“Sir.” Brian the archer had shouldered his way through and now stood at his stirrup like a petitioner. “Be easy, sir, naught has gone amiss.”
Had it not . . . , fumed Miles, but his men were waiting for his orders. “Take the cur!” he commanded, with a jerk of his head.
Heloise watched as the archer slid the string from her wrist. He gave her a wink of reassurance, but her entire being was centered on Miles Rushden’s anger. She thanked God they had an audience; he could not abuse her here—or could he?
“Lady Haute?” The lift of eyebrow conveyed his mockery as much as did the disdainful quirk of lip. A smile no deeper than the travel stubble on his cheeks told her that she had never looked less like a noblewoman.
“The mud is from your men’s hooves, Sir Miles,” she retaliated, and then realized the enormity of what she had just said. In a few words of wild defense she had turned his taunt into a recognition, made him a conspirator to her deception in front of the Stafford soldiers and in the common hearing. He drew breath, jaw clenched, and she alone guessed how much he was battling to contain his fury.
Sweet Christ help her, this was not how she had intended this meeting. She had imagined a few words with him privily, a chance to explain her circumstances, make him understand before she dared to ask for help, advice, whatever he would be prepared to give. She could only stare up at him now, bereft.
The great horse he rode frisked, impatient for its stall, and had to be reined round, but it gave its rider a chance to leash his temper. One of the burlier soldiers broke the silence, coughing in amusement at his superior being bested. A woman in the crowd sniggered and a stone skidded among the horses’ fetlocks.
Miles’s expression tightened and his soldiers officiously swiveled round with menacing glares at the townsfolk. The closest onlookers edged away.
Witch-maid! The Devil carry him to Hell if he knew what to do now. How dare she stand there, lovely despite her shabby, ill-fitting gown, with Harry’s son in her arms? The deceiving, greedy vixen! Tracking him to Brecknock! What was she after, payment to hold her tongue? Surely her father already had more gold than Midas. What, then? Public acknowledgment that she was now his wife? But why the assumed name? Surely it was the queen who had recommended Lady Haute. What other game was she playing? He stared at her, perplexed, and then, realizing that they were causing a spectacle, he swiftly saluted the duke’s grubby heir.
“I give you good day, my little lord. His grace your father has returned and desires your presence. Come!” He beckoned Ned to mount before him but the wretched infant shrank back, cowering at the horse’s impatient hooves.
“I will take him,” Sir William Knyvett, red-faced and hardly dressed for riding, spurred into the circle. “There is no harm done here, Rushden,” he announced, clearly to reassure himself. No harm done! The heir of the Duke of Buckingham appareled like a tinker’s bastard, and his slatternly one-night wife here to demand her rights. No harm?
Sir William’s arrival shook Mistress Ballaster out of her daze and her cunning returned.
“No, of course not. Please be at ease on that, Sir Miles.” Enough sweetness to choke a man. God forgive her! Then the dissembling strumpet inclined her head graciously at him as if they were meeting at the palaces of Westminster or Eltham. Her glance rose to his but instead of a challenge or pathetic beseeching, the wench’s eyes were guileless. The Devil take her, what a player! No wonder she had already deceived Sir William into employing her. Miles was so speechless that it was she who nodded to the archer to assist her.
“Let’s be having you, my lord.” The man lifted the unprotesting child from her arms and passed him up onto Knyvett’s saddle, where the whelp lolled back against Sir William, sucking his thumb scornfully at Miles.
“May I leave you to bring Lady Haute, Rushden . . . Rushden?”
“My pleasure, Sir William,” he answered with feeling and turned a predatory face towards his wife.
Nine
Heloise had no more intention of riding back with Miles Rushden than mounting a broomstick. She ignored the arm he held down to her. “Thank you, Sir Miles, but I cannot sully your saddle. It is no distance, I should prefer to walk.”
