This Towering Passion

by Valerie Sherwood

  “Aye,” promised Barney. “But your boxes are like to catch up with you, so slow must ye go—a cart will catch ye, Michael, ye’re so heavy-laden. I pity the horse!”

  Weighted down, Michael dropped one of the big bags. “That one can come later,” he groaned. “I told ye I’d no time to procure a packhorse, my nag will have to carry these as best he can. Goodbye, Barney. ’Tis been fine sharing lodgings with ye, and I hope ye’ll visit me in Coventry.”

  Barney wrung his hand, but his expression was still mirthful. “Think ye the lady will wait?” he jibed. “Mayhap ye’d best look to see if she’s vanished!”

  Michael never meant to return to Oxford, and Barney’s home was almost at Land’s End—’twas very doubtful their paths would ever cross again. How he’d longed to wipe that amused, lofty look off Barney’s face! And now at last he had the chance to do it—with one bold lie. He took a deep breath. “’Tis only because ye’re my friend that I tell ye this, Barney,” he confided, throwing out his chest. “But Mistress Lenore is only displaying her impatience.” He paused impressively. “We are running away together.”

  “What!” For once Barney was startled out of his supercilious attitude, Michael noted with relish. “Wait till Geoffrey hears of it! He’ll crush you like a maggot!” Geoffrey! Always Geoffrey coming between him and his precious Lenore! Michael felt jealousy pricking at him as it had so often in the past when he’d guided Lenore’s quill pen across the parchment, feeling her barely concealed impatience for Geoffrey to be home. “Geoffrey can hear and be damned to him—in France or wherever he’s gone!” cried Michael, coloring up. “Because by the time he hears of it, Lenore and I will be wed!”

  “Ye’re taking her home to your family?” demanded his friend incredulously. “A woman with another man’s bastard clutched to her bosom?”

  “If my family won’t accept her, I’ll take her beyond their reach!” Michael declared fervently. He staggered to the door with his bags.

  “Here, let me help you with that!” cried Barney. “Where will you go?”

  “That I must keep a secret,” gasped Michael, spurning aid and bumping his way through the door.

  Barney followed him downstairs with a respectful look. You could never tell what stuff a man was made of! Who’d have thought pink-cheeked Michael, who had mooned around Lenore like a lovesick calf until he was the laughingstock of Oxford, would have the courage to run away with her? What a story he’d have to tell at the tavern tonight! Fascinated, and hoping for more revelations, Barney pursued him out the front door. “Faith, I envy you, Michael!” he cried, overcome by admiration of this unsuspected boldness in his previously insipid lodging-mate. “Mistress Lenore’s a rare beauty!”

  “Aye, that she is!” agreed Michael, now adjusting his saddlebags with the help of a stable boy. “Wait, wait, Lenore!” he called despairingly, for she was already cantering up the street. Panting, he got himself aboard the horse, cursing as one more of his bags fell off. “Send it along with the boxes!” he bellowed. He tossed a coin to the grinning stable boy, who caught it dexterously, and careened off over the cobbles after Lenore.

  Lenore heard his wail and turned her head. Seeing him in the saddle at last, she slackened her pace until his overburdened mount could catch up.

  “Why are ye in such a hurry?” he gasped.

  “'Because I attacked Gilbert with a poker and burned his face for him—and he’s threatened to call the authorities and prevent my leaving!” she told him tersely.

  “Burned his face with a poker?” Michael was amazed. “Aye, Gil would take that amiss! Whatever possessed ye to do such a thing?”

  Lenore had no intention of telling Michael that Gilbert had raped her. "He tried to force his attentions on me. Twas the only way I could think of to beat him off, for he is stronger than I am.”

  “Oh.” Michael gave her a round-eyed look of great respect. He had half convinced himself as he caught up with her that they really were eloping, and now he had new proof of what a fiery woman she was. “Then we’d best hurry along,” he said inadequately.

  “Indeed we had,” agreed Lenore, “if ye think that poor beast can hurry, weighted down like that!”

  Michael looked unhappy, and she sighed and slowed her pace.

