Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  In a daze, she watched Martin running back to her as if he were a creature no longer of this world. Lord Rushden’s answer was already in her mind.

  The groom’s eyes were round as turrets, his fear great. “Says it be too late for an apology. ’Pon my soul, mistress, you have to tell ’im who you are.”

  She shook her head. This was meant to be. At least if she died, there would be no more complaints, no more beatings. “I acquit you of all blame, Martin.”

  Because it was not a proper jousting field, there was no wooden tilt to keep the horses apart. Heloise took the wooden lance, swallowed nervously as she kneed her charger round, and then rode to the edge of the field. She had one last chance for survival. If Lord Rushden knocked her from the saddle, she could pretend that she was stunned and mayhap there could be an end to it. She moistened her lips and signaled her readiness. Her enemy saluted her mockingly and lowered his lance. The Rushden groom raised a kerchief, and as he cast it down, Heloise spurred forward, with a prayer to St. Catherine. She instinctively swerved as the malevolent lance came at her. Her own weapon went astray, missing Rushden entirely, and she quickly withdrew her feet from the stirrups and, as if hit, toppled off the horse into the deep grass the way her cousins had taught her to fall. All breath burst out of her as she crashed in an untidy sprawl. Her nightmare had not told her what came next.

  Her head was still ringing as the thud of hooves returned. Lord Rushden dismounted and clanged purposefully towards her. She blinked up at him through the slits. He was not pointing his sword to her throat! Plague take it! He was waiting for her to fight him on foot.

  Groaning inwardly, already badly bruised, she turned onto her knees, awkwardly staggered to her feet, and reluctantly drew Sir Hubert’s sword. Rushden made an assault. That Heloise parried it was a miracle. It happened twice and he began to circle, forcing her to stagger and turn to keep him in her sight. He was assessing her, exploring her speed, mobility, skill, and each blow became more testing. Cursing beneath her breath, Heloise made a lunge but she found it hard to raise the sword with sufficient strength to bring it down upon him. He was taller than her and moved aside easily, not with an old man’s lumbering gait but with a younger man’s energy. If only it were over, she prayed, as he began to tease her, making feints here and there. And it was beginning to snow, marring her sight further. She felt like a hapless beetle fronting an agile ant. Each sparking blow as her foe’s blade struck hers jarred her whole body.

  “Where did you learn the use of arms, dotard, in the market?” jeered her enemy. The malicious serpents on his breast blurred as she reeled at his voice. St. Catherine protect her! This was not the blustering voice of some ancient, but the strong, mocking tones of a far younger man. Blinking back tears of fury and frustration, she cast her wooden shield away, clasped the sword handle with both hands, and swung the blade with all her strength, but the stranger parried it easily. His blows grew lighter, playful, as he drove her back.

  His taunting laugh as she almost tumbled backwards over a molehill made Heloise break her silence. With a fierce whoop of female anger, she charged at him. For an instant he dropped his guard, and her blade caught his helm. She might have taken further advantage of his surprise, but sweat from her brow blinded her and weariness and cold were addling her mind. More was unbearable. She crumpled to her knees and the world vanished.

  MILES GRABBED OFF HIS HELM AND FLUNG IT ASIDE AS HE KNELT down in the long grass. He cautiously lifted off Ballaster’s helm only to rock back on his heels in astonishment. He had fought a boy! The linen coif framed a young face and no hint of beard sat yet upon the frozen downy cheeks. Certes, a very pretty boy, more suited to the choirstall than a destrier’s saddle. Cowardly Ballaster! Sending a codling to fight. If only he had guessed earlier, for it called his honor into question. Should word of this leak out . . .

  “Stay back, all of you,” he roared as his people and the fat barber-physician came running. He needed to protect his foe’s identity, not to mention save himself from ridicule.

  “Sir!” It was the leech, venturing closer, anxious for business.

  “Stay back, I said! You there, give me a hand.”

  Snowflakes glistened on his adversary’s lashes as Miles and the Ballaster esquire carried the youth into the dark windowless hut. God’s rood, the lad’s armor probably weighed more than he did! They laid their burden on an old palliasse set on a wooden frame. Miles stood back frowning as the esquire crouched, anxiously feeling for a pulse in his young master’s neck. Reassured, the fellow unclad the boy’s hands and began to chafe them.

