by Sole, Linda
Beatrice shuddered, coldness sweeping over her. It was as if a dark cloud had obscured the sun and she was afraid of something – something dark and hidden that would bring great grief into her life. She wanted to scream and shout, to protest that this must not happen, but she held her peace.
‘Why did no one tell me?’
‘We none of us expected this, sister,’ Sir Hugh said and frowned at her. ‘Besides, Tomas did not wish to distress you in your condition.’
‘I wish you had told me sooner,’ she said, though she knew that she could do nothing. War was for men. Women waited and wept while their men went off to fight and die. ‘What did you mean when you said we must prepare for war? Shall we be attacked?’
‘It is possible,’ Hugh said. ‘I came here to see you and bring you a letter from Richard. I shall stay but one night, then I must meet the King in Wales, taking with me all the men I can muster from my own estates.’
‘What of Tomas?’ Beatrice looked at her husband anxiously. ‘Shall you go to Wales and fight with Richard?’
‘He bade me stay here and protect the castle and you,’ Tomas said, giving her a look filled with meaning. ‘I would have left the men under your command and gone to him, but he forbade it. He said that in your vulnerable condition you needed me here.’
Tears stung her throat. Richard had thought of her in this time of danger. He had ordered Tomas to protect her and his children – perhaps he did mean to acknowledge them one day. Ambition soared once more. Only when she was dead would she release her hopes of seeing Elspeth take her father’s place on the throne of England one day. She looked at the letter her brother had given her and saw that it bore the royal seal. Her heart quickened with excitement. Was it the document she had always wanted?
‘You must do as Richard asks,’ she said and lifted her head proudly. Turning to her brother, she smiled. ‘I am proud of you, Hugh. I know that when Richard is victorious he will honour you for your loyalty.’
‘If he is victorious.’ Sir Hugh looked uncertain. ‘Do not underestimate Henry Bolingbroke, sister. He did not come here merely to win back his lands. He wants the crown of England and he will wrest it from Richard’s head with his bare hands if need be.’
‘Surely you do not think he will win?’
Beatrice was horrified. It had never occurred to her that Richard could lose his throne – and perhaps his life. She shuddered, feeling icy prickles all over her body. ‘Tomas, tell me Hugh is wrong. Richard cannot lose – can he?’
Tomas hesitated, then, ‘I shall not lie to you, Beatrice. Richard has upset the barons. Too many of them are against him and bear grievances for various harm they claim he has done them. He passes laws that many feel too harsh and rides roughshod over his enemies. Some say his rages are the sign of madness and they talk of a change – of a new king who will rule fairly.’
‘Richard is their anointed King. How can they betray him? They will be traitors, their lives forfeit when he is victorious.’
‘Yes, that is why many will sit on the fence and wait,’ Tomas said. ‘Some have already declared for Bolingbroke but others hold fire. If Richard can raise the people of Wales many of the barons will go over to him. If they do not…’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘He may lose everything.’
‘Why do they not see him for the wonderful, intelligent and cultured man he is? He has done so much for art and he loves beauty and music, poetry and learning. Where do these wicked stories of insanity come from? They are all lies.’
‘Yes, I know they are lies,’ Tomas agreed. ‘Richard is as sane as you or I but he hath a temper, which you have not seen, sister. Those that have felt his wrath have some justice on their side. I am and shall ever be for Richard, but I see their complaints and I know they have some reason for rebellion. At times Richard goes too far if he would keep the love of his people.’
‘Can you not speak to him, make him see that he should listen and perhaps grant some of their requests?’
‘You should know that Richard never listens,’ her brother said. ‘I must leave you for the moment, sister. I shall dine with you this evening, but I must speak to my men and make sure they have all they need.’
Beatrice watched her brother stride from the hall, his boots ringing on the flagstones. She turned to her husband anxiously.
‘Do you think we shall be attacked here?’
