Moonlight And Shadow

by Isolde Martyn

  Around her, she could feel the others’ fear. Gloucester’s henchmen sweated in breastplates hidden beneath high-necked doublets tailored for a winter feast. Only Buckingham wore his shirt untethered at the neck, and the heady glitter in his eyes outshone the splendor of his golden knots and Venice buttons.

  “There is nothing amiss,” murmured Huddleston, materializing from the back stairs to join his wife and Heloise. “Perhaps you should advise Anne to smile, Margery. From the street, she looks more like a lady in travail than a happy duchess.”

  Margery nodded and glided across to tug her sister’s veil but Heloise lingered.

  “Sir Richard, a word with you, pray. Did you set Dionysia to spy on Buckingham?” Her smile was honest, hiding the claws of the conversation.

  Sir Richard Huddleston raised an eyebrow. “It was she who made the bargain. Does it bother you?”

  “I am his grace of Gloucester’s loyal servant, I assure you, but Buckingham, so my husband informs me, shares the Plantagenet distaste for treachery. Could you not retire her from your service straightway? If this is discovered, the duke . . . well, might be unforgiving.”

  “I thank you for the warning, Heloise. I have told her so but your sister chose this path and her services do not come cheap. Ah, Margery, my mousekin, and my lord and lady.” He bowed his head to his duke and duchess.

  “It is not like being in the north,” murmured Duchess Anne. “How glad I shall be when tonight is over.”

  “Ah but this,” exclaimed Buckingham, insinuating himself between the Gloucesters, an arm about either of their slight shoulders, “is only the beginning.”

  “NEVER PAUSED TO SPIT,” EXCLAIMED SIR WILLIAM, REPORTING back to Miles next evening on Buckingham’s kingmaking speech at the Guildhall. He accepted a tankard of ale from Heloise. “Excellent performance, though I heard one guildsman mutter, ‘Who does he think he is, the angel Gabriel?’ and a few of ’em had their mouths hanging open like holes for nesting gulls. Well done!” He thumped Miles’s shoulder and handed him a celebratory drink. “You would have been proud of him, lad. What perverse fortune, eh, that you should be missing all the huzzahs.”

  “Tomorrow is the key,” cautioned Miles, clinking the pewter tankards. “Providing Harry can persuade Parliament to petition Gloucester to take the crown, all will be lawful.”

  “Aye, it’ll need to be.” Knyvett tugged his earlobe. “Someone’s peppering the rumors and it isn’t us. Old loyalties are crawling out from beneath the stones.”

  THERE SEEMED TO BE LITTLE LEFT OF THE OLD DAUB-AND-WATTLE Buckingham showing through the newly surfaced exterior, decided Heloise; all his phrases began to sound rehearsed. He breezed in after supper to visit Miles and finalize next day’s speech, but when Heloise was allowed in afterwards, her husband’s jaw was a little more tilted, his tight-lipped frustration at his immobility more apparent. If he was unable to keep a watchful eye on his lord, Heloise was feeling the same about Dionysia.

  She ran her to earth in the ducal bedchamber next morning after the duke had gone to make his speech to Parliament.

  “Didie, I need to talk with you,” she announced, dismissing her sister’s maid and making sure the antechamber was clear of servants.

  “Would you like to check the chests and ambries too?” snapped her sister, snatching up the hairbrush the maid had relinquished. “I have an amorous goldsmith hidden beneath the mattress and that is not a nightingale within that cage but an agent for my lord of Gloucester. Has the invalid turned you out for an airing?”

  Heloise counted for six heartbeats to still her temper and then persevered. “Agent, strange you should say that. I was thinking of the yellow-haired spy who reports all she hears.” Dionysia made no comment and she added, “Be Buckingham’s mistress if you must, but for your own safety, be loyal to him.”

  Dionysia’s attention diverted to a well-snagged tress. “So you fathomed me.”

  “Didie, listen to me!” Heloise put her hand down over the matted bristles. “If Buckingham suspects you of coaxing his confidences . . .”

  “If, if. What can he do to me?” The hand mirror rose; the cherry lips were drawstringed to a pout. A long-nailed forefinger explored whether the whitehead’s hard center might be exuded. “Only until the coronation, Heloise, that is the arrangement.” The mirror tilted so the silver surface snared her sister’s face.