  “He will live,” Miles asserted derisively, drawing off his gauntlets. “Who is he? Ballaster’s son, I suppose.” The esquire did not answer but the lad did—with a groan. “Wait outside, fellow!” Miles snarled, nudging the door open with his armored shoe, and he stood there while the esquire edged past him uneasily. “So, are you groggy, boy?” Miles taunted, fastening the latch. It amused him to stay in the shadows, to deliberately make himself formidable. “You are fortunate I did not run you through.”

  “Who are you?” whispered the youth, straining to see in the gloom.

  “Sir Miles Rushden.” Pacing across to the ancient hearth, Miles turned his back on the lad with a menacing rattle of hauberk. He knew how to frighten his prisoners. “Your family is occupying my inheritance.”

  He almost heard his captive swallow. “Are . . . are you going to ransom me?”

  Miles swung round arrogantly to see that the youth was now leaning on one elbow, staring miserably at the ground, shoulders hunched. Circumstances warranted frightening him further. “Oh, no, boy.” Miles’s voice was laced with contempt. His foe evidently had no understanding of the rules. “I cannot be bothered. Perhaps I should just give you to my men for a beating.”

  The prisoner’s head whipped up defiantly. “Then you are no true knight.”

  Inexplicably, the taunt stung Miles, bringing the blood to his cheeks. He had been playing on the lad’s fear, determined to teach him a lesson, but young Ballaster did not lack courage even if his father did. “Why did you take your father’s place?”

  “He was sick, so he chose Sir Hubert in his place. Sir Hubert was a mercenary at Nancy.”

  “The siege of Nancy was a defeat,” retorted Miles witheringly. “And what happened to the legendary Hubert this morning? Did he suddenly vanish in the night?”

  “He was sick too,” the boy admitted, staring at his toecaps.

  “Ha! Or drunk.”

  The coifed head jerked defiantly. “Where is your coward of a father then?”

  “Do not be insolent with me!” Miles snarled, watching in satisfaction as the boy recoiled. He strode to the door and halted. “I should take my belt to you.” He fingered the buckle, his pause perfect as his young enemy’s jaw gaped. “Save that I want my breakfast and it would take too long to strip you to your arse.” For a few heartbeats, he waited menacingly and then he unlatched the door and slammed it back against the wall so that the whole dwelling shuddered. With a powerful hand, he grabbed up Ballaster’s esquire by the collar as though he were a discarded cote and dragged him inside. “Take your young master and be gone!” he growled, loosing the man so violently that the fellow went sprawling towards the boy.

  “It is not his fault.” The youth put a steadying hand out to the terrified fellow and the pair of them turned their faces to Miles, uncertain and fearful whether they should try to leave.

  “What are you waiting for?” Being malevolent was quite amusing, but now he was weary of playing the tyrant. The servant replaced the youth’s gauntlets before he helped his master to his feet then he hesitated, a-feared to pass the grim silhouette half-blocking the threshold.

  The boy—Miles could see now how narrow-shouldered he was—unsteadily set his hand on the esquire’s sleeve. “Pass me my helm, Martin.” The husky young voice was in command, but the groom’s hands shook as he obeyed.

  The boy took the helmet calmly, his
leather fingertips smoothing the plume, as if he derived calm from the action. His eyes shimmered as he cocked his chin proudly. “If we ever meet again, Rushden, it will be I who will take delight in it, believe me.” With that, he bowed his head, not out of humility but so he might set the steel helm back on.

  “Oh, I am trembling already,” mocked Miles, highly amused. He jabbed out an arm to block the boy. “Tell your yellow-livered sire that if he must ape his betters and play the knight then he had better learn the rules. I do not fight children.” He patted the steel cheek of the visor. “But if you cross me again, lad, as I said before, I shall take my belt to you.”

  “I am trembling already.” His own words were hurled back at him with such sarcasm that Miles was hard put not to laugh and prod him further. Now the varmint thought himself reprieved, he was showing the insolence of a tiny lapdog yapping at a wolfhound.