“Oh, I’ll swear you would.” The gloved hand waited menacingly. “You will come back with me now, my lady.” His voice, low and dangerous, offered no escape. He raised his stirruped boot to make a mounting block for her. Cursing silently that they were still an entertainment, she reluctantly set her left foot upon his and took the proffered hand. His hands, tense and fierce about her waist, settled her before him, and then he kneed his horse about. The people drew back, hushed and outwardly respectful, to let them pass. His men followed. An apprentice whooped, someone else jeered, and again she heard the hiss of words she did not understand.
Biting her lip, Heloise sat as stiffly as she could, trying hard to avoid any part of her body touching his, but the reins and arms encircled her too closely for her peace of mind. The memory of that shameful night at Bramley came vividly back to her. She had imagined dealing with him in a formal manner, not in this enforced intimacy with his elbows against her breasts and his breath upon her cheek.
“Lady Haute,” Rushden sneered, adding in a growl for her ears only, “and what have you done with her? Pushed her into a river?”
“No, she— Sweet Christ, look out!”
With an oath at his stupidity, Miles reined his steed out of the way of an alehouse pole. One of the soldiers behind them chuckled at his distraction. No, here was not the time for settlement but later it would be a pleasure! He stoked his anger further, remembering the final humiliation of that wedding night—of fleeing barefoot across the icy ploughed fields to smite upon the priest’s door at Oakwood shivering as he pleaded to borrow attire from the sexton so he might return to his father’s house. It was Christ’s mercy that he had not died from cold.
“You need not be a-feared,” his armful said soothingly, as if she were sympathetic to the discord of feelings jarring him. “They do not know I am me.”
The obscure, female explanation mollified him not at all. “No, by God, but I do! Believe me, when I have done with you, mistress,” he continued through clenched teeth, “you will wish you had never been born.”
“I expect you would like Traveller back.”
He was too angry to listen properly. “A plague on that, mistress! I want you out of my sight and out of my life!”
“But—”
“I will deal with you, madam!” He spurred the horse up Castle Lane to jolt the meaning into her head.
The stupid, gummy grin that the porter gave “Lady Haute” as they galloped over the drawbridge was enough to turn an honest man’s stomach. With a curse, Miles drew rein beside Knyvett in the crowded courtyard and was disgusted that the stable boy who ran up to take his bridle was also wearing a smile for Mistress Ballaster as if she had bestowed a livery on him. Had the slut bewitched every man jack of them? He dismounted to a distinct hush. Godsakes! Just when he thought he had put leagues between himself and Heloise Ballaster, here were half of Harry’s retinue gawking at the pair of them.
“Got yourself a wet nurse, sir?” guffawed someone.
Miles gave the man an archer’s two-finger gesture and turned to deal with his passenger. His tarnished wife had made no attempt to wriggle down. In fact she seemed bewildered by all the wagons and packhorses being unloaded about them and the flush across her cheeks and throat proclaimed her shame. He had little choice but to set his hands about the wench’s high waist and feign indifference as he dumped her down. His hands, however, held her longer than they should have. For an instant she wobbled precariously, like a slowing spinning top, before she rallied her wits and slithered swiftly from his clasp to take the sleepy child from Knyvett.
“You goin’ to put Rushden to bed too, darlin’?” chortled some wit.
Miles laughed, but inwardly he was fit to throttle his witch-wife. Not only was she a disgrace to her rank dressed as she
was, but the heart-shaped face and the brat clutched to her breast bestowed a Madonna-like purity the dishonest piece did not deserve. It should have been Sioned standing there in his life, with their little boy in her arms.
“Been frightening her, Rushden?” Knyvett was running his thumb across a smudge of dried tears on the wretched creature’s cheekbone and pinching her cheek like a foolish dotard. “Your quarrel should be with me. I gave permission.”
Miles peeled off his gloves. “I leave it to your conscience, Knyvett.”
“No incident occurred, Rushden.”
“Not for want of trying, it seems.” He deliberately blocked Mistress Ballaster’s way, mainly because he wanted to be difficult and it seemed a temporary measure to keep the lid on his temper.
