“Mind his valuables!” bawled someone.
“Aye and have a care to his face, remember,” cautioned someone.
“The Devil’s been there before us by the look of him.” A cruel hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. “There’s more holes in this ’ere face than a coney warren, and no mending neither.”
A vicious blow caught him beneath the jaw and the world disappeared.
By the time his wits recovered, his head was slapping against a horse’s sweating flank like a loose stirrup and there was a rag stuffed in his mouth. When they yanked away the musty hood covering his face, it was the glittering windows of Bramley, reflecting the dying sun, which mocked him. The chimneys with smoky tendrils might have been the sulphurous oozing caves of Satan’s demesne and Sir Dudley, laughing fiendishly at him from the doorway, could have been the Lord of Wickedness himself. In the stables Miles was hauled from the horse, and the gag yanked out, but before he could demand news of his men, a bucket of water slapped him straight in the face and he was locked into a small whitewashed room.
Icy water rivulets ran down beneath his camlet shirt as Miles slammed his hands against the door, calling down curses and yelling until he was hoarse and could shout no more. Finally he subsided against the wall and sank to the floor, his bruised body shuddering, his arms across his breast like a wobbly St. Andrew’s cross. A candle flickering upon a narrow table lured him to struggle to his feet and stretch out frozen fingers to its timid warmth. Beside the table legs sat a ewer and napkins, and lying across a small bench were dry clothes. He ignored both. Mud clung to his ripped hose and his doublet was soaking and filthy but he would be damned if he would cooperate.
Someone was rasping open the doorbolt. Miles swung round, his hand going instinctively for his missing dagger. A curtain of grizzled hair valanced his visitor’s bald dome, settling in hanks across massive shoulders and framing a florid face that hinted at a surfeit of feasting—the giant he had glimpsed in the village. Flabby lips grinned amiably down at him. “I am Sir Hubert Amory.” Of the siege at Nancy. Miles stayed unimpressed. “Ha!” the colossus exclaimed, withdrawing his hands from behind his back to wave a wine jug and two goblets. “Thought you might have a thirst on you, young man.” He swaggered unsteadily over to the bench, set the jug on the table, pushed the clothing to one side, and plonked himself down as if he were about to carouse in a tavern. “Not ready then?” he asked, filling the goblets with a generous hand.
“Ready? For what?”
Before Miles could grab him by the lapels, the old man whipped out his dagger with a surprising swiftness for a drunkard. “Style not to your taste? I should hate to see you brought low by the cold, my boy. Nigh killed his grace the king last winter.” Miles dazedly watched the tip of the rondel run adroitly beneath an already clean nail. “It is like this, Sir Miles: you can wash and dress yourself in clean raiment or we shall do it the faster way—empty a few more pails of water over you until you sniffle yourself into compliance. Or is your lordship waiting for servants to help you? That can be done, too. They are a bit rough but they will peel you mother naked quicker than a dog can piss.”
“Get out!”
“No, my boy, I am sitting right here until you decide which way it is going to be.”
Miles furiously began unlooping the buttons of his ruined doublet. “I do not know what game your master is—”
“Friend, lad. Sir Dudley is a friend and I owe him the favor to have you nice and clean with no more trouble. Nearly fought you at Potters Field, it seems, but I drank too much. Castilian soap there, lad, in the dish, and a jar of some sweet-smelling stink for you to swill over yourself if you’ve a mind to it. Where was I? Oh aye, poor little Heloise. I would never have got myself drunk as a lord if I had realized what would happen. Doing this for her. She really takes this family honor rather hard. But it is not the clothes that make the man—or the woman either. Values, my boy. Values!”
“If that is the case,” muttered Miles, untethering his sodden hose before he shed the rest of his garments, “I wonder you keep company with the likes of Ballaster.”
“Go back a long way, we do. He paid my debts and gave me a roof over my head again. I was drunk in the gutter every nigh—”
“Spare me the minutiae!”
“When did you have the small pocks, lad?” the older man asked as if it were a mutually agreeable topic.
