He prayed for the child’s recovery, but whatever the outcome, her mother would return to her prison. He hated her. He had tried not to think about her at all but when he had, his hatred surfaced and almost consumed him. And to think he once loved her, would have done anything for her. He expected her to hate him in return after what he had done to her and that was another reason he had no wish to face her, he was ashamed.
Perhaps to make amends for the abuse, he would find her somewhere more comfortable to live, but all he cared about now was getting to Alicia.
It was one of those rare times when he did not take the time to attend to Ebony himself. He dismounted outside the front doors and tossed the reins to a stable hand before taking the steps three at a time and hurrying to his daughter’s bedchamber in the nursery wing. As soon as he saw the lesions covering her face, he knew it was hopeless. The best physicians were in attendance, as well as a priest.
“Forgive me, My Lord,” the doctor addressed him. “I thought it best to send for Father Francis. I was unsure if you would arrive in time.”
Richard only nodded at him. His child was dying, his sweet, pretty little girl who had meant so much to him and to her mother, and he had missed so much of her young life. And whose fault was that? If Bethany had kept her promises, they could all have been together at Whitehall. But his duty was clear: he would have to collect Bethany and bring her to the house.
He went outside and hitched up the carriage. The servants thought it odd that he insisted on driving himself, wherever he was going, but they made no comment. He told them he had to fetch Her Ladyship, but they would not ask from where.
He took the path around the trees to the front of the church so that anyone watching had no reason to suspect his destination, and as he drove toward the woods and the little hovel, he decided he would not speak to his wife unless he had to. He would tell her about Alicia, of course, but that was all. There would be as little contact as possible.
The cottage was empty when he arrived. He had no idea where she was, out collecting firewood or food he imagined, and if she did not return soon, he would have to go and look for her. It occurred to him that, after their last encounter, she could have seen the coach and decided to hide from him. He hoped not; he had no time for that.
He went to the chest and took out her blue velvet gown, the one she had been wearing when he brought her here. He shook it out to remove the creases and the dust, then he went outside to see if she were coming.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw her, standing at the edge of the trees, her eyes wide and frightened. He studied her for a moment, unsure that this really was Bethany, if this could really be his beautiful wife. She looked awful. She was almost skeletally thin, her face was pale, almost white in colour, and her hair was dull. Where had the lustre gone? Where were the glorious, thick waves through which he had run his fingers, that he had held to his face to breathe in the perfume from her soap?
All the hatred and resentment drained out of him. She looked so helpless, he just wanted to fold her up in his arms and make her better.
***
He would tell her nothing while he helped her don her forgotten finery. He stood behind her and laced up her bodice, his fingers quick and efficient, his expression forlorn. She stood still, trying not to remember when he had stood in this same place and loosened these laces, but she could not help but notice that no matter how tightly he pulled on the garment, it still hung loosely on her.
But that was of no matter now. Your daughter needs you. Something must be desperately wrong for him to come here, to fetch her out of her hovel to join the world, if only for the briefest time.
She could stand it no longer.
“What is wrong with Alicia?” She asked for the third time.
He turned her round and she tilted her face up to look at him, then she realised why he had not answered before. It was because he could not, because the tears in his eyes told her he could barely speak.
“She is ill?” She persisted. “What is wrong with her?”
He swallowed, then led her outside and handed her into the carriage. He climbed in beside her before he could reply.
“It is the smallpox,” he said with difficulty, then he took her hand. “She is dying, Bethany. I have the best physicians to tend to her, I have prayed, but there is no improvement. I only got the letter this morning. You have a right to be with her, whatever else has happened.”
“Thank you.”
He left her alone and climbed down, then into the driver’s seat to drive the horses himself. No one could be privy to this secret.
She lie like a little doll on the pillow, her face drawn and covered with the familiar blisters. Bethany sat on the bed and gathered her up into her arms, her little girl who she had watched so carefully, who she had not held for so long. Richard sat on the bed behind her, but he made no move to take the child from her.
It was her own fault that she had missed out on this last year of her life. Had she not betrayed Alicia’s father, she might have been there to protect her. She held the small body against her, kissed the sweet face and hoped she knew her mother was with her at last.
“I am so sorry, my darling,” she whispered. “I should have been with you, not helping a lot of strangers.”
Tears soaked into Alicia’s neck and shoulder as Bethany held her, then realised there were many others in the chamber. She had not even noticed them when Richard led her in but now she heard the chanting. It began softly and it was a few minutes before it penetrated into her mind. She looked up. There were four monks standing on the other side of the bed and they were chanting in Latin.
Fury overwhelmed her. Her child was dying and she had missed her last year because of this damned Queen and her merciless religion. She had lost her child because of it, she had lost her husband because of it and she had lost her sister because of it. And now they were here, chanting their superstitious gibberish.