  Leaning against the doorway, arms folded, Miles watched with the lazy grace of a victor as the loser was helped clumsily into his saddle. The visor jerked round at him as if the eyes behind it were etching his enemy’s face into memory. Miles curled his fingers in an insolent farewell and the lad angrily touched his spurs to the horse’s flanks and galloped away.

  Someone gave an obsequious cough at his elbow; the leech had come seeking payment. “You were not needed nor were you bidden here,” growled Miles.

  “A very unusual combat,” persisted the man, lurking like a distasteful smell, as Traveller trotted over at Miles’s whistle. “It will make a good story in the alehouses.”

  “The point of all this, Master Surgeon?” Miles asked irritably.

  “The point, Sir Miles? Ah now, anyone in their right wits could see it was not Sir Dudley Ballaster you fought.”

  “No,” muttered Miles dismissively, anxious to shed the armor and warm himself before a fire. “It was his son. The boy was incompetent. What of it?”

  The man’s eyes glittered with the prospect of a bribe. “But Sir Dudley Ballaster does not have a son,” he said.

  Four

  Garbed as a servant with scuffed boots, a brown, wide brimmed hat, and a shabby cloak hoicked over a worn broadcloth jerkin, it was easy for Miles to talk himself past the gatekeeper at Bramley Castle next morning. Fortune had already played his friend in this foolish enterprise, for he had passed a party led by Sir Dudley on the road and perhaps the servants would be less vigilant in their master’s absence. Mind, he knew he should be carted to Bedlam for taking such a risk. His excuse to his father was that he would scout out the weaknesses in their enemy defense but in truth, sheer curiosity drew him—that and his own guilt. He doubted he had fought a maid, but certainly if he had and made matters worse by playing the swaggering bully afterwards, then he had breached his own code of chivalry and needed to apologize to salve his conscience.

  He halted in the shade of the small barbican and appraised his surroundings. The great hall with its flanking snow-capped tower was at least two centuries old but long windows had been let into the southern wall and turret chimneys added. Adjoining the old solar was a more recent two-storey building—bedchambers, judging by the feather beds stuffed out over the sills for airing. So the wars in France had been lucrative. Huzzah for Great-uncle Rushden, the old pillager! Well, perhaps it was worth fattening a few lawyers to keep Bramley in the family.

  The squabble of little girls reached him from an upper storey and he could hear voices in the buttery. An excuse was pregnant on his tongue should anyone challenge him. He would declare that his master was on fire with love—an irony that—but there had to be one daughter that was passing fair and worthy of seduction. If that did not work, he would play gormless and mumble that he had come to the wrong castle, but so far only a stray cockerel parading out of the hedge—a hedge laden with curiously rose-tinted underlinen—had dared to shake its wattles at him.

  Although the air was chill enough to redden noses, the sky was as blue as our Lady’s robe and the sunlight was already berating the frost rimming the grass and bestowing cheerful warmth upon his back. Enjoying his adventure, Miles whistled like a cocksure servant and skirted the west side of the building. A kitchen garden and an orchard, bristly with winter boughs, lay beyond the stables.

  He was hoping to find fault, but good housekeeping was much in evidence. Ballaster’s servants were diligent: no horse dung dirtied the courtyard, the firewood was stacked sensibly, and although the air smelt of woodsmoke from the hall chimneys, there was no odor of a stinking midden or byres that needed a good sousing, and he would not have noticed the dovecote particularly except that a dusting of damp droppings showered him as a fluttering bird landed with a clap of wings.

  “Whoopsy!” A maidservant emptying a bucket from a casement nearly caught him midship. Miles touched his hat to her and she simpered, making great play with her bodice as she closed the window. At the stable door, he slowed, wondering if he might safely estimate how many stalls were occupied, but a burly stablehand stepped forth, wiping his hands clean upon a rag, and challenged him.

  “Your pardon, I was a-lookin’ for someone to ’elp me. I ’ave a message for one Mistress Ballaster.” He hoped the rustic accent was not overripe and humbly touched his forelock to add authenticity.

  “Which one?” barked his accoster.