  “I insist you go back to Crosby Place. Your spying puts both of us at risk.”

  Dionysia laid the mirror on its face and ran a finger beneath the emerald collar that encircled her throat. “See this? Harry trusts me. He needs me. Deep inside he is uncertain, unloved. I want to prove to him that he undervalues himself.”

  “Pigs might fly! Buckingham has not undervalued himself since Gloucester made him ruler of Wales a month since. He probably kisses his shaving mirror when his valet holds it up to him.”

  “I want to have a child by him, Heloise.”

  “Grow up, Didie. You are talking such utter nonsense.”

  “Am I? I want to be loved by the most powerful man in England and Gloucester is a pious bore, so it has to be Buckingham and that pleases me well.”

  “Well, it does not please me. I really fear for you.”

  “Oh, Heloise!” She struck a pose like a Yuletide mummer, her hand a question mark upon her brow. “ ‘Oh woe, alack, I see a great black crow cast its wings across you, Dionysia, oh yes and there will be plagues of locusts in the Cotswolds.’ ”

  “And there very well might,” snapped Heloise, “and I hope they all land on you. What if I should receive a warning? What would you say then?”

  “Darling Cassandra, I love you but I do not believe in your predictions. Does anyone? ‘Changeling,’ ” she mocked Miles’s affectionate tone. “Ask him if he believes one word of it. Please, do not look so put out, Heloise, I am not saying you are a charletan like Nandik—Harry keeps him like a pet ape for amusement—but I do not believe in your faeries. It is wealth that makes our dreams come true.”

  Heloise closed the door of the bedchamber and leaned against it, eyes closed. An amused cough alerted her; Pershall, the duke’s servant, was sitting in the window seat.

  “I . . . I was quarreling with my sister.”

  “Were you, my lady?” His pebble brown eyes gave her absolution. “Upon my oath, I did not eavesdrop. In this house, one learns to be as discreet as a cat watching a birdtable.”

  “Pershall, you must keep him safe.”

  “Who, my lady?”

  “The duke, Pershall. If he falls, we shall all land in a heap.”

  The weathered wrinkles tightened. “Aye, I know.”

  BY THURSDAY NIGHT, THE KINGMAKING HAD BEEN completed. Harry on bended knee had eloquently offered the crown to his cousin at Baynards Castle, and Gloucester, flanked by his wife and mother on the barbican, had looked down at the plump worm of nobles and worthies coiling into the cobbled triangle with godlike suspicion but of course he had accepted. At least the coup had been bloodless, Miles congratulated himself, if one discounted the demise of Hastings and the distant executions of the hostages Rivers and Grey.

  As the bells of the city pealed in the reign of King Richard, it was Harry who decreed a repeat of the final moments of victory for his frustrated speechwriter.

  Bolstered by muscadelle and pillows, Miles lay back with Heloise embellishing his outstretched arm like a serif, while upon his other side, Dionysia Ballaster sat detached, with catlike independence, her study entirely centered upon her lover.

  Harry, hatless, took up his stance below Knyvett, who was poised sternly on the oaken chest like an unearthed Roman statue. De la Bere and Latimer provided the crowd.

  ‘ “My lords, gentlemen, friends all,’ ” Knyvett declared, trying to sound like Gloucester, “ ‘you do me greater honor than any man may dream of, and yet the task you wish on me is . . .’ ”

  “Onerous,” prompted de la Bere.

  “ ‘—onerous. I pray you do not ask this of me for e
ven if Prince Edward is England’s unlawful king, he is still my brother’s child. I cannot agree to take my nephew’s crown’—or words to that effect,” Knyvett added. “Can I get down now?”

  “No, William, we have not finished yet.” Harry turned to Miles. “Basically, I said that if he would not accept the crown, we should have to send for someone else and that there was another right willing across the water.”

  “Tudor!” exclaimed Miles. That had not been in the speech notes.

  “Aye, it lit the powder. Oh, he went rigid.”

  “So what did he answer?”