  But as they walked their horses along the rutted road that led along the River Cherwell north to Banbury, she stopped and looked back for a last glimpse of Oxford. Like Lot’s wife, she could not resist looking back at what she had lost. Under scudding clouds, the river valley seemed dismal, gray—but suddenly a fleeting shaft of sunlight illuminated the honey-colored spires, and she caught her breath.

  A fairylike place it seemed from here—beautiful, insubstantial, and unreal. Her expression hardened. As unreal and as insubstantial as Geoffrey’s love for her had been! With a defiant toss of her head, she turned her face resolutely toward the north. Let all the gentlemen of England sail for France if they chose—she’d make her way at the fairs!

  She touched Snowfire with her knee. Fit and rested and eager to run, he leaped ahead—and behind her Michael groaned. “Lenore,” he cried, “my horse can’t keep up with the pace you set!”

  Vexed, Lenore slowed her pace to one that Michael’s mount could match. Slowly they wended their way beneath the tall old trees that lined the lovely riverbank. Lorena was clasped lightly, firmly in her arm, and sometimes she crooned to her or rocked her a little, or dropped a quick kiss upon the baby forehead or tiny reaching fingers. She looked soft at those moments.

  But when she lifted her head and surveyed the road ahead, her expression changed. There was a hard new light in her violet eyes as she headed north on an eager, prancing Snowfire—a light that boded ill for any man who dared to love her.

  CHAPTER 18

  At the alehouse at Headington Quarry, the proprietor stooped over a tall man who lay in a corner, half on a bench, half off. He stirred the recumbent figure with his foot. “Time to go, sir,” he said cheerily. And then when that prone figure didn’t move, more loudly, “Time to go, ye beggar!” He had begun to suspect that the elegant gentleman with the toffee-colored hair who had given him money to keep this long, lean fellow drunk would never be back. Certainly there was no profit in continuing to waste good ale on a man who was too drunk to know what was going on. Best get rid of him, in case the authorities came snooping around, as they sometimes did.

  Encouraged by the toe of a boot, Geoffrey came slowly back to life and bestirred himself from his drunken condition. He opened one bloodshot eye and saw the corner of a battered table near his head, and beyond that and above a low-slung ceiling. As he struggled to rise, a pain shot through his head like a hammer blow, and he groaned and sank back, resting one palm upon the floor to ease his descent upon the bench. Something hard and round bit into his palm and his fingers closed around it automatically. A coin, perhaps, dropped from his pocket? No, too sharp. Almost as a reflex, he stuck it in his pocket. Any motion hurt. With a groan he clasped his head, which seemed to have a steel band around it biting into his brain—but his questing fingers could feel nothing but his own flesh. Where was he? What day was this? Gradually he collected his wits, assessed the fact that he had a full complement of arms and legs, and sat up.

  “How long have I been here?” he mumbled.

  “Well nigh on a week,” said his host grimly. “And I’d be glad to be shut of ye, as the sayin’ goes.”

  A week! Geoffrey shook his head to clear it, and winced. His throat was dry, his condition filthy, and his head ached abominably. “What do I owe ye?” he asked, struggling up.

  “Naught,” said the tavernkeeper laconically (he had already gone through Geoffrey’s pockets and removed all the coins). “A friend paid for ye.”

  Geoffrey looked surprised, but he shrugged and left the alehouse. The strong breeze, carrying with it a tang of salt, rippled his thick, dark hair. It was good to be out of that dark, foul-smelling place. He stood a moment stretching in the bright June sunlight, breathing in d
eep draughts of that bracing air, then reached into his pocket. He’d been very giddy in there, but was it possible that he had actually come out of the place with a coin?

  He studied it in the sunlight as it lay in his palm. Not a coin, but a button—handsomely enameled and of a very distinctive design: a stag on a gold ground. One of Gilbert’s. But . . . how had it come there? He had no memory of seeing Gilbert at the alehouse—though to be truthful, he had precious little memory of anything there. Still it was not such a place as his foppish cousin would visit. So how had it got there, lying so near his hand?

  Vaguely disturbed by the discovery, he found his horse in the stable behind the alehouse (the proprietor had been afraid to steal his horse) and mounted. He forgot the button as more disturbing thoughts plagued him. The child . . . the child was not his. His face grew bleak as the memory of that bitter disappointment assailed him. In his rage he had blasted out at Lenore—he winced at the things he had said—and yet. . . now he asked himself, honestly could she have known? He had taken her that first night by force, in full knowledge that she was hand-fasted. How could he blame her?

