HOLY POISON: Boxed Set: The Complete Series 1-6

by Margaret Brazear

  There was dancing in the courtyard, strange instruments and jolly music played by Jacob’s sons, and all three children went home with Jacob for the night. When everyone had gone, the newly wedded couple retreated to the house and sat on the settle together.

  It was a peculiar atmosphere. These two hardly knew each other and to Frances that was nothing unusual; it was the normal thing among the aristocracy, but to Charles it was very strange and rather uncomfortable.

  He took her hand hesitantly.

  “Frances,” he said. “You have done me a great honour by agreeing to marry me. I hope I can make you happy; I will do my best.”

  “And I will do my best to make you happy, Charles. You have given me something special by taking me as your wife. You have given me a place, a place for me and my children and for that I will always thank you.”

  They sat and talked for hours, not what either of them expected of their wedding night but somehow it came naturally. She told him all about Mark, how they had run away together, how they had built the farm together, and he told her about Julia.

  “It is hard for you to talk about her, I can see,” Frances said.

  “It is still very raw. She suffered a horrendous and painful death and I shall always blame myself. Had I not been wounded she would never have been there.”

  “She would not want you to blame yourself.”

  “But I do, and I do not feel entitled to be happy.”

  “But you are?”

  He nodded.

  “I think I could love you, Frances. Do you think you could love me?”

  “I think I already do.”

  He kissed her then, kissed her as he had once kissed Julia, stirred for her as he had once stirred for Julia and he could almost hear her soft, sweet voice telling him to be happy for all of them, for himself and his new wife and for their lost loves.

  THE END

  CONSEQUENCES

  HOLY POISON

  Book Six

  CONSEQUENCES

  By

  Margaret Brazear

  Copyright © Margaret Brazear 2015

  The Final Confession of Lord Richard Summerville is not available to the general public. Find out how you can have access to this hidden document

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Queen Mary was dead! Could there be a better gift to end the year of 1558 for Protestants everywhere than to know that the Papist hag was dead and gone and her brutality with her? It was the first day of the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, England's second female monarch, and one could only hope she made more friends than her late, unlamented sister.

  Only that morning, after little sleep, Bethany, Countess of Summerville, had dressed in black and gone about the mournful duty of telling the tenants and villagers that their lord was dead, executed for treason. Anthony blamed her, said it was her failure to obey her husband's wishes that caused him to replace her at court with his mistress. He had presented that mistress to the Queen as his countess, an insult to Her Majesty's face. And when the Queen learned the truth, the Earl of Summerville, who had been her staunchest supporter and closest friend, was arrested, tried and convicted of treason.

  Only yesterday Bethany had made the long journey from Suffolk to London, bribed her way with gold coins into the grim building where her husband awaited his death and held him in her arms for what she believed would be the last time.

  She still believed then that he was in that dismal place because he could not bear to be parted from his mistress, the beautiful Lady Rachel Stewart. Now she knew better; now she knew the truth and she felt humble and grateful for the risk they had both taken to protect her.

  She went to the village priest that morning to buy masses for his soul, all the time knowing he had no need of such superstition, but it was what he believed that mattered. She had let him down about so many things; she would not let him down about that.

  And as she went about these tasks, her imagination would not stop seeing his beautiful head on a spike on London Bridge, with all the other traitors.

  Then the miracle for which she had prayed so hard happened - Mary died and the new Queen pardoned all her enemies. Richard came home, just when she had decided there was nothing left worth living for. He held her hand and took her to bed and she was nervous like the very first time, it had been so long since they did those things, so long since she felt his touch on her flesh.

  He made love to her this afternoon, a joy she had thought would remain nothing more than a wondrous memory for her to savour during the cold, lonely nights to come.

  This was a momentous day, a day when Bethany realised her actions had unwittingly severed the close bond between her husband and his cousin. Anthony blamed her when Richard was condemned and seeing him alive and well had failed to turn the tide of his resentment and anger. He would never forgive her the betrayal of her husband; Richard had been forced to choose and he had chosen his wife.

  Anthony did not join them for supper and she was forced to finally admit to herself that he meant what he said, he was leaving, moving to his own house where only that morning she thought she would be joining him as the unwelcome guest he would reluctantly house out of loyalty to his cousin.

  Now he was leaving, and they could hear him upstairs dragging his boxes around, yelling to the servants to help him with his belongings.

  "Will you not try to make up with him, Richard?" Bethany asked for the third time. "Of course he is angry. This has been his home since he was a child and he is angry with me on your behalf, because he loves you."

  "No," he replied coldly. "If he loved me he would not be trying to drive us apart. I can only suppose my influence did not get to him before his own father's did, he who believed that women should always know their place and have no thoughts of their own. I have never believed that; if I had I would not have chosen you for my wife. If he cannot accept that, then it is better for all of us if he does leave."