“Shut up!” She screamed at them, jumping to her feet. “My baby does not need your prayers. God will receive her innocent little soul without help from you.”
“My Lady,” the priest said, stepping forward. “I must administer the last rites. Please.”
“No! She needs no help to claim her place among the angels.”
She pushed him away, but just then Alicia’s breathing became ragged and she turned back to her.
Richard was behind her, catching her around the waist and pulling her away. She expected him to be angry with her and she no longer cared. Yet his voice was soft and soothing.
“Please, Bethany,” he murmured. “Let Father Francis do his work.”
Yes, she thought, Father Francis must give prayers to help her little one through purgatory. She believed that was rubbish but Richard did not and she was his child, too. The last thing they would ever share would be the death of their daughter. Bethany let him lead her away, although she really wanted to hold her till the end.
As they reached the door she saw Robina, standing and glaring at her furiously. As Richard guided her past, Bethany heard her mutter quietly: “Heresy”.
She could not care what she thought, nor even if she had recognised her. It seemed unlikely. She had not had much of a chance to see inside the cottage; even if she had it was dark, but she might have recognised her voice. Her only concern was her little Alicia. She was gone, the only thing left worth living for, her little angel. May God protect her.
In the hallway Richard released his grip on her arm and she turned to face him, looking for signs of the contempt she had felt from him before. But all she could see were the tears, tears for their little girl. Then he surprised her totally; he put out his arms to her and she fell into them, soaking his doublet with her own tears.
They stood like that for a long time before they moved away to the bedchamber, the one they had shared. He sat beside her on the settle, just like old times really, except he made no move to touch her.
“So she is gone,” she
said quietly. “The only thing left of our marriage, of our love, if love you ever felt for me.”
He shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his feet as he spoke at last.
“Bethany,” he said quietly. “This is not the right time, but it has haunted me for months and I have to tell you I am deeply ashamed of the way I behaved at our last meeting. It was unforgivable. I was angry, very angry, but that is no excuse for what I did to you. I have always loathed men who force themselves on women and here I am no better.”
She turned to look at him in surprise; she had not expected him to apologise, not for that. He did not look up, but kept his eyes on his feet, like some naughty schoolboy about to be scolded. Finally his eyes met hers.
“Can you ever forgive me?” He said.
She had no answer to that. She had spent the past year fearing for her life, terrified that one night she would wake to find him standing over her, waiting to kill her. She even slept with the leather purse beneath her pillow, even knowing it would do no good, that there would not be time to do anything with it. And here he was asking forgiveness for that? Why would he? He only took what was his by right, even if he did take it brutally and leave her feeling sullied.
Her heart melted, as she believed he knew it would, but she did not reply. He was right, it was not the time as far as she was concerned. Did she forgive him? She wasn’t really sure whether she did, or if she ever could. He had hurt her too much, with his whore and his scathing words, with making her live like a penniless peasant.
But his reference to that night reminded her sharply of how afraid she had been, of how she had been in terror until she realised just how capable she could be. The memory brought resentment with it.
“Did it occur to you that making fires and cooking was not necessary training for the daughter of a wealthy merchant?” She demanded angrily. “Did it enter your head that I might not survive?”
His eyes met hers and held her gaze for a few moments, making her wonder if he intended to reply. Finally he did, and it was not what she wanted to hear.
“If you want the honest truth,” he replied thoughtfully, “no, it did not occur to me. At that precise moment, I really did not care whether you survived or not.”
A lump formed in her throat, almost stopping her breath. Why did she have to ask these questions, when she knew the answer would only hurt?
“Later, though,” he went on, “when I had calmed down, I made sure that you were watched, that you were managing.”
“Anthony?” He nodded. “Is there anything he will not do for you?”
Richard shrugged as though it had never really occurred to him, while she realised he must have known about Charles Carlisle’s visit. Why they were not both dead, she could not guess.
“You threatened to kill me if anyone discovered who I was and I am quite sure you meant it. I think you ask forgiveness for the wrong sin.”
“Not at all,” he replied quietly. “You were right, I did mean it. How I kept from strangling you with my bare hands, I will never know. But I could not have you running away and perhaps declaring your real identity. I needed you to believe me; it was essential for your safety and mine that you believed me. It was the only thing that would keep you from leaving the cottage, from showing yourself and giving yourself away.”
“I might have stayed there simply because you asked me to.”
“Once perhaps,” he said, with a quizzical raise of his eyebrows. “Not any more. You are too headstrong. I was afraid you would want revenge.”
She was not sure what any of that meant. Was he saying he had not meant it, that she had no need to fear for her life, that once he was calmer he regretted his threat? Or was he telling her he would have carried out his threat and still would, if the need arose?
It was all too confusing to her addled brain, especially now, with her little girl lost and nothing left worth going on for. Everywhere she looked there was a memory of her, of her first smile, her first steps, her first words – all her little achievements that her father had missed while he gave his time to two other women, the mad fanatic on the throne and the trollop in his bed.