  By heaven, he was lucky that she had come to love him! He would go back, he would admit he was wrong, he would beg her forgiveness, he would make amends. Aye, he would even take the child and dandle it on his knee. For it was hers ... as she was his. By heaven, he would protect them both!

  And he had been gone a week since he had flung out! What must she think, hearing that he was drunk in an alehouse all this time?

  His brow creased with worry, he rode rapidly back to his lodgings off Magpie Lane to right his grevious wrongs with the woman he truly loved.

  He found those lodgings empty of Lenore’s things, though his own were still in evidence, piled neatly on a table. She and the baby were gone. He whirled at a sound at the door.

  It was Mistress Watts, her wig askew, her furbelows looking shabbier than ever. As Geoffrey’s tall figure advanced on her, she fell back, looking scared.

  “Where’s Mistress Daunt?” he demanded.

  “She’s fled. Yesterday.” And at his thunderous expression, “The authorities were here,” she bleated. “For what she did to Master Gilbert’s face.”

  “To Master Gilbert’s face?” Brought up short by that odd remark, Geoffrey waited for illumination.

  “Aye. Pinked him with a hot poker, she did. He ran down these stairs bawlin’ and hollerin’ what he’d do to her. He shouted he’d tell the authorities who she was! But all they told me was that she was wanted for assault.”

  Geoffrey’s face hardened. He could well imagine what provocation would cause Lenore to do such a thing. And she just out of childbed! There was a sword and baldric lying on the table, and now he buckled the strap of the baldric over his right shoulder so that his sword hung down under his left arm—convenient to his strong right hand.

  Mistress Watts quaked as he swept by her. “A veritable demon he looked!” she told Gwynneth later, her hand on her palpitating heart. “I was afraid to tell him she’d left with Master Michael—I was afraid he’d cut my head off! And the way he slammed the door—’twas like to come off its hinges!”

  Directly to Gilbert’s quarters Geoffrey strode. Taking the stairs at three bounds, he kicked open the door with a booted foot and leaped inside. He seized the surprised Gilbert by the lace at his throat, twisting it cruelly.

  When Geoffrey barged into the room, Gilbert had been sitting at his ease amid his usual clutter, leaning back in a chair propped against the wall. His long legs were stretched out indolently, booted feet resting on the edge of the table as he drank a glass of malmsey and brooded about the deviltry of a woman who would mark a man’s face. He did not even have time to rearrange his legs before Geoffrey seized him. A screech rose in his throat, but that screech ended in a gurgle as he felt the chair knocked out from under him and the lace at his throat—it was strong and new and expensive—become a gallows knot cutting off his breathing.

  A dark face that might have been the devil’s own thrust itself juttingly into his, and he found himself gazing with terror into a pair of wild, bloodshot eyes. The voice that rang in his ears might have risen from the depths of hell. “Tell me what ye’ve done to Lenore!”

  Choking, clutching at his throat, Gilbert, made an effort to rise and was forced to his knees. “Ye’re mad,” he gasped hoarsely, as the grip on his throat lightened enough for him to speak. “I’ve done nothing to her!”

  He made an effort to twist free and was suddenly released. Geoffrey flung Gilbert from him so hard he bounced off the wall. As he staggered forward, Gilbert saw Geoffrey reach down into a pile of articles that had been carelessly swept off the table. From the clutter he found one of the collection of swords of which Gilbert was so fond. “Defend yourself,” he said crisply, flinging it to Gilbert and almost simultaneously snaking out his naked blade and advancing upon his cowering cousin.

  Gilbert picked up the sword in haste and leaped aside in a frantic attempt to ward off this new menace. He was no match for Geoffrey’s sword arm, and he knew it. “She’s fled you!” he cried in a voice that cracked. “Faith, none could blame her—look at you, already thirsting for my blood!”

  “Fled where?” demanded Geoffrey inexorably, bringing his blade down with such mighty force that Gilbert’s sword, which he had swiftly raised in an attempt to parry the blow, was immediately torn from his grasp and went clattering across the floor. For a moment Gilbert stood riveted and livid—and Geoffrey, his face entirely Satanic, gave him a mocking smile and presented the point of his blade to his cousin’s throat. Gilbert fell back and came up against the wall—that deadly point followed him.