  "I hate to be the cause of a rift between you."

  "You are not the cause; he is. He is old enough now to run his own household in any case. He has had enough practice and will no doubt be looking for a wife of his own. She will be someone who believes she must not have an opinion that differs from his. She will be as unlike you, my love, as she can possibly get, but the one thing I hope is that he loves her. That is the only way he might understand how we can forgive each other for such crimes as we have committed."

  "He does not believe you need forgiveness, only me."

  "Then he is a fool, and I did not raise him to be a fool." He finished his meal and pushed the plate aside then reached to take her hand. "Have you had enough?"

  She could not resist the innuendo attached to that question.

  “No,” she said, mischievously. “I can never have enough of you.”

  He gave her one of his delighted smiles, a smile she had never thought to see again, and shook his head.

  "I never realised before what a wicked woman I married," he whispered playfully.

  He leaned toward her and kissed her lips, but Anthony appeared in the doorway just as they stood up. Perhaps this was their last chance to make things right and she knew it would go better without her presence.

  "I will bid you goodnight, Anthony," she said as she walked past him.

  He made no reply, but she felt his eyes following her all the way to the stairs and she turned in time to see him move farther into the room. She sat on the stairs and peered through the rails where she could just make out the interaction in the dining hall.

  "I have had my things packed, all my belongings I think," Anthony said. "I shall stay at the inn tonight."

  "There is no need," Richard answered. "You can stay here until tomorrow."

  "No. It is better this way." He paused thoughtfully, looking Richard full in the face, before he went on. "I really wish you would reconsider."

  Richard frowned but made no reply, which his cousin seemed to take as encoura
gement.

  "You should put her aside," Anthony was saying. "She will never obey you."

  "I am very glad to hear it," Richard replied with a little smile.

  "But you can marry again, Richard. You can get an heir with some other woman, someone of your own class, your own faith."

  Richard was puzzled.

  "What do you suggest I do with the wife I have?" He asked.

  Anthony shuffled his feet, as though deciding whether he should speak his mind. He had told Bethany before this that he expected Richard to do away with her.

  "You got rid of your last wife," he finally muttered.

  A flash of anger crossed Richard's face; was he about to lose that fragile temper and do something he would regret?

  "Yes," he replied at last. "Bethany mentioned that you thought me responsible for Rosemary's death."

  "Well, am I to believe you were not responsible?"

  Bethany listened carefully, waiting for him to deny it, but he did not.

  "You are right, Anthony," he answered after a few moments. "I was responsible, but you are missing the point. I disliked Rosemary; indeed I would go so far as to say she made my life a burden. I had good reason for wanting to get rid of her." He paused and looked up, knowing his wife was listening to every word. "Bethany is different, because I love her. She is my reason for living and without her I would not want to go on. Do you yet understand?"

  "No, and I never will. I wish you well of your treacherous little commoner."

  Anthony turned on his heel and left the house and Bethany’s heart sank. She had hoped they might find some common ground, that their lifelong bond could be healed and she would not be the cause of breaking that bond forever. But it was not to be.

  Richard came to meet her at the top of the stairs and gathered her into his arms.

  "Why did you let him believe you killed Rosemary?" She asked.

  "Because it is no bad thing if he believes me capable of murder. It might make him think before he insults my wife again."

  "You do not trust him to know the truth about her?"

  "No, I do not. Look how he has behaved over you, unable to forgive when he has no right to question. His sister has been a greater influence on him during her short visit than I thought possible. I do not want him unable to forgive Rosemary as well, perhaps even having her remains removed and buried in unconsecrated ground. If the church knew she was a suicide, they would not hesitate."

  Bethany had a sudden awful vision of sombre faced priests supervising the removal of her skeleton to be reburied outside the churchyard walls or at a crossroads, a vision which made her shiver.

  "Come," Richard said gently. "Let us forget him. I want to know more of that wicked woman."

  ***

  After breakfast, while Richard rode out to show himself to the tenants, to allay their fears, Bethany visited the old cottage in the woods. For some reason she was drawn to it, as though she wanted to say goodbye, to be sure it could not reach out and grab her, take her back into a past she wanted desperately to forget.

  She had been here but once since she was released from her prison by the death of her dear little girl. She had no real idea of why she should want to see it now; its memories were not good, but as she stood and looked about, she was reminded of what she so very nearly lost.

  It was late in the year and the air was damp and chill, the ground muddy even inside the cottage. She remembered the winter she spent here, how the dirt floor soaked up the wet from the rain and snow, which found its way through the waxed screens and the hole above the fire.

  An unexpected surge of resentment and anger tore into her heart and made her almost forget the love she had so recently shared with her husband. They were going to start again; they had no need of past transgressions rising up to interfere and spoil things. She shivered, despite the fur cloak she wore.

