by Anne Herries
Melissa felt the beginning of a deep anger inside her. If she discovered that Agnes had murdered the Abbess she would make sure that she was justly punished. Yet there remained the mystery of why a woman who had always seemed loyal should do such a thing.
Rhona was waiting for her when Melissa returned to her chamber. She greeted her mistress with an anxious look.
‘You look distressed, my lady,’ she said. ‘Is your aunt no better?’
‘My aunt died,’ Melissa said, a catch in her voice. She was keeping her tears at bay for she needed to be alert. ‘Where is Agnes?’
‘I do not know, my lady. She said that she needed to visit the privy and she has not returned, though it was more than an hour since. Would you wish me to look for her?’
‘No, stay here with me,’ Melissa said. ‘And light one of the wax candles we brought with us. I cannot bear the stench of tallow.’ She did not think she would ever forget the smell of burning tallow mixed with the foul bile that her aunt had vomited. ‘There is something I wish to read.’ Melissa knew that she was fortunate that she had been taught to read, because many women were not. It was not always thought necessary, but in this at least, Lord Whitbread had been generous.
‘As you wish, my lady.’ Rhona took a thick candle from their saddlebag and brought it near, striking tinder. As it flared to life, she lit the candle and set it upon the stool for the only pieces of furniture the cell contained were a stool and the straw pallet. ‘Is there light enough or shall I bring another?’
‘I can see if I kneel on the pallet,’ Melissa said, and took the letter from her pouch, breaking the seal. She read the words her aunt had written, gasping as she realised what they meant. ‘No, it cannot be…’
‘Is something wrong, my lady?’
‘Go to your own bed, Rhona,’ Melissa said. ‘I would be alone.’
As the woman left her, Melissa held the letter closer to the candle, reading it once more. She had thought that she must have imagined its contents, but the words had not changed.
The Abbess had accused Lord Whitbread of murdering his wife!
It is certain that your mother did not die in childbed. I received a letter from her to say that you were born and asking me to be your godmother. I could not give that promise, but as you know I have always taken an interest in you, my dearest child. When I heard that your mother had died I believed it from a fever, for your father wrote that it was so—but some weeks later your mother’s kinswoman, Alanna Davies, came to see me.
She swore to me that her cousin had been well when she was sent on an errand and when she returned she was not allowed to see her. For some days she was barred from Lady Whitbread’s chamber and then she was told that her cousin had died, but she says it is a lie. She heard screaming in the night and she believes that Lord Whitbread killed his wife for she saw him coming from her chamber and there was blood on his clothes.
I made discreet inquiries but nothing could be proved, though I incurred your father’s lifelong hatred for it. I can tell you no more, Melissa, but if you are in danger go to Alanna Davies for she would help you. She resides with Morgan of Hywell and has influential relatives or I doubt not that she too would have met her death.
If you are reading this then I am dead. Know that I have loved you beyond what was permitted me. I have revealed my secret only because I wish you to be aware of Lord Whitbread’s nature. If you should cross him I dare not think what he might do. Live well and kindly, my dear child, and think only that I loved you. Your Aunt Beatrice—Abbess of the Church of Saint Mark and the order of the Sisters of Mercy.
Melissa folded the paper and returned it to her pouch. Her hands were trembling and for some minutes she could only sit and stare at the shadows on the wall. Her father had not been kind to her but she could never have imagined that he could be guilty of the murder of his own wife. It was a wicked crime, yet she could not be certain of his guilt for there was no proof against him. He had sworn that his wife had died of a fever that came upon her after the birth of her child, and Melissa had seen her mother’s tomb in the family crypt.
There was only the word of her mother’s kinswoman to give the lie to his story. Melissa began to pace the confines of her cell, her mind reeling with the horror of what had been revealed to her. She had no doubt that her aunt had believed it true for she had not wished to reveal her secret until after her death.
Had she been threatened with dire consequences if she revealed what she knew? Or was it merely that she had given a promise to someone? Melissa would never be sure. She could not even know whether Alanna Davies had lied to the Abbess, but she was certain of one thing—she did not wish to live beneath her father’s roof again.
Yet where could she go? Melissa raised her head, pride and anger raising her spirit as she realised the truth. There was no one she could turn to for help. She had no alternative but to return to her father’s home, but she would refuse to marry the man he had chosen for her—and she would demand the truth of him!
Chapter Two
Rob turned away from the graveside, walking back through the peace of the old churchyard, the song of a missel thrush bringing some joy to a sorrowing heart.
Seeing David anxiously waiting for him, he brought his mind to the business in hand. He had given his word that he would rouse as many men in the Earl of Richmond’s cause as he could, and he must begin immediately.
‘We have work to do, David,’ he told his father’s steward. ‘I have promised there will be at least two hundred men ready to join Henry Tudor when he comes to wrest the Crown from King Richard.’
‘I know that the Stourtons will come in when you give the word. The Davies of Wroxham have pledged their affinity to your cause, Rob. As for their cousins, the Davies of Shorely, I have no word of their intentions, but if they come they will bring in twenty others.’