  “Before I dispose of you . . . speak!” growled Geoffrey.

  Faint with terror, Gilbert looked into the devil lights that flashed at him like summer lightning out of Geoffrey’s gray eyes, “She has fled with Michael!” he cried.

  “With Michael?” Geoffrey’s incredulous look turned into a contemptuous laugh. He pressed the point in a little deeper so that it drew a drop of blood.

  Gilbert’s face grew a shade whiter, and he gasped.

  “Tis true!” he yelped. “I had it straight from Barney Claypoole, who has rooms above him. She came over to Michael’s lodgings yesterday, Michael was all packed, and they rode away together.” He felt the point leave his skin and relaxed a little. “Had you eyes to see,” he added in an injured tone, stroking his bruised throat and wiping away the blood, “ye’d have readily seen Michael’s in love with her. Why else spend so much time teaching Lenore to better her penmanship? Why else work with her over all those dull books?”

  “Why indeed? echoed Geoffrey thoughtfully. “And which way did they go?”

  “Michael told Barney he was for Coventry,” said Gilbert sulkily. “I gather he’s taking Lenore home with him.”

  Geoffrey looked startled. “I see you are wounded,” he said grimly, sheathing his sword. He was staring at the court plaster on Gilbert’s cheek.

  “Tis a boil,” said Gilbert instantly. “I had to have it lanced. The surgeon has bound it up.”

  Geoffrey’s gaze was ironic. “I know how it came to be lanced,” he said in a low deadly tone. “I would like to hear your version.”

  Gilbert was sweating profusely now and looking from side to side for some means of escape. “Have done, Geoffrey!” he cried in desperation. “I but offered Lenore shelter for herself and the child when she told me you’d left her and gone to France! She took offense and gave me this!” Sulkily he indicated his cheek.

  Geoffrey turned red-rimmed eyes of hell on his cousin Gilbert. Before that look Gilbert flinched. He tried to retreat and once again found himself backed against the wall.

  “You of all people knew I had not gone to France,” said Geoffrey in a steely voice. “Yet you did not tell her? You let her go away believing that?”

  “I did not know!” gasped Gilbert. “I thought you were gone! She told me you were!”

  With his le
ft hand Geoffrey drew out the unusual enameled button with the distinctive stag design. “Have you lost a button from your coat?” he demanded.

  “No—yes!” Paralyzed with fright, Gilbert looked from the button to that glowering face. “What does that signify? Where did you get it?”

  “On the floor of an alehouse at Headington Quarry!” roared Geoffrey, flinging the button into Gilbert’s face with force. “Tis plain to me, cousin, that you had me drugged in some way—”

  “I did not! Geoffrey, I swear—”

  “So that ye could make a try for Lenore, believing she’d turn to you in my absence!”

  “I did not! Michael has bilked us both, Geoffrey. He . . Gilbert was babbling now, his words almost incoherent, and they faded into gasping silence. He seemed to shrink before the towering menace above him.

  Geoffrey smiled down at his crouching cousin, a terrible smile. “What’s clear to me is that ye did something to Lenore bad enough that she struck you with a poker. Ye need fresh air, Gilbert—ye look to be choking!”

  He pounced on Gilbert, seized him by the shoulders in a grip of iron. Words were bubbling out of Gilbert now. “Remember, Geoffrey—we are cousins!” he gibbered.

  Cousins! In violent revulsion. Geoffrey hoisted him into the air and with all his force hurled him through the window, shattering the wood and leaded panes. Gilbert shrieked as his bones broke the panes and the casement, and there was a long-drawn-out howl as he catapulted through the air to the alley below.

  Hoping sincerely he had broken Gilbert’s neck, Geoffrey strode out of the place. He did not bother to look out the broken window into the alley where he had pitched Gilbert, and from which now rose a number of high-pitched screams and the sound of running feet. His mind was seething. It was ridiculous to think that Lenore had eloped with Michael. She would not! Still . . . he’d best ask Mistress Watts about it. One could put no credence in anything a liar like Gilbert said.