“In God’s name, sir, she is only seventeen. Can you not speak with the duke?”
“Divert him. Not this time. The seduction was unhappily mutual.”
“What is it that binds you to that man?” she demanded, her misgivings finally welling to the springhead. “Richard of Gloucester would give you good lordship.”
“It seems to me that your wondrous Gloucester is too well served already. As for Harry—notched and directed, he flies true.” Her expression must have been stony for he carried her hands to his lips. “Are you jealous, cariad?”
“Sir.” It was an effort to sound businesslike. “I would be a proper wife to you. Now that the bishop is mended, I serve no purpose here.”
“My father has a London house but—”
“Then . . . then could I not go there?” she cut in. “Oh, to be sure, I can help here with these noble ladies’ charities but I am used to running my father’s household or looking after Ned. Miles, please.”
“I am sorry, we cannot use the house. Harry has taken your sister there.”
“Dear God, you let him use it as a stew!”
“Peace!” His fingers fastened about her wrist. “I am sorry that you lack attention. After the coronation I vow we will leave London and I shall take you to Dorset to meet my family and reconcile myself with yours. Here.” He tipped his leather purse and offered her a rose noble. “Take Martin for escort and go purchasing this afternoon. Buy a new headdress to replace the one I ruined.”
Heloise kept her hands by her sides. “You think trinkets will mollify me? Your duke crosses himself every time he sees me and you use me as though I am some doll to play with when you remember to open the nursery chest.”
The indifference that snapped across his face nearly disarmed her. “I do not seek to buy your goodwill, madam, I expect it.” His hand stroked down her cheek. “Truth is a many-sided gem, Heloise. It takes time to appreciate all its facets.”
And what was that supposed to mean? she thought angrily as he turned on his heel and walked arrogantly away. The bells of the city sounded but eight o’clock and already she missed the rasp of words between them. The day yawned ahead, hours and hours.
“Saddle Cloud,” she bade Martin, and went to confide in her pious hostess before she packed. She was going to her guardian—running away.
FINDING SOMEWHERE TO LICK HER WOUNDS WAS NOT EASY. By the time she reached Bishopsgate, Crosby Place had inconveniently barred its doors against the world. Together with the King of France’s embassy, thirteen petitioners, five irritated aldermen, puzzled messengers from various noblemen including Lord Hastings—she recognized the sable maunches—and a ribbon peddler who was too slow witted to take a denial, she, too, was turned away. It seemed that Duchess Anne was come with her ladies down the spine of England to be with her lord and Crosby Place was not receiving visitors.
At the rear postern, the story was the same: “Return tomorrow, my masters.” Which was all very well for those who had no grievances with their husbands and a choice of beds for the night. The day was hot, the streets were reeking, and Heloise could feel perspiration dampening her collar and the cotton wadding that protected her gown beneath her arms. It was needful to bribe the back porter with the rose noble to ensure he carried Heloise’s unicorn brooch to its giver. Time limped; but at last Lady Margery Huddleston came down and salvaged her from the stinking street.
Margery’s delighted welcome and the merciful coolness of the house’s interior restored Heloise’s spirits—as though she had touched a sanctuary doorknocker.
“I had thought you a queen at the Red Rose by now, or has your ubiquitous sister already deposed you? Lady Percy tells me she is trying to snare a duke in her talons.”
“She is welcome to Duke Harry,” answered Heloise, blushing for her sister’s sins. “For my part, Margery, I have come in search of enlightenment.”
“But I think you may be the one to provide it,” answered Margery wryly. “And what of your man of shadows? Will he not miss you?”
Heloise sighed. “That is why I am here. Blessed are the unobtainable. I only hope he will.”
Twenty-one
Crosby Place lazed in the afternoon heat, the lords and ladies lying low as if the least movement would overexert them.
“So,” murmured Margery, “I am anxious to hear of your adventures.” She sent a yawning page to fetch them cordial and, lending Heloise a fan, led her out to the shady colonnade. “Let us sit here for a while, then I shall bespeak you a bed for tonight.” Wondering guiltily what Miles was doing, Heloise leaned against one of the pillars that cloistered the garden. The air was drowsy with the hum of insects.