‘Then I think I must make them my first call,’ Rob said. ‘If I can win them to our side we shall have others flocking to our standard.’
‘Aye, Rob,’ David said. ‘These Plantagenets are a quarrelsome brood. It would be good to see the throne of England under stable rule again, though I like not war. We have seen too much bloodshed these past thirty years.’
Rob touched the old man’s shoulder in sympathy. ‘There are times when a man must stand for what he believes in. No matter what it may cost.’
Melissa visited Owain in the infirmary the next morning. He had recovered his senses, but was deep in a fever, tossing restlessly from side to side. She bent over him, laying a hand on his brow, which was hot and damp to the touch.
‘My dearest friend,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for what I have done to you. You were right, I should not have come for it has all come to nothing.’ She turned anxiously to the monk who was hovering nearby. ‘Will he recover?’
‘It is in God’s hands,’ the man said. ‘We shall tend him and pray for his soul—there is no more we can do.’
‘Thank you for what you have done,’ Melissa said, and bent over Owain again. He opened his eyes and looked at her and for a moment he smiled.
‘Elspeth…’ he said. ‘You have come.…’
‘No, Owain, it is her daughter,’ Melissa said, and bent to kiss his forehead. ‘Rest now, my dear friend. I shall add my prayers to those of the good monks.’
‘My lady,’ one of the brothers had come up to her. ‘I have been asked if I will send someone to escort you to your home. Are you ready to leave?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Melissa said. ‘It was kind of you to offer to send one of your servants to accompany us, sir.’
‘We are simple people and serve God,’ the monk told her. ‘You came here at a sad time and I am sorry that you have not been offered better hospitality.’
‘It is no matter,’ Melissa said. ‘Sister Cecile has her reasons for asking us to leave.’ It was obvious to her that the nun believed one of their party was responsible for the Abbess’s death and wanted them gone.
She followed the mon
k to the gates of the Abbey, where Rhona was waiting together with the horses and a tall, burly-looking servant who worked in the stables and was not one of the order. The monks employed only a handful of such men and it was good of them to spare him to her. She smiled at him, but he did not respond, merely giving her his hand to help her mount her palfrey.
‘Do you know the path we must follow through the forest, sir?’
He inclined his head but still spoke no word to her. Melissa sat her horse proudly and glanced at her serving woman.
‘Is there still no sign of Agnes?’
‘No, my lady. It is strange, is it not?’
‘Very strange,’ Melissa agreed. ‘Unless…’ She shook her head. It was difficult to believe that Agnes was responsible for her aunt’s death no matter what Cecile had told her. ‘Come, we must leave. I hope to be home before my father returns to the castle.…’
Her face was pale but she gave no other sign of the turmoil inside her. She wanted to run away and hide somewhere, but there was nowhere she could go—no one who would dare to stand up against her father. She thought that perhaps Robert of Melford might have done so if she asked, but her pride forbade it.
She had no alternative but to return to her father’s house.
How many of the promises given could he truly rely on? Rob had spent the past five days riding the Marches, talking with men who could bring in trained fighters if they cast their affinity with Richmond’s cause. Some had smiled to his face but he had thought them false behind his back, for he was aware that the King was also hoping to raise support in the border country. Yet if even half the promises made were kept, Rob would be able to take between two and three hundred men with him when Henry Tudor set up his standard. At least half of them would be skilled fighters. And he was sure that there would be a rising in Wales in support of Henry.
He was feeling weary and in need of a cooling drink when he gave the reins of his horse to a groom and went into the house. It felt strange to hear himself addressed as master or my lord, for he still thought of his father as the master here. It would take some getting used to, he thought, and sighed as his steward came to greet him.
‘What news, David? Have any messages come for me?’
‘None, sir,’ David said, and looked anxious. ‘But there is something I think I should tell you…concerning your father’s illness.’
‘You said nothing of this before?’ Rob walked into the room that had been his father’s place of business. ‘What troubles you?’
‘Before the seizure that laid him low, there was a visitor.’
‘A visitor?’
‘He claimed to have brought a message from Lord Whitbread. Your father was closeted with him privately for some minutes and they quarrelled—for we heard shouting. I hurried there when the man left and found him lying on the floor. He recovered after a moment or two—but it was that night he was taken ill.’
‘Can you name this messenger?’ Rob frowned for he did not like this tale. ‘You have no idea what was said between them?’
‘The messenger is known as Harold of Meresham—the bastard son of Lord Whitbread.’
Rob’s mouth thinned into a grim line. ‘Then I hold Harold of Meresham responsible for my father’s death—and one day there shall be a reckoning between us.’
Rob touched the scar on his cheek, his thoughts swept back to the day of his humiliation at Harold of Meresham’s hands and the pain he had endured.