“Two years ago,” Miles muttered sullenly, toweling himself dry. His ruined face was not a subject that he liked to discuss with anyone, let alone this old bibbler. He had come to terms with his appearance; what others made of him was their affair. With an oath, he pulled on the fine lawn shirt and Holland drawers then sat down, scowling, to negotiate the woolen hose. One leg was scarlet, the other blue, a fashion he detested.
“That’s what I mean, my boy.” The dagger waved in the air for emphasis. “You are the same man beneath the skin whether scarred or no. Pretty, were you?”
“God keep me, would you just—” Miles buried his foul language in a gulp of surprisingly good wine before he slid his arms into the gypon.
The old man chuckled and lapsed into silence, watching him as he tied his points fore and back and stood to secure the rest of the laces. The unpleasant daffodilly doublet Ballaster had provided barely fastened across Miles’s breast but the velvet was of good quality. The popel trim, castbotons, and satin panels were overdone. The sleeves could have been somewhat longer, but, feeling more civilized, he tugged down the gathered shirt cuffs and knotted the laces of the embroidered Rennes collar. Still cold, he was glad of the cote. Its split sleeves hung to knee level in a froth of summer squirrel fur.
“Satisfied?”
“Oh, very splendid. You could pass for a servant at the court of Il Magnifico himself or even for a lord at Windsor. Try the hat.”
Miles snatched up the ruby velvet cap. A brooch weighted the liripipe that hung down the side to chin level.
Sir Hubert opened the door and held up Miles’s riding boots. The clean leather reflected the candlelight; the spurs had been removed.
Miles pulled them on and felt restored; now he might have some chance of escape. “What is this foolery?” He gestured to the abundance of satin songbirds festooning his breast. “Am I to be released from a flampayne pie to sing to Ballaster’s daughters?”
“Never thought of that,” chuckled the old man, scratching his neck. He still kept his dagger in his other hand. “He is ready, my lads!” he announced to whoever waited beyond the door. A horn was sounded in the yard.
Ready for what?
WAS IT HELL OR ELYSIUM THAT AWAITED HIM? HE WONDERED as the doors of the great hall were thrust open before him. Viol and shawms burbled unheeded in a corner; the dark red floor tiles shone with a patina that told of recent cleansing; and the pleasing smell of charring pinecones was laced with the delicious aroma of suckling pig, which wafted from the kitchen passageway to pluck at Miles’s appetite. Above his head, a wooden chandelier, as large as a cartwheel, sent candlelight capering over the high, beamed ceiling and dancing upon the long, mullioned windows. Decorating the great fireplace mantel and embarrassing all the shields, which neatly surmounted crossed swords at intervals along the whitewashed walls, were the cursed Ballaster arms—no doubt newly acquired at great expense—three industrious-looking bees. Miles glared. They should have been rampant with their stings out.
On three sides of the hall, the tables were draped in white cloths and set for feasting. The servants, still arranging salvers and carving knives upon the sideboards, cast covert glances at their master’s prisoner, who was beginning to have some sympathy with a Christmas goose smelling the heat of the oven. A door briefly opened to the solar above the wooden balustrade, loosening the sounds of female laughter and a waft of steamy air that hinted at baths seductive with rose and lavender. Miles, resplendent in clothes he had not chosen, began to perspire in his finery.
“Rushden, welcome.” Striding from a chamber at
the tower end of the hall, Sir Dudley glittered fulsomely, every sumptuary law defiled; the jeweled buttons on the old rooster’s mustard demi-gown would have bought two destriers. If Ballaster was so rich, why did he need Bramley except to prate that he owned a castle? He could have built himself one in fashionable brick as the king’s chamberlain, Lord Hastings, had done at Kirby Muxloe. “It is an honor for us to entertain a man so high in the esteem of the noble Duke of Buckingham.” Sarcasm sauced the courtesy.
Entertain? And what was he supposed to do in return? His belly growling with hunger, Miles ignored the proffered hand but took the goblet that was brought to him. His host tapped his own full winecup gently against it. Miles smiled, drank it to the dregs, and hurled it at the nearest Ballaster arms. It deposited a small dribble of Bordeaux upon the shield, fell with a clang, and disappeared between the table legs.