Margery, fanning herself with a cluster of plumes furled into a silver stick, that bespoke Tripoli or Alexandria, waited until the page had served them, and then she swung her feet up onto the wall and recomposed her skirts discreetly. “So tell me all that has happened to you.”
Heloise did her best to be concise but by the time she faltered to a finish, she could hear the servants setting up the trestles for supper.
“Let us walk in the garden,” murmured Margery. “That is quite a tale, Heloise. I am not surprised that you feel yourself neglected now, but all the men are edgy. Someone is setting chestnuts to cook and they are shooting out all over London, particularly around here.” She waved her fan towards the great hall. “It could be Margaret Beaufort, Tudor’s mother, but I rather suspect it may be your husband.”
“Chestnuts?” The heat must be addling her brain.
“Rumors: my lord protector is going to seize the crown—Hastings has changed his cote and is making an alliance with the queen—our late sovereign lord King Edward was unlawfully begotten so his children have no right to the crown.”
“Certes, Rushden is ambitious, but . . .”
“Word is that he moves Buckingham like a chesspiece.”
Heloise’s stupor vanished. “He has the duke’s good lordship, yes. Their friendship runs deep, but rumors, no, I do not believe . . .”
“He rescued Stillington.”
“Ah yes, Stillington.” Heloise lifted her chin, anxious for enlightenment. “My lord of Gloucester was right merry when he came to visit Stillington but I saw his face as he left and, upon my soul, he looked like Atlas, as though he carried the troubles of Christendom upon his shoulders. Surely if the royal council approves of all that he has done, how can anything Stillington said rile him?”
The fan paused. “Oh, yes, Heloise, yes, it all comes back to Stillington.”
“Margery, I feel like a blindfolded player. If this concerns Rushden, for pity’s sake, tell me.”
Margery glanced around before she lowered her voice. “If I share this with you, will you swear on the rood that you will not divulge it further?”
Heloise clasped the small gold cross about her neck. “By Christ’s blessed body, I assure you I shall not.”
“It is very simple. Stillington swears that King Edward’s sons are bastards and may not inherit the crown.”
“Christ forfend!” It was as if the realm of England shook beneath her. “How is this so?”
“King Edward”—a wry smile touched Margery’s lips—“fell hopelessly in love with a beautiful widow and because she would not surrender to him without a wedding ring, he married her secretly. Does that sound familiar?”
“Yes, Elizabeth Woodville. But . . . are you saying that their marriage was not lawful?”
“Yes, and I will tell you why. The beautiful widow I am talking about was earlier, before King Edward ever set eyes on Elizabeth Woodville. You see, the king made two secret marriages. The trothplighting with Elizabeth at Grafton Regis was done properly before a priest and plenty of witnesses but it was unlawful because his first wife was still living. Her name was Eleanor.”
“And is this Eleanor still alive?”
“No, God rest her soul. She took holy orders and died some fifteen years ago.”
“But were there witnesses to th
e first marriage?”
“None living save one, the priest who married them.” Margery raised an eyebrow.
“Stillington!” Heloise’s fingers rose to her lips in amazement. “Oh, but surely the queen knew. The prince is only twelve. Providing the king and queen went through a second marriage after Eleanor’s death, that still makes King Edward’s sons legitimate.”
Margery’s blue eyes misted. “I do not believe they did. King Edward could be careless sometimes, always trusting that fortune would bless him. Like the time he underestimated my father and was forced to quit his throne and flee to Burgundy. And I am sure this secret marriage is why Clarence . . .” She spoke the name with a sigh—he too had been her brother-in-law. “Why Clarence was executed and Stillington was imprisoned. Clarence knew. You see, Heloise, the queen was certain that if King Edward died unexpectedly, Clarence would claim the throne. Perhaps that is why she has tried to seize power and have the prince crowned and anointed straightway. Gloucester is the rightful king.”
“And now Gloucester knows the truth?”