In those first dark nights, when the pain made him cry out and weep like a child he had vowed to be revenged on the man who had done this to him—and the witch who had cast her spell over him. He must have been mad to believe her…and to help her when she was attacked in the forest. She had aroused a heated desire when he held her to him as they rode through the forest but he had forced himself to behave as an honourable knight—he should have taken his revenge while he had the chance! In his anger at the news of what had happened to his father, he was tempted to take as many men as he could muster and attack the castle. He would like to burn it to the ground with those devils in it! And yet he knew that there was more important work—work that prevented him seeking personal revenge.
His bitterness knew no bounds as he paced the room and thought of his father at the mercy of that oafish brute. It seemed that there was an evil curse on all that that family touched or did—and one day they would suffer for what they had done!
‘Be careful, Rob,’ David said, looking at him sadly, for he could guess what was in his mind. ‘The bastard was only obeying his father’s orders—and Lord Whitbread is a powerful man. If you cross him, he will destroy you.’
‘He may do his worst!’ Rob said, and scowled. ‘I have given my word to Henry Tudor and must keep it—but one day my chance will come.’
Melissa’s heart sank as she and Rhona rode into the castle. Seeing her father’s flag flying at full mast, she had known that he was home, and she had given the monks’ servant leave to go as soon as they were in sight of it. As she and Rhona rode over the drawbridge, she saw her half brother, Harold, standing in the courtyard, and her heart caught as he turned to look at her. His expression was triumphant, and she knew that that meant her father was angry with her.
Harold came to help her down. She shook off his hands, giving him a look of dislike, for she hated it when he touched her.
‘Where have you been, little sister?’ he asked, his thick lips curving in a sneer. ‘Father was in a rage when he discovered that you had gone. I hope he orders the thrashing you deserve—and allows me to do it.’
Melissa gave him a haughty look. ‘You would enjoy that, my dear brother, I have no doubt, but my father has more sense than to allow it. I am an heiress and the King is my guardian.…’
‘If it were not so, I should have had my pleasure with you before this,’ Harold said, his mean eyes glittering. ‘If Father did not fear that the King would seize your lands, you would have died long ago.’
Melissa walked away from him, her heart hammering. She had always known that her father hated her, but he held his counsel and she had not guessed that her life was in danger. She wished that there was somewhere she might find sanctuary, but all hope had gone with her aunt’s death. No other Abbey would take her for they might suffer a terrible retribution at Lord Whitbread’s hands. Her only hope lay in a petition to the King—but who would stand up for her?
Owain would have done it had he been able, though his word would carry little weight for he was not a noble, merely a freeman of England. Surely there must be someone who would help her? Yet try as she might, she could think of no one.
She went into the house, walking up the curved stone stair to her chamber. For the moment she must wait and see what her father had in mind for her.
Rob had been training with his men all the morning. He had been working hard and was wiping the sweat from his body in the courtyard. He doused himself with cold water drawn from the well, and then dried his body on a coarse cloth. He shook his head, the water flying from his long, dark hair as it would the coat of a shaggy dog. The sun was in his eyes and it was a moment or two before he realised that the man approaching him was Owain Davies.
‘You are better,’ he said, greeting him with a smile. ‘I must thank you for what you did for me that night, sir. Had I known your name I should have done so long ago.’
‘No thanks were necessary. I could not stand by and see murder done by those villains—Besides, from what I have been told, you have since repaid the favour.’
‘I did what any decent man would have done,’ Rob said, but his smile had gone for the bitterness was deep in him and grew stronger as the days passed. ‘Is there something I may do for you?’
Owain was dressed plainly in leather doublet and hose, his shirt of wool and dark in colour. The monks had cropped his hair short so best to tend his hurts, and there was a livid scar across his head. Yet he was a handsome man, who held himself with pride, his eyes green and bolder than many a man in his po
sition. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, though Rob was not sure what made him think it.
‘I came to offer you my affinity,’ Owain told him. ‘I know that my lady has returned to her father’s house, for the monks told me it was so—and I can no longer wear the livery of Lord Whitbread. He stands for the King and I am for Henry Tudor. I have heard that you are also of this mind—and I would fight with you, if you will have me?’
‘Yes, and right gladly,’ Rob said, offering his hand. ‘Indeed, I am proud to call you my friend.’
‘Thank you,’ Owain said, and smiled. ‘But I would have you know that I shall return to the service of my lady when this conflict is done—she has my loyalty, no matter what she may have done…’
Rob touched the scar on his cheek. ‘What do you know of this?’
‘I know what I saw and no more,’ Owain said. ‘I have been told that she sent you away—and that she knew of her father’s intent, but I do not believe it. If you knew her as I do, sir…’
‘No more,’ Rob said. ‘I accept your friendship and honour you for your loyalty to the lady of Whitbread, but nothing beyond. She betrayed me, and her brother punished me for daring to look above my station. I have since learned that he caused my father to suffer a seizure that later killed him. I have sworn revenge on them.’
‘Harold of Meresham is no true brother to her,’ Owain said. ‘And her…father is a brute who treats her ill. I would help you kill them both and gladly—but she is innocent.’
‘Perhaps…’ Rob’s expression did not ease. ‘We shall not speak of this again, Owain. For now we must prepare for war. I expect the summons any day.’