  Just looking at this place made her vividly recall the terrifying rage in Richard's entire body when he discovered her here, when he trapped her here, her fear when she realised he meant for her to fend for herself like a peasant, in this freezing, dilapidated hovel.

  That is how angry he was, how full of vengeance for her betrayal; and she had betrayed him, she had risked both their lives to aid his enemies. These memories were quickly followed by the memory of her devastation when she finally realised she had sent the man she loved into the arms of another woman for the support and comfort she had been unable or unwilling to provide.

  She needed to remember the pain of that time in order to properly savour the present.

  "Why are you here?"

  Richard's voice from the doorway made her start violently and she shivered as a memory flashed into her mind, a memory of the last time she had failed to notice him standing in that same doorway. For a few brief seconds, the guilt and fear came rushing back with it.

  "I might ask you the same question," she replied, surprised that her voice shook a little.

  "I came to see what would be the most efficient way to destroy this place."

  She stared at him. She had not expected that.

  "Why would you want to do that?" She asked.

  "It is a reminder of some terrible sins," he replied.

  "Yours or mine?"

  He did not reply at first, just stood in thoughtful silence, considering his answer.

  "Both," he said at last.

  "Then let it stay, please."

  "Why would you want that? It is a reminder of an awful time, a desperately unhappy time. How can we put the past behind us while this place still stands as a monument to that past?”

  "Do you always do this?" She asked him softly. "Anything you do not want to remember has to be destroyed or kept out of sight, like Rosemary's portrait?"

  "What are suggesting? That we hang her portrait in the gallery?"

  "It is where she belongs. She was your wife."

  "In name only," he replied with a note of bitterness.

  She had been dead for years, and still he could not look fondly upon her memory.

  "I want this place destroyed," he said at last. "I do not want to be reminded of what we did to each other. I cannot imagine why you would not want that too."

  "If Alicia had not taken ill, I might still be living here. Do you realise that?"

  "I would not have left you here once Mary was dead. I never intended to release you, but I would have found you somewhere more comfortable to live."

  "Anthony would have," she said. "Had you been executed, Anthony would have gladly left me here. He as good as told me so himself and I doubt he would have even bothered to tell me you were dead except to be sure I took the blame."

  He frowned and shook his head.

  "He would have told you I was in the Tower. I asked him to in my letter and he would not have refused me my last request. You would still have come to the prison to say goodbye. You do not realise just how much that meant to me; until that moment I believed I had destroyed your love." He paused and held her close and they stood in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, while she rested her head against his chest and listened to the pounding of his heart, savoured the warmth of his nearness just to assure herself she was not dreaming. "I cannot tell you how my heart leapt with joy when I looked up and saw you standing there. I will tell you something, Bethany. Had you not come to say goodbye, I would likely never have come back here at all."

  She pulled away and looked up at him in alarm.

  "Whatever do you mean?"

  "I was writing letters when you came, remember? I never got to the one for you, the one that would tell you I knew you no longer loved me and that I did not blame you."

  He paused and kissed her forehead, holding her head in his hand while the other held her close against him.

  "That is why I did not care if I was put to death. When I interrupted you with those berries in your hand, you thought I was Anthony. You told me there was nothing left for you, and that is exactly how I felt. After you left, everything changed
; I started to dread the dawn, because then I knew I had been wrong, that I did still have something precious worth living for."

  "I cannot imagine why you would ever think otherwise, no matter what happened."

  "That is what Rachel said," he looked at her with a little puzzled frown. "She told me you would love me no matter what I did."

  "She is a very wise lady. Perhaps she would have come and released me had you not survived."

  “I am so very sorry,” he said. “And I am sorry I would not listen to you, when you tried to explain. I was too angry, too hurt and I was so furious I just wanted you to suffer.”

  “Do you want to know now? Why I did it?”

  He made no reply straight away. He did want to know why his wife had betrayed him, but he was afraid of the answer to that question.

  “I know you wanted to help; I recall your telling me, before I shut you up.”

  “Oh, yes, I wanted to help, but not for the sake of the fleeing Protestants. It was for Julia.”

  He frowned.

  “Julia? I do not understand.”

  “I watched her die, remember? And all I could see for weeks afterwards was the contempt in her eyes as she looked down at me from that cart, on her way to the stake. She told me not to marry you; she likened me to Judas Iscariot for giving up my beliefs to marry you for your wealth and title.”

  “I do not think she could have meant it.”

  “She meant it. You were not there; you did not see the look in her eyes.”

  “I do not think it was contempt in her eyes, Bethany,” he said. “It was more likely to have been detachment. You felt guilty and you conjured up the contempt you believed you were owed. If she took the potion I smuggled into the gaol for her, she would have been too drugged to even recognise you, much less have any feelings on the subject.”

  She pulled away and stared at him, hope in her eyes.

  “I heard her scream.”

  He shook his head.