“Yes, now he does, Heloise, and the dilemma is half-killing him.”
“What do you think he should do, then?”
“There are many of us who would like to see him king.” Margery stood up, smoothing her skirts. “We need a strong leader, otherwise Scotland and France will soon be slavering for war. I have met King Louis and, believe me, that vile dissembler would like nothing better than to see England weak so he can conquer Burgundy. I labored hard to prevent that.
“Heavens, you have lived in Gloucester’s household, Heloise. You know we could have none better to rule us. There are so many excellent changes to the laws he is itching to propose.”
Yes, Heloise remembered. Like allowing a prisoner bail before his trial if he could find friends to stand surety for him, and preventing a suspect’s goods from being seized the moment he was arrested.
“Our laws should be written in straightforward English so every one of us can understand them,” Margery was saying. It was one of Gloucester’s personal crusades that he had aired at Middleham.
“I doubt the lawyers will ever allow that.” Heloise’s tone was dry, but she had always supported the duke’s views. Especially his belief that nobody should dispose of land unless they had a true title to it; and remembering the feud that had thrown her into Rushden’s unwilling arms, she sighed. Margery might have hopes of a rainbow world but it would be hard to achieve and one had to be practical. Even if Gloucester’s lawful claim to the throne were proven and he were allowed to become king, there would be malcontents in plenty. If he did not reward his northern followers with offices, they would be angered; so, to please them, he would have to turn the current officers, mostly southerners, out of their positions, which would cause perilous unrest. And there were still Lancastrian lords abroad and secret sympathizers at home who hated the Yorkists and would readily scourge him as a tyrant. She hoped Rushden was not among them.
“Poor Gloucester,” Margery murmured, “caught between the rock of loyalty to his brother’s children and the hard place of his own common sense.” Suddenly everything began to make sense. Miles and Buckingham wanted to make Gloucester king.
“I can think of a very jagged rock,” exclaimed Heloise. “Lord Hastings is hardly likely to stand by and clap his hands at his beloved king’s children being set aside.”
“Throw rose petals? No, I doubt he would, and this adds to Gloucester’s dilemma.”
“Does Buckingham know of Stillington’s revelation?” If the duke did, then Miles had been keeping the matter secret too.
Margery shook her head. “Not yet. Gloucester wanted to talk over the matter with my sister and some of us first. I suspect he intends to confide in Buckingham when the duke comes to sup tomorrow night.” Another morsel of information which Miles had not shared. “That is why Crosby Place has shut its doors for a little space, not because of my lady sister’s arrival but to take counsel.
“Ah, that is the warning bell for supper. Their graces will not be eating in the hall today so you need not make your obeisance until tomorrow.”
When the duke and duchess emerged for mass next day, Heloise saw with relief that Gloucester’s aura was brightening again. As Heloise knelt before them, she sensed the assertive waves of love and strength that the duchess willed her lord, and saw it in the intertwining of their fingers. They made her welcome in a distrait but kindly manner, assuming she had come with Rushden’s blessing to make ready for the feast.
“You need apparel for tonight.” Margery led her back to the women’s bedchamber where she shook out a gown of peony silk. The two months’ sorrowing for King Edward was over and Heloise, still in her black damask, felt like a dark moth among the duchess’s women in their bright apparel.
“But I am in mourning for my father,” she pointed out.
“Then I shall spill my platter down your mourning robe at dinner, and if you wear this veil of gossamer tisshew, the matter is settled. Try it on.”
She felt envious hearing about the blue velvet bordered with crimson satin that they were to wear in the procession from the Tower and the crimson velvet and white damask to be made up for the crowning but it was amusing to listen to the gossip. Some tittle-tattle was censored, she suspected. Although my ladies Parr, Tempest, and Percy discreetly spoke no ill of Dionysia, Heloise guessed their reservations; her sister had never curtsied to the household rule book. She was indisposed at Baynards, she told them, hating the lie.