‘Perhaps, though we are of little importance. Much depends on how things go with Richard.’ He hesitated, then, ‘I have thought we should go to my lands in Wales. The people are loyal to me and you might be safer there, Beatrice.’
She hesitated then shook her head. ‘I shall stay here in the castle Richard gave me. If I went elsewhere it might anger him. He promised to come to me as soon as he returned from Ireland. I must be here waiting when he comes. He will want to see his son.’
‘Have it your own way.’ Tomas looked at her from narrowed eyes. ‘Do not expect Richard yet. He has more important things on his mind than you or your child, Beatrice.’
‘He has written to me.’ She broke the seal eagerly and scanned the message inside. Richard had created her Countess Beatrice of Craigmere, the name of her castle – and her daughter was to be known as the lady Elspeth. Elspeth was to have lands and money, which would be held in trust by her uncle, Sir Hugh de Bracie, until she was of an age to wed. There was no mention of her unborn child. ‘No! No, this is not what he promised.’
Beatrice crumpled the parchment in her hand. Her eyes flashed with temper. Richard had honoured their daughter, but it seemed he was not convinced that her second child was also his.
‘You expect too much,’ Tomas said when she pushed the document into his hand, her own shaking with anger. ‘I have told you before, Beatrice. If you wish to hold Richard’s love you must be accepting and grateful for what he does for you. Do not tell me again that he seduced you. I have heard it many times. He is a king and a man. I dare say he has bedded more than a few women, many as well born and as lovely as you. You gave him what he wanted too soon. Had you been more virtuous he might have wed you then.’
‘Damn you, Tomas!’ Beatrice flew at him, striking at his cheek with her nails, but he caught her wrist, his strength preventing her from her achieving her aim. ‘I hate you. Do you hear me? I wish I had never wed you.’
‘I am sorry for it,’ Tomas said coldly. ‘I think I have more reason to regret the marriage than you but I do not let bitterness overcome me.’
She stared at him, caught by something in his tone. His eyes were hot with urgent need and for a moment she thought he would kiss her, demand his rights as a husband, perhaps beat her. Her breath quickened and for a moment she wanted him to assert his right to touch and fondle her, to chastise her. Beatrice was not certain how she might have responded had he done so, but at that moment the pain struck, making her cry out and recoil. She staggered and might have fallen had Tomas not caught her to him.
‘What is it?’ he asked, concern in his face now. ‘Is it the child?’
‘I think…’ Beatrice looked down at herself. She clutched at the damp patch spreading from between her legs and cried out in fear. ‘I am bleeding. The child comes early. Tomas, help me. What is happening?’
‘It was my fault for quarrelling with you,’ Tomas said. ‘Forgive me, Beatrice. I know how much you wanted this babe. I did not mean to harm you.’
‘Help me. I must get to my couch.’
‘Yes, of course, my love,’ Tomas said and bent to scoop her up in his arms. He strode up the stairs, carrying her as if she weighed no more than a feather. She was aware of his strength and power, and knew that had he ever decided to take what was his by right she could not have denied him. Yet he had never used his strength against her. ‘Forgive me.’
‘It was not your fault,’ she said and turned her face to his shoulder as the tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘I have fretted too much. If the child dies it will be my fault not yours.’
‘Do not talk of such things. You
must rest and all will be well,’ he promised as he carried her to her bed.
Her women flocked about her, shooing him from the room. Men were not wanted or needed in the birthing chamber. Even though Beatrice cried out and tried to cling to his hand the women wanted him gone.
Tomas hesitated, then, ‘I shall return soon,’ he said. ‘Be brave, Beatrice. It will soon be over and you will feel better.’
Tomas listened to the screams coming from his wife’s bedchamber, pacing the floor of the chamber below in distress. She seemed to have been in agony for hours now and he could hardly bear to wait here and listen, but each time he entered her chamber the women drove him out. It was not fitting that he should witness her agony and yet he had heard her crying pitifully for help. The rituals of giving birth were a mystery to him, but he knew that too many women died and the thought that Beatrice might die was like the thrust of a dagger in his chest.