She cast her eyes around the chamber she had not seen for so long, with the sunlight streaming through the windows, and compared it to the dark and tiny one roomed hovel with its wattle and daub walls, its mud floor. She had no doubt that Richard would now return her to that place, that this house for which she had paid so dearly was lost in her past and would never be hers again.
It was hopeless to think about it; she only wanted this day to be over and was almost looking forward to returning to her pauper’s existence. At least there she would come to know her place, would not be forever hankering after the life she should have had. She wanted to leave, now, before she became too comfortable in this beautiful house.
“What now, My Lord?” She asked after a moment. “Am I to return to my peasant’s life? I have become quite proficient at cooking and washing. I can even light a fire. I have not attempted to catch my own food as yet, but I expect I could do so if you insisted. You would be so proud of me.” She watched him thoughtfully before she went on sarcastically. “It is cold in the cottage, though. I would be grateful for one of those fancy chimneys the rest of your tenants are enjoying.”
He seemed to flinch at that and she wondered if he saw the irony of the tenants having chimneys, while his wife almost froze.
He got up and turned to the window, keeping his back to her.
“You will stay here, take up your place as my Countess. This will be a good enough reason for your substitute at court to leave, to retreat to the country in mourning. The Queen will not question it.”
She wanted to know more, but she did not want more answers that would cause her pain. She had seen enough pain for one day. No doubt he had some other country house in which to keep his whore, perhaps closer to London, where he could visit often, where he could bed her without interference from his discarded wife.
“First I must send Robina back to France, back to the convent,” he said. “She is a danger to you if she stays.”
“So you heard her too.”
He nodded. “She sees heresy in everything; I only let her stay because Anthony wanted it. I think even he is afraid to speak within her hearing. I was planning to get rid of her anyway.”
Bethany stared at him, remembering how conveniently people had accidents in this place, but he gave her a little sardonic smile.
“Not what you are thinking,” he said. “I will return her to France, tonight, before she has time to cause trouble. But you must promise me you will be quiet here. You must not put yourself in danger, not draw attention to yourself. It is nearly over.”
“Over? What is over?”
“This reign. The Queen has had another imagined pregnancy. There is no Catholic heir to succeed her and that means the Scottish Queen or Elizabeth.”
She watched him carefully, almost afraid to speak. To be talking of this was not safe and he knew it. Strange that one of the first things he talked about to her was the death of the monarch; it was no less dangerous now.
“What will that mean for you, My Lord,” she asked. “You are Queen Mary’s dearest friend and advisor. If she dies, Elizabeth will not spare you.”
“Who knows what Elizabeth will do? I know nothing about her, only what the Queen has told me and her word is not to be trusted when it comes to her half sister.” He turned back to her, looking at her thoughtfully as though he had more to say but was unsure of how much he should reveal. “Philip has returned to Spain, for good this time I think. The Queen is not well and her reaction to the loss of what she believes was another child and her husband, whom she fools herself into believing she loves, will likely send her over the edge. She has lost popularity since the execution of Cranmer and now she has lost Calais, our last territory in France.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“It means more burnings. It means more of the barbaric execution
s for which she will be remembered.” His jaw was clenched, as were his fists, his voice rose angrily and she was surprised at this turn events had taken.
“I thought you approved. You said you did.”
“And you believed me?” He asked with raised eyebrows.
“Why should I not believe you? You are Catholic, after all.”
“And you are not, are you sweetheart, nor ever likely to be?” He ran his fingers through his hair in an agitated fashion then laughed that self deprecatory laugh. “Why did I think you ever would be? I wanted you because you were your own person, and then I thought I could make you follow me. What a fool I was.”
He came towards her and held out his hand. She hesitated to take it; she was still hurt and angry and desperately unhappy about losing Alicia. She knew there would be no more children, for how could there be when they were no longer of one flesh? He might still want an heir enough to return to her bed, but it seemed unlikely. He appeared defeated somehow, as if it had all been for nothing.
Still he waited, his hand held out invitingly, until she finally took it. He pulled her to her feet and kissed her, but not with the passion of the past. This was just a goodbye kiss, a final gesture to mark the end of their life together.
“I must return to London tomorrow,” he said. “The funeral will be in the morning and I will leave straight after. I will not see you again, but keep yourself safe please. The Queen is angry now. She believes God has deserted her because her efforts have not been vigorous enough. It would never occur to her it is because they are too vigorous. I can do little to curb her enthusiasm, neither can anyone else.”
I will not see you again. She wondered what he meant by that but she could not bear to ask; she feared the answer too much.
She was about to follow him from the bedchamber when she heard Robina’s voice in the gallery.
“Richard!” She cried. “What can I do for you? You have lost your only child and now you learn your wife is a heretic? How can you bear it?”
HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6 Page 17