  Miles gaped dully and shrugged. “Dunno, friend, ’ow many be there?”

  “Well, one of ’em’s over there.” The man jerked his thumb towards the garden and waited. “Well, go on wi’ ee. She won’t bite.”

  Under such brawny scrutiny, Miles had no choice but to let himself through the wicket gate. Beyond a tunnel arbor festooned with sweetbriar, a yellow-haired demoiselle with a basket on her arm was scattering bread crumbs on the path.

  “Yes?” At first she could not be bothered to turn her head.

  “Good day to you, mistress.” She was devastatingly pretty but he dared not stare. Eyes humble, he clumsily tugged off his hat and lifted his fingers to his forehead in an incompetent salute. He had tousled his hair to hide the careful trimming.

  “Well, fellow?” Shrewd eyes that he had never glimpsed before assessed him rapaciously from his dusty toecaps to his damaged face. It was hard to know whether she was as old as sixteen but she looked as knowledgeable as Eve.

  Eyes downcast, he began to fumble in the breast of his doublet. “I ’ave a message from my master, Sir Miles Rushden, for your brother. ’Tis friendly.”

  “My—” She bit back her words and rose, shaking her skirts. “Indeed,” she murmured, glancing down as if to give herself thinking time. “I have heard Sir Miles attends his grace of Buckingham. Is it true?”

  “Aye, m-mistress.” Not a bad stammer, he thought, pleased with himself.

  Her fingertips steepled. “And shall you be returning to the duke’s household with Sir Miles, fellow?”

  “Y-yes, mistress, three days hence.”

  The rosebud mouth drew together speculatively. “You would not be Miles Rushden in disguise, perchance?”

  By the saints, she was sharp-witted. “My m-master did say s-sommat about riding over here this day.”

  “Indeed,” she muttered, and, lifting her skirts jauntily, started towards the hall.

  Miles lifted a hand to retrieve her attention. “Where do I go, pretty mistress?”

  “Oh, down that path. My brother . . . and sister . . . are there. They are quite inseparable.” Not bothering to explain, she hastened away, humming. So the leech was wrong, there was a son, a bastard son perhaps.

  The well-trodden path led to a splintering, weatherbeaten door, unlatched and ajar. Replacing his hat, Miles stepped through and found himself amongst shiny-trunked pear trees dappled with snow. A startled woodpecker flew past him with a yaffling cry as he followed the trodden grass southwards down the rise.

  Christ protect him! Miles froze as a shrouded figure rose up, like a ghost from its moonlight grave, at the far end of the orchard and then, his breath subsiding, he chided himself as it lowered itself
again. It was a woman who was very slowly and painstakingly brushing the snow off sacks that lay around the footings of some half dozen bee skeps. Miles glanced about him for young Ballaster but, save for the eerie beekeeper, he was alone. With misgiving, he moved forward, quiet as a hunter, towards the apiary.

  The woman was murmuring to the bees, her long unbleached cotton skirt sweeping across the thin carpeting of snow. A veil full of snags and catches hung from a reaper’s broad-brimmed hat, and though the gauze shrouded her almost to her thighs, it did not hide the firm curves of her breasts. The boy’s sister?

  Heloise did not hear him. Rather she heard the change in the humming. She knew instinctively it was Rushden. Although yesterday’s taunts still made her seethe, she had carried his armored image to her pillow like a medallion, sinfully make-believing a world where her father had no governance and Rushden, no longer sinister, lifted her onto the saddle before him like a lover. If only her fantasy were not a shadow. Life was not the Romance of the Rose, she reminded herself; it was letting a scarlet cloth loose in yesterday’s washing and going without supper as penance. And this brigand was no better; he too had threatened her with a beating.

  What in God’s name did this man desire now? To deliver another tongue-lashing? And why was he clad in such an ancient riding cloak? He was lurking warily, well beyond the perimeter of the hives, but watching her with the stealth of a cat stalking a songbird. Heloise was gleeful at his uncertainty. This was a better combat yard for her mettle, for if he came too close or spoke in anger, a thousand barbed defenders clad in gold and nut brown livery would rise up to protect her. A sense of reckless excitement plucked at her.