“You have an excellent aim. We shall feast soon,” exclaimed Sir Dudley. The grin beneath the beaked hat stretched with inexplicable affability, considering his guest’s ill manners. “But weightier matters first. This way, Sir Miles.”
There was little choice but to be shown into what appeared to be a counting room. Several manor rolls were propped in a corner as if they had been quickly tidied off the table to make room for the contract pinioned down upon the baize cloth.
“You will sign this, please, Sir Miles.” A command, not a request. “It gives you Bramley as my daughter’s dower.”
Dear God, his misgivings were right. They did not want to geld him; they wanted to marry him. Christ Almighty, he could not let this upstart destroy his future, or wreck the alliance with Rhys ap Thomas. Incredulous that he—the Duke of Buckingham’s right hand—should find himself in such a predicament, Miles squared his shoulders and stared down patronizingly at his captor. “You jest, man.”
Sir Hubert and several others of the Ballaster affinity had crowded into the chamber behind him. Miles stared at them as if they were creatures of a nightmare. Could he have fallen from his horse and cracked his skull? Christ help him, he must get out of here. He had his life’s plans already drawn. “I am not marrying into your accursed family,” he asserted loudly. “Bear witness, all of you!”
“Did a mouse squeak?” guffawed someone at the back.
Since Sir Dudley was bantam-sized, Miles made full use of his superior height to menace him. “Do your worst, little man,” he sneered and swung round to address them all. “It is against the laws of England to force any man or woman of constant character to marry against their will. Primus, I am already betrothed”—an exaggeration, but never mind—“secundus, any marriage made at swordpoint can be annulled in a church court; tertius, no banns have been called on three successive Sundays or holy days; quartus, there has to be a willing bride; and—”
“Firstly,” interrupted Ballaster, “I prefer to use English when I am talking business. Firstly, if you had been here you would have heard the banns being called on three consecutive days. Granted, they were not Sundays, but they were called before sufficient witnesses. Secondly, the bride will be here at any instant; thirdly, any marriage that is consummated is valid and this one will be; fourthly—”
Dear God, was there a full moon or were his brains addled? Would he wake up from this nightmare sane and happy in his bed? Surely they could not make this valid!
“Marry one of your breeding?” Miles scoffed. “I should like to be assured of a bride who is likely to bear me sons not daughters.” Within an instant he grabbed Sir Dudley, wrenching his arm behind his back, and drew the man’s jeweled dagger. The sharp steel edge pressed dangerously against the aging skin. “Release my men and bring them here!” he snarled at the old giant.
“So nice in manners,” commented his host with a smile, holding very still. “Sir Hubert, my dear fellow, pray tell our men to slit the throats of this lordling’s men and convey the bodies in a cart to the highway.”
Sir Hubert hesitated as he reached the threshold. “Pity. They seem fine fellows and loyal withal.” It was not a bluff. A half score of men stood between Miles and the door. Escape was futile. With an oath, Miles flung his prisoner at the human barricade and hurled himself after him but his blade went flying. Strong arms viciously thrust him back before Sir Dudley, and a goose-feather quill was pushed between his reluctant fingers.
“Shall I tell you where to put this?” bawled Miles, breaking free and flinging it skiddling across the parchment.
“Young man, I am offering you what your lord father covets. It will end the feud between us.”
“No,” snarled Miles, finding it hard to think in a straight line with the heat and the wine befuddling him. Eyes watched him on all sides with unconcealed menace.
“Oh, this grows tedious,” muttered his host. “Let him sign it in the morning. The perche en foile will be overdone and the sauces cold if we delay much longer. Bring him to the chapel.”
Chapel! Miles grabbed the candlestick and set fire to the contract.
The retainers seized his cuffs and ankles. It took all their strength to force him sideways and get his kicking limbs beyond the doorway before they could carry him—spread-eagled like a traitor about to be drawn and quartered—out into the courtyard. He was set down clumsily on his feet before the priest on the chapel doorstep. They had to hold him upright now, his mind was reeling so.