  Latimer threw a cushion to prompt Knyvett, who knotted his hands before him and declared: “ ‘If it is truly your desire, then I shall accept, but be sure all of you that you want me for your king, for without your love, such kingship as I may offer you rests but as on eggshells. I have no wish to be king.’ There was a jeer then. Just one. Someone jeer!” Latimer obliged.

  Heloise shifted uneasily beneath Miles’s arm. His wife’s hidden disapproval echoed his own misgivings at the irreverence. England needed a man like Gloucester, a man who cared about justice and consultation. Why the mockery? In vino veritas?

  “ ‘Then I must obey God’s will and yours,’ ” Sir William declaimed solemnly. “ ‘I swear before almighty God that I shall do my best to bring peace and justice to this troubled land.’ ” The room was silent. Somewhere in the laneway a dog barked.

  “God save King Richard.” Harry’s soft words caressed the unexpected quiet. He shot Miles a swift ironic smile before he turned to help Knyvett back to the floorboards. “I think we may dispense with the hat-tossing, huzzahs, and applause at this point.”

  “I certainly received the drift.”

  Heloise felt the arm about her stiffen and raised her head, questioning. It shall not be the axe for me yet a while, his expression swiftly told her, but his eyes were as brilliant as lodesterres as he studied Buckingham. For an instant, the two men stared at one another and then Miles disengaged his arm from entanglement and, palms up, offered the silent wreaths that were expected.

  Buckingham gave him a mighty hug, buffeting his shoulder. “We are safe, Miles! We did it! You clever whoreson, this is all your doing.”

  Tears ran down the panes of Miles’s soul.

  Gulping back his own emotion, Buckingham withdrew his moist cheeks so that his expression might embrace them all. “We plaguey did it!” The bed at that point descended into a rout of limbs until Miles yelped loudly and his apologetic friends sprang off like a volley of cannonfire.

  “YOU HAVE AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR,” HELOISE ANNOUNCED next day, swiftly kicking a forgotten stocking under the bed as Sir Richard Huddleston entered.

  “Is it someone’s saint’s day?” asked Miles dryly.

  “Sir!” rebuked his wife.

  “Not unless you are a culinary devotee of St. Martha.” His guest’s glance took in the abandoned trivet, the tray of phials and herbs, and the half-played chess game. “We can cook you an omelette to the chanting of prayers if Lady Rushden can purvey some eggs.” He sat himself uninvited on the bed and tossed his riding crop and gloves aside.

  “I hear your hearty northerners have arrived,” Miles remarked smoothly, his fingers stroking a captured pawn. “My lord of Northumberland too. How very embarrassing, now the hurly-burly is over.”

  “Yes,” agreed Huddleston, clearly aware that he was being baited. “They are to be sworn in as special constables for Coronation Day. We have ordered hat badges so they will have something to take home with them other than London curses. I am the bearer of thanks from our new king, by the way, master speechwriter. A gift of fresh quills might have been appropriate but let us hope there is no need. Something more permanent might be arranged in due course—when the hurly-burly is over.” Here he bestowed a light smile upon Heloise, who was resisting the temptation to bang their heads together.

  “The king’s grace desires you both to attend at the abbey on Sunday week,” he added. “I am afraid that even if we dress you in colors to match everyone else, Rushden, your palliasse will untidy the procession. Now if we had another horizontal knight to keep things tidy . . .” He finished the sentence with a shrug.

  Miles took up the challenge. “We could stab the Marquis of Dorset if we could find him, carry him in to balance appearances, and hold the funeral at the same time as the corona—”

  “His highness’s thoughtfulness is most appreciated,” cut in Heloise swiftly, “but I am not certain that—”

  “Perhaps a cart the night before,” suggested Miles, quelling her. “We can tidy away the bedpans before people in ermine start arriving.”

  “I will clear matters with his grace of Buckingham.” Their visitor retrieved his movables and rose. “One last thing. Are the tavern rumors all from you?”

  “No.”

  “That is what I thought but . . .” Huddleston had no intention of finishing the sentence before he left.

  “Well,” exclaimed Heloise as she returned from escorting their visitor down the stairs. “I missed half of that, or were you growling at one another beneath the level of female understanding?”

  Miles’s forehead was like a ploughman’s strip. “There were no growls.”