“Where’s my puppy?” demanded the boy petulantly, rousing his face from the girl’s bodice, and the large archer materialized like an obedient sheepdog to wind the string around the sticky fist.
“Your pardon, sirs,” Heloise cut in breathlessly, “I—I must have Lord Stafford bathed straightway.” Preferably before his father saw him! She was desperate to escape the stares of the throng about her. Not only was Rushden clearly itching to upbraid her, but Brecknock had suddenly become unfamiliar, peopled with strangers, and she was bone weary. Ned seemed to weigh heavier with every step as she navigated the barrels and the coffers, making for cover where the hawks who ruled this alien world could not fly at her.
“Lady Haute!”
A new voice assailed her before she had taken a few paces. The jingle of spurred boots on the cobbles hastened. She faltered and turned.
A profusion of freckles, almost obliterating the milk white complexion beneath, spattered the handsome face of the youngish man who had followed her. She was aware of hair the color of mace lapping back from a high forehead and secured at his nape with a leather string, of snowy sleeves bursting out of slashed velvet sleeves, and the expensive embroidery, the golden knots in militant downward rows upon his doublet. Blue eyes glittered with a mercurial mischief that made the man hard to decipher.
“Surely this cannot be my son?” This duke did not have the calm authority of Richard of Gloucester but his tone carried the insolent freedom of high rank. He probably expected her to be humbled by his attention but Heloise was tired of the chilling wind, the meandering rain, men, and fathers in particular. Although Miles Rushden might frighten her, she was not in awe of his betters. Living in Gloucester’s household had cured her of such inhibitions.
“Is this my son?” he repeated.
“I suppose he must be,” replied Heloise, her normal composure irritated, and blushed, realizing she had just cuckolded the Duke of Buckingham’s manhood and spattered the virtue of the queen’s sister. “I—I mean if you are my lord of Buckingham then—”
The duke’s expression did not change; clearly he had learned not to show his emotions. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing they were observed: “The lady asks if I am Buckingham?” His gaze astonishingly singled out her husband, but the rest of the Stafford retinue paused in unpacking, invited to observe her mortification.
Rushden briskly detached himself from his men, his whole demeanor as purposeful as a hunter. With a sinking heart, Heloise realized that the true confrontation, the humiliating unmasking she had hoped might take place in more favorable circumstances, was upon her now.
Miles stopped short, delaying his intention to proclaim his unwanted wife a calculating, mercenary baggage. What on earth was Harry making of her? Incredibly, despite drying mud bedaubing the wench’s hem and the honey stains bespecked with dust upon her bodice, the picky Duke of Buckingham was eyeing Mistress Ballaster with the covert cunning of a horse dealer out for a bargain.
Possessiveness unreasonably overwhelmed Miles; Heloise Ballaster was his to deal with how he pleased and he wanted neither interference nor interest shown in her until he had made up his mind how to be rid of her without the entire castle listening in.
“Am I the duke, Miles?”
“Yes, your grace, so please your lady mother.”
Harry turned his head at the sudden formality starching his friend’s voice. “How reassuring.” With a chill smile that promised the girl further conversation, the duke turned on his heel and strode away.
Heloise let out a quiet breath, and because the bailey was still a mess of people, managed to look her powerful enemy in the face. Tired and chastened, her courage was vanishing as the truth sank into her weary mind. Miles Rushden had been no braggart at Bramley; he was indeed the Duke of Buckingham’s trusted friend and henchman. Ned came to her rescue. He rearranged himself around her, demanding attention, and a flicker of irrational pain, dislike even, showed briefly in Rushden’s face.
“You shall be called to answer for your actions later, madam,” he told her coldly and jerked his right hand in dismissal. Well, women could emulate such hauteur too and with a curt nod, she hoicked the child higher and marched away. It was then that the puppy, still ribboned to Ned’s wrist, decided to demolish her dignity by depositing a steaming coil upon the cobbles. Rushden, thank the saints, had already reached the steps to the great hall and did not see.