“Where is the bride?” roared Sir Dudley. “The wench will be feasting on dried bread if she delays much longer.”
The tasteless merriment of tabors broke upon the night air; the musicians danced their way out across the torchlit yard, followed by the beautiful daughter garlanded in flowers. For an instant the man in Miles was not displeased. Was this his bride? The girl stopped before him with a fulsome curtsy, blonde hair floating in a golden cloud. No! This mare would have to be kept in a costly stable and exercised in blinkers on a short rein. The wench gave him a dazzling smile and stepped aside.
An angry, defiant Heloise Ballaster appeared behind her, flanked by two little girls bearing silken flowers. Pale and straight as a lily she stood, the centers of her eyes large, dark, and wild like a night creature’s. They were going to handfast him to a sorceress.
“No!” exclaimed Miles, turning in a hedge of steel, his mind seething like one of her beehives. “God’s mercy, no!”
“Come on, Heloise!” bawled Ballaster and hauled her forward.
The girl was rigid and a trace of tears still lingered on one cheek. For an instant, pity clouded Miles’s thoughts and his gaze touched lips he had not yet tasted and slid to her graceful neck and the shimmer of breasts where a samite bodice sewn with pearls tantalized him to unclothe her with his imagining.
She was putting a spell on him again. Why was her hair not loosened like her sister’s, like a bride’s, to proclaim her virginity? Why was it cauled in a jeweled net with the garland of gold leaf blossom lapping her forehead?
Miles struggled to keep his sanity. “I am . . . am . . . not playing the cuckold, Ballaster. You cannot foist your daughter’s by-blow onto me.”
The words jabbed her. The girl lifted her face, her eyes wide with shame, and backed away horrified into a wall of servants.
Ballaster grabbed her by the wrist and thrust her towards Miles. “Accuse me of what you will, young man, but not that. It is you who have amends to make. You think this marriage forced upon you? It is done to make good your betrayal of my daughter’s honor. You took her maidenhead at Potters Field and then three days ago you had the insolence to come and ravish her in my orchard.”
“No!” thundered Miles but he faced a peacock’s tail of accusing faces. “On what evidence?”
It had been merely an instant that he had been alone with her in the hovel and Godsakes, she had been clothed in steel. As for the orchard? He frowned, his right hand trying to find his aching temple, turning his head with effort to outstare the hazel gaze that fixed him now, remembering the soft body that fell upon his, the hum of the bees—Could he have—
“T
here were witnesses, Sir Miles.”
“Aye,” came a chorus of some half-dozen voices. “An’ there was grass stains and blood upon her skirts.”
“No, no.” Miles rubbed his hand across his forehead. “This—this is utter fab-fabrication. M-mistress, have you no voice?” The girl wretchedly glanced towards her father but the face she turned on Miles was like our Lady’s, fair, compassionate, and silent, only her eyes compelled him, willing him. To what?
He dragged his gaze away to reason with the onlookers. “How much is he paying you for such lies?” Swaying, he swung round on his captor. “Will you kick these poor wretches from your door if they do not dance to your piping? Is there no one here who is not venal?” His voice grew louder in desperation as he turned to the chapel door. “Chaplain, upon your immortal soul, I beg you, bring out the Gospels and I shall swear I never ravished her. Lady! Tell them for the love of God!”
Heloise shook, her bare shoulders turning to gooseflesh in the freezing air. She stood dazed and weak, as if her father’s fingers, iron around her flesh, were all that held her upright. She had been threatened with the rod and, despite Dionysia’s attempt to smuggle her food, had received no sustenance save watery ale and a little bread for three whole days. The wine she had foolishly accepted just before coming down the stairs was dousing her common sense.
Was this so very wrong? Would this stranger make a worse master than her cunning father who was winding him in like a hooked fish, drawing him to land inch by inch? Oh, he was fine and lordly, her bridegroom, the borrowed splendor glinting in the torchlight. Better living than dead upon the road, but she saw the dried blood beading the graze upon his brow and felt the breath of destiny. She knew the full fury in Miles Rushden and that it would spill over, scalding her.
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