  “I hate to say it but this going to the abbey is foolish. You could spoil the mending.”

  “You think they want me permanently crippled? There’s a thought.”

  Bestowing icy looks upon him was to cast water on an impervious surface. Her drake, having had a bout of feather ruffling, looked fit to curse. “Make sure you know where your interest lies, madam wife,” he muttered.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Fists on her hips. One could not pummel one’s horizontal husband.

  “I thought you could read minds.”

  “Not when they are as obtuse as yours!”

  “Miles!” bellowed an impatient voice from the stairs. “Curse it, lad! Do you have to have your bedchamber half . . . way to Heaven!” Red-faced and panting, a large man lingered, stoppering the doorway until he was poked forward. “What is this I hear that you have gone and married a cursed Ballaster wench?” There was no mistaking to whom her husband owed his ebony hair and aristocratic beak.

  “Would you like to curtsy, Heloise,” suggested Miles suavely. “It might help.”

  Pushed off the coverlet, Heloise blinked up at the intimidating man she had nearly encountered at Potters Field. “Lord Rushden.” The sudden huskiness of her voice was lost in a rustle of skirts as she sank obediently.

  “You must admit it settles the matter of Bramley, Phillip.” The lady who spoke materialized from behind Lord Rushden, and Heloise’s gaze met the sea grey eyes of Miles’s mother. She raised Heloise up and kissed her on either cheek. “It is the right one,” she murmured, but such a cryptic remark confused Lord Rushden. He stared puzzled at Heloise’s right cheek and then understanding came and he reached out and pinched it anyway in a friendly manner.

  “Wear your armor to bed, do you?”

  “Not anymore,” answered Heloise cheerfully. “The lance-rest was a nu—” She turned pink as a billowy sunset as Miles’s fist thumped the bed and he curled sideways laughing. It was not what she had meant.

  “It is all right.” A large paw shook her shoulder. “She will do, lad. She will do!”

  MILES ABJURED THE CORONATION. VIEWING NOTHING BUT sweaty ankles from his mattress would be too obnoxious. He was safer stewing in Dowgate, decided Heloise, who was herself crushed in the overscented throng at Westminster beside her mother-in-law, for the July sun was not cooking the abbey; it was steaming it. Paste-stiff veils were growing limp upon their wires, and ermine and gris trimmings began to heat their wearers’ tempers before the fanfares shimmered through the holy, perfumed air. Drawing Miles’s mother with her, she edged through to the edge of the nave. On tiptoe she could just glimpse the scarlet platform beneath an embroidered canopy and St. Edward’s chair swathed with silk imperial.

  The processi
on of the cross and the anthem Ecco milto angelum meum hushed the congregation. The lords spiritual, from cathedrals and abbeys all over the realm, passed by, their heavy brocades fumed with frankincense. Two by two came the young Knights of the Bath, all freshly dubbed and washed the night before, hesitantly led by Clarence’s son. Heloise was curious to see the young boy who was barred from the throne by his late father’s treason; no wonder he was forgotten, for the lad’s face was moonish like poor Benet’s.

  To the chanting of the Twentieth Psalm, Domine in virtute, came the high nobles of England, bearing the ceremonial weapons and jeweled regalia which somehow had been retrieved from the queen’s pilferings. Howard, the freshly minted Duke of Norfolk, carried within his hands St. Edward’s crown, its golden buttresses shining as it passed beneath the shafts of sunlight. The great lords did not falter in their steps but the ceremonial cushions shook a little. Only Lord Stanley, freed from the Tower to encourage reconciliation, had difficulty in timing his stride to match the rest.

  Richard of Gloucester was magnificent in his crimson, miniver, and gold but his face reminded Heloise of a devout priest about to be ordained as though it was not the crowning but the anointing with the holy oil that meant so much to him. Four barons held the tasseled cloth of estate above his head and two bishops flanked him: Durham and, as was customary, Bath and Wells. Stillington, mitered, splendid in fine wool and glistening tartaryne, met his nurse’s study. The crow’s-feet eyes bestowed a conspiratorial blessing, the dried lips a smile. Heloise knuckled the telltale tears away. She was proud of Gloucester, her duke, and happy for England.