Guffaws of masculine laughter burst from the soldiers close by. Another time Heloise would have shrugged cheerfully; instead she hastened towards the nearest bolt-hole. It turned out embarrassingly to be the entrance to the garrison guardroom and a couple of soldiers caught gossiping in the passageway gaped at her, their expressions turning swiftly predatory, but old Brian had tactfully followed her in. Chuckling, he once more lifted the child from her arms and escorted her towards her quarters as if she were the one who needed a nursemaid.
Bess, bless her, had a fire warming the nursery and a small cauldron of hot water steaming over the glowing coals. The door to Heloise’s bedchamber had been kindly propped open, so that too was cozy. How wonderful to surrender Ned into Bess’s capable hands. Fragile and thankful to be alone, Heloise crept onto her bed and wept softly into her pillow. Sleep must have claimed her briefly for she dreamed of a large man fishing and laughing while the clouds above gathered into a seething miasma, before a tiny hand shook her shoulder.
“Mistress Bess has a ewer ready if you wish it. I’ve had my bath.” The child left her and closed the door.
Slowly she bestirred herself, unleashed her hair from the coif, and lifted the ewer to the floor, chiding herself for letting the water cool.
“Why is your hair silver?” Ned interrupted, returning at an inopportune moment.
Dripping with soapwort, Heloise parted the silver strands and surveyed the crinkled, bath-pink child crouched opposite the basin. It was hard to converse intelligently, kneeling with your forehead upside down in a basin. He repeated his question in case she had water in her ears.
Heloise sighed, wrung her hair, and wrapped a flannel cloth about her head.
“Yes, Ned, silver and different from yours and Bess’s. Have you noticed people are afraid of anything that is different?”
“Like my father because he is a duke? Or Benet because his eyes are crossed?”
“Exactly. And because my hair turned this hue when I was a girl, people fear I am of the elfish folk.”
“I should like to have a dewines or one of the tylwyth teg for my governess.” His puckered smile was beseeching.
“No.” Heloise shook her head. She could not tell him of the frightening, unasked-for visions.
“Oooh, could you be a changeling and not know it? I wish I had been one, then I could do mischief at night, turn the milk sour, and frighten people.” He touched her damp hair. “It feels the same as mine.”
She kissed her fingertips and transferred the kiss to his little nose. “Can we keep this a secret, sweetheart? I do not like people to know, only those I love.”
“And do you love me? I am not afraid of your hair.”
“I am right glad of that, and yes, I believe I do love you, my little lord.”
Tiny arms slid about her neck, st
roking her wet hair back behind her ears. “Thank you for taking me to the town. Shall you get beaten?”
“No, not anymore,” she said firmly. “Now, shall we take supper in the nursery?”
His reluctant governess was halfway through coaxing buttered leek into him while she unfolded the tale of the Loathly Lady and Sir Gawaine, when Bess knocked to inform her they were both to attend the duke before supper. Heloise felt sympathy for defenseless rabbits and wondered which might prove her greatest enemy now: the fox-haired duke or his heartless shadow.
THE LAVENDER DAMASK OVERGOWN WAS ELEGANT BUT NOT subversive, Heloise hoped as she tugged the matching cap down over her coiled braids and made the wire framework that propped her veil comfortable about her ears. Angling the silver mirror back from her, she decided that the gown’s sloping collar with the respectably high inset of silk across her breasts surely bespoke neither wantonness nor ambitions above her station. If she could only survive the talons tonight. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and set out for dangerous open meadows.
An astonishing change had taken place. Now that the duke’s retinue had returned, the great hall was almost as grand as Middleham’s. All the candles and cressets were alive with light, logs were burning in the main hearth, tapestries and painted arras hung upon the walls, and a long white cloth, its folds stylishly pleated about a pace apart, covered the board that sat across the dais. And as was usual in great lords’ households, messes of bread, each sufficient to serve four, were set at intervals. The delicious smell of roasting meats laced air perfumed with pine.
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