If she died he would blame himself. He had known how much it meant to her to believe that Richard would one day acknowledge her children. He cursed the man he served, hating him in that moment for the pain he had caused Beatrice. She was Tomas’s wife and he loved her, cherished her with a passion she would never understand for he would not tell her. He knew well enough that she saw him only as a means to an end. Richard had commanded her to marry him and she had done so, though from the start she had made it clear that the marriage was to be in name only. He had given Beatrice her way in all things, even though it cost him dear. How many nights he had lain in agony, burning with the need to lie with her, but afraid that if he forced her to give him what was his by right, she would hate him.
She would hate him if her child died. Richard’s child, the child she hoped would be a son and King of England one day. Surely she must know that Richard could not acknowledge her children? To do so might risk the inheritance of his legitimate heirs one day. Her children were bastards born out of wedlock and as such could not inherit the throne – but if Richard were to acknowledge them, claim that he married their mother before Isabella of Valois, then it might be done. She must know that her only chance was for Richard to have a change of heart if his wife proved barren, and that was far from being certain. Isabella was still a child barely more than eleven years of age. Tomas doubted that Richard had done more than kiss her cheek. It was the reason he sought Beatrice’s bed when he could spare the time to visit. Tomas doubted that his wife was Richard’s only mistress. He was a Plantagenet and like his forefathers a man of lusty appetites despite his love of art and fine architecture. Beatrice would hate him if he said it to her face, but Richard was too selfish a man to truly love any woman.
‘I must leave, Tomas.’
He turned at the sound of Sir Hugh’s voice, inclining his head. ‘Yes, you must go, brother. Forgive me for neglecting you at supper. I could not leave her, though she does not know I am near.’
‘Beatrice does not know how fortunate she is,’ Hugh said and frowned. ‘What shall I tell Richard when I see him?’
‘That the child was born…’ Tomas broke off as the door to his wife’s chamber opened and one of the women came down the stairs of the tower. He went out to meet her. She was carrying something wrapped in linen and Tomas’s heart caught as she saw the woman’s expression.
‘The child?’ he asked, dreading the answer he already knew. ‘Was it a boy?’
‘Yes, my lord. A fine child but too small to live.’
‘Let me look.’ Tomas drew back the wrappings and looked at the babe’s face. It looked blue and strange, as if it had died because it had been torn from its mother’s womb too soon and could not breathe alone. His throat closed with emotion and tears filled his eyes. ‘The poor little babe. May God keep his soul.’
‘Aye, my lord. ‘Tis sad for you and my lady, but the good God will give you more babes.’
There was sympathy in her voice for him. She must believe that the child was his – and that meant that others would too. Beatrice had hidden her adultery well from most of the servants. Only one or two might guess the truth, but it hardly mattered now. The son Beatrice had wanted so much was dead and Tomas doubted there would be another child made between her and Richard. He knew from something Richard had told him that he did not intend to continue the relationship. Beatrice’s pride and ambition had driven Richard away. He would not visit her bed again.
‘May I go in now?’ he asked. ‘Does my wife know that the child was a boy?’
‘Yes, my lord. She asked to see him.’
Tomas turned to Sir Hugh. ‘I must comfort her. Tell Richard the boy was stillborn but say nothing more. I have always feared what might happen if the truth were known.’
‘You are a good man, Tomas Ryston,’ Sir Hugh said and gripped his arm. ‘I know she will be safe with you. If God does not grant me the happiness of being with you again, know that I loved her and honoured you.’
‘Go with God, my friend.’
‘Make her face the truth. Richard will not return to her after this. She makes too many demands and he wearies of her.’
Tomas nodded. He could not keep the truth from Beatrice. She would know that she had lost the son she’d craved and soon she would also know that she had lost Richard. Tomas must do what he could to comfort her and hope that in time she would turn to him.
He entered the birthing chamber. Beatrice was lying with her face turned to the wall, her body curled in a defensive position, as if she tried to protect the child she had carried so many months, denying her loss.