AS IF THE WORLD HAD GONE FROM HUMDRUM TO DAZZLING color, Crosby Place by four o’clock glinted, shimmered, and perspired. Gloucester, in murrey samite with panels of golden stags flanking the shining buttons of his doublet, had forsaken raven mourning and looked less pallid but the duchess’s complexion was effaced; the mauve daisies with their gold-thread hearts ought to have flattered her. Heloise, remembering her vision at Middleham, felt the Devil run an icy finger down her backbone.
Margery, misreading her expression, pressed Heloise’s arm reassuringly. “Rushden cannot haul you out.”
“The trouble is he may not want to.”
The hour crawled between bells as red-cheeked earls, with sweat crawling pore by pore, dampening their silks, shook Gloucester’s gloved hand. His household flanked him like a brotherhood. Up in the gallery, the arms of pages wearied as they flapped huge linen tablecloths to turn the air and prevent the viol strings from breaking. The cloying heat promised to stifle everyone’s appetites, and their host’s edginess made his guests’ tongues cleave to the roofs of their mouths. The sauces would be wasted on the fesaunts and fenneled sturgeon; beggars would feast tonight.
The fanfare announcing the arrival of the Stafford entourage was the last to sound.
“Deliberate, I imagine,” mused Margery, as Buckingham entered. “He might make the part of Potiphar’s wife if he applied himself. Has he sold his Welsh flocks, do you think?” She was not the only one wide-eyed at Buckingham’s magnificence. The duke who complained of poverty at Brecknock must have borrowed sacks of money to clothe his skin. Flamboyant was not quite the word, nor was ostentatious, but they were not far short. His doublet was low belted, flounced with ermine, and just long enough to render his groin respectable. Tugs of a gold silk shirt rose Italianate through the creamy slits of his upper sleeves and shone beneath the laces that trellised his doublet. The beaver hat with its broad curled-up brim was ornamented by a fist-sized brooch of pearl and sapphire. If angels had come to dine in mortals’ fashions, they could not have surpassed him except . . . Except, decided Heloise, a shade maliciously, he was putting on weight.
Not so her husband. At the duke’s elbow, Miles’s finery might be subdued, certainly less exuberant, but his taste was sinless in comparison. The silver, pleated doublet and slate silk stomacher were harnessed at his waist by a platelet belt and the shining collar of his lineage sat proudly on his shoulders. The dark hair that she could imagine now beneath her fingertips was newly cut beneat
h his low-crowned hat, and tidied behind his ears so that nothing of his scarred face was hidden as he looked about him, noting who was present. Save for Lord Hastings and the prince’s household lords who were feting the French embassy at the Tower, most of the peers were here.
“Y Cysgod,” Margery mused at her elbow. “Shadow in name, but in nature . . . ?”
“You are well informed, my lady,” Heloise remarked sharply.
“As I told you once before, Gloucester has friends, even in Wales.”
INVISIBILITY WAS NOT ONE OF HELOISE’S FEY SKILLS BUT THERE were broadly girthed lords to hide her from her husband. She need not have worried; Miles Rushden was preoccupied. He was moving through the throng with Buckingham, busy with greetings, a firm hand given now and then conveying more—or less. It was not until dinner when the noble ladies, their veils shifting like wind-tossed flowers, were sitting in rank upon the left of the hall that Miles Rushden met her gaze across the spitted larks and rollettes of venison. He was no longer smiling. Nor did he deign to seek her out some two hours later when the acrobats had been tidied away, the trestles propped below the tapestries, and the two dukes had withdrawn alone into the great chamber behind the dais.
As the shawms and viols struck up in the English manner, Heloise, who had only bothered with the strawberries, tried to display a lighthearted, independent spirit. She wanted Miles to care who squired her and where their gaze fell. Veiled, she might dance, though she dared not attempt the boisterous Florentine dance with its countless improvisations, for the borrowed bodice was tight across her breasts. The sets formed and Sir Richard Huddleston led Margery on his right and Heloise on his left. They progressed with brawles and flowerdelice, now in arches, now dipping beneath, and Heloise at last came almost breast to breast with the man to whom she was supposed to owe obedience. For this evening, she was a princess, reckless with desire for what she did not have.
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