed him weakness he would lose what little control he had over his temper and those strong hands would snap her neck like a twig. She remained silent.
“Until this afternoon, then,” he said softly as he released her, but his tone was menacing.
When he had gone she looked around the little cottage and wondered how she would be able to survive, living in it all the time and with nobody for company. Her eyes wandered up to the hole in the roof where the smoke went out, at the waxed screens over the windows, at the floor of impacted mud. She thought of all those poor tenants having proper chimneys built into their homes at Richard’s expense, while his wife lived with a circle of stones on the floor and a hole in the roof.
He could not mean it. He was just angry, and who could blame him? He would have changed his mind by this afternoon, he would have realised how impossible it would be. She should never have betrayed him like this but in all honesty, until this moment, she had not realised she was betraying him. She knew what she was doing was dangerous and against the law and she knew Richard would be furious if he knew, but the idea that she was betraying him, as her husband, had never really occurred to her. What a fool she was, what a thoughtless idiot.
He had done nothing to her he had not openly said he would do at the beginning, nothing she had not willingly agreed to. He had not hurt her intentionally before, had he? She did it because of Julia, because of that look of contempt in her eyes, because of her screams of agony as the flames tore at her. She did it because she was eaten up with jealousy of a woman called Rachel.
But now she had to stop thinking of herself and decide how she was going to stop the evacuation. How was she going to get word to Charles that this place was no longer safe? She could not risk even one more trip. They would even now be arriving at the house, ready to take up their places as cleaners until the evening. Her heart was hammering as she fled through the passage and up the stairs to the east wing. If Richard knew as much as he did, he would also know about them. They could all be on their way to prison right now.
When she flung open the big, heavy door, it was to find the rooms deserted. Nobody was there and she was sure she was responsible for their deaths. But there was nothing she could do; Martin
would come to the cottage this evening as usual and no doubt a trap would be laid for him. And Charles? Richard had failed in his efforts to locate Charles Carlisle all this time. She could only hope that would continue.
As she supervised the loading into boxes of her clothing she knew she would have no reason to wear any of this finery and he would have no reason to keep her alive. He had chosen his whore over her, Anthony had proved himself capable of inheriting Summerville Hall and the title, so he had no need now of an heir. She would never feel his arms around her again. She would not even have her little daughter. She had made a bargain with the devil and the devil could never be trusted.
She kept her back to the servants who were packing her things so they would not see the tears brimming in her eyes. As soon as they had gone, she laid down on her bed and stared up at the canopy above her head, wondering if there were anything at all she could do to make him change his mind. The bed was elegant, the mattress and bolster soft feather and she dreaded the night to come when she would lie down on straw, low to the ground so the rats could get in, so the draught from the ill fitting door could chill her bones. She shook her head. Was she really going to submit to this? Was she really going to obey her husband’s command and imprison herself in that dark and damp little hovel?
She would run away, perhaps find some safe haven away from here. Julia had found somewhere, so could she and she had money, gold coin Richard always left for her.
She got up and ran to the cabinet where the little leather casket was kept, the casket from where she had taken money to give to the fleeing Protestants. It was gone. Jewels, she had jewels. Julia had taken jewels to sell when she left Winterton House, Bethany could do the same. She opened the velvet covered box where her jewels were kept, only to find it empty. Her heart sank. He had planned it carefully, planned that she should not escape as he knew she would be too afraid to leave with no means whatsoever. And if she did he would only hunt her down and kill her anyway. She had no energy left to plan anything. She had lost everything for which she had sold her soul. She was no longer welcome in the beautiful mansion and grounds; another woman wore her title; her beautiful gowns would disappear and she did not even have the man who had promised all those things to her, the man she still adored. She had nothing left worth fighting for.
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