‘I know it hurts,’ he said softly. ‘But you still have Elspeth – and though it means little to you, you will always have me.’
She did not turn her head as she said, ‘Go away. I hate you. I have lost my son and nothing matters to me now.’
‘It will one day,’ Tomas promised and bent to kiss her brow, which was damp with sweat. ‘I promise you that one day you will feel happy again.’
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. ‘Nothing you can do will make me happy. Go away and leave me to grieve alone. I do not want you, Tomas. I do not want your pity.’
‘It isn’t pity I would offer you,’ Tomas said but so quietly that she did not hear him.
‘Leave me,’ she said, her face stained with tears. ‘My life is over. I have nothing to live for.’
‘I know that you have betrayed your vows. I know that you care little for me – but I never thought you a heartless fool.’
The tone of his voice brought her head up, a look of shock in her green eyes. ‘Why do you call me heartless?’
‘Because you have a beautiful child. Will you lie there and break your heart for a son that never drew breath when you have Elspeth? She is a golden child, a gift from God, and you should thank him every day for her life. Shame on you, Beatrice! I never thought I had wed a coward. Elspeth will have enemies for one day her secret may be known. You must live to fight for her – for her right to be happy.’
‘I am not a coward nor am I heartless. I love Elspeth. You know I adore her.’
Tomas hid his smile as he saw the spark of anger in her eyes.
‘Prove it. Elspeth will be rich and if Richard is successful he will give her the honours he promised in his letter. One day he may arrange an important marriage for her – perhaps with a foreign prince, or mayhap one of the Mortimers.’
‘Do you think he would truly do so much for her?’
Beatrice rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes, brushed away her tears and then pushed herself up against the pillows. Her air of defeat had gone and there was a new eagerness in her face.
‘If he does nothing I will demand a favour,’ Tomas told her. ‘I have asked nothing for myself. Richard owes me. He shall give our daughter that which you were promised and then denied – a royal husband.’
Beatrice gave him a wan smile. ‘I no longer believe in the promises of kings.’
‘Yet you may believe in mine,’ Tomas said. ‘I know you must grieve for your lost babe, but do not n
eglect Elspeth. She is the future.’
Five
‘What news?’ Richard King of England asked as the knight entered his tent. The man was sodden from the eternal rain that had dogged their campaign since their return from Ireland. ‘Have you brought me men in sufficient numbers?’
‘I have brought in one hundred trained soldiers and fifty yeomen armed with pikes, Sire,’ Sir Hugh said. ‘I tried to rally others but most told me they would wait to see which way the wind was blowing before they decided for you.’
Richard swore, striking his mailed fists one against the other. ‘It is the same everywhere. Some have rallied to their King’s call but others wait; they send messages of encouragement and beg me to forgive their tardiness, making promises they will not keep.’
‘We need a strong decisive victory,’ Sir Hugh said. ‘If the people see that you are winning they will flock to you. You are the King. Act now and Bolingbroke will run back where he came from with his tail between his legs.’
‘We are not strong enough. I have been advised that it would be best to consolidate our forces in Conway Castle and wait for others to join us before we strike.’
‘Forgive me, Sire. I think it would be the worst thing we could do. People will think you are afraid to meet Bolingbroke. A swift thrust against him now might rally those that sit on the fence and wait.’
‘I shall consider what is best.’ Richard sighed as the wind howled about them, tugging at the ropes of his pavilion as if it would tear the flimsy silk and toss it to the elements. ‘Listen to that damned rain. I think this must be the wettest place in my kingdom. ‘Tis no wonder the Welsh are such a brooding people. Anyone would be miserable in this godforsaken place.’
He was beset by his doubts. The pictures in his mind haunted him, a premonition of a dark and terrible place where he might end his life, alone and in pain. He thought with regret of the work that was unfinished, the beautiful rebuilding of Westminster and so many projects as yet not begun. The face of a woman came into his mind and once again he was touched by regret.