Authors: Jane Feather
The Hostage Bride (51 page)
The three men turned toward her as she came up to them. She curtsied deeply to the king as Rufus introduced her. Charles murmured a greeting but he was clearly displeased about something. Rufus, however, seemed unperturbed. The baby laughed merrily at the sight of her mother and stretched out her arms in eager demand.
“Oh, fickle Eve,” Rufus said reproachfully, handing the child to Portia.
Portia kissed Eve’s round cheek and the baby chuckled with delight, grabbing a handful of her mother’s hair.
“I’ll talk further with my advisors,” Charles said with undeniable hauteur. “Rothbury, Granville, Lady Rothbury. I give you good day.” He inclined his head and strode off, leaving the men to bow and Portia to curtsy to his back.
“I thought
you
were his advisors,” Portia observed, frowning.
“Only when we give His Majesty the advice he wishes to hear,” Rufus said with a sardonic smile.
Cato shook his head with an unusual air of distraction. “Do you know where Olivia and Phoebe are, Portia? We have
to return to Cliveden. I’ve just received word that Diana is worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Portia said truthfully. She didn’t care for the woman, but neither did she wish her harm. Diana had been ill for several weeks, remaining at Cato’s house just outside London while her stepdaughter and sister accompanied Cato to Uxbridge, where the peace negotiations were taking place in an atmosphere that was intended to be festive. However, things were not going according to anyone’s plan.
Cato pulled at his chin. “The flux shows no signs of abating. The physician says she is growing very weak.”
“Olivia and Phoebe are in the rose garden.” Portia gestured to the middle of the quad. “They wouldn’t come out with me because they thought it would be disrespectful.”
“You, of course, saw no such impediment to bringing yourself to the king’s notice,” Rufus observed with a grin.
“On the contrary, it seemed my bounden duty to relieve you of Eve. It seemed the height of disrespect to be conversing with your king while clutching an infant,” Portia declared with a lofty air.
“If you’ll excuse me …” Cato moved away toward the rose garden, too bound up in his own thoughts to pay attention to their badinage.
Rufus gazed across the quadrangle to the far cloister, a frown now in his eyes. “Did you notice a man standing over there a little while ago?”
“Oh, yes, it was the dung beetle.” Portia lifted one of Eve’s dimpled fists and sucked her fingers. The baby shrieked with delight.
“I remain unenlightened.” Rufus’s frown had increased.
“Brian Morse, Cato’s stepson,” Portia explained. “He’s Olivia’s nemesis for some reason … she’s not at all clear what it is about him that scares her … but he mimics her stammer and taunts her. He’s a loathsome creature.” She grinned reminiscently. “We arranged for his very precipitate and rather mortifying departure from Castle Granville. I’m sure he bears us a grudge.”
“I see.” Reflectively, Rufus tapped his teeth with a fingernail. There was something about the man’s silent observation
that had made him uneasy. He would do a little investigating of Master Morse himself. Then the frown cleared from his eye and he regarded Portia quizzically.
“I think it’s time you donned your britches again.”
“Oh, don’t you care for my gown?” Portia looked down at her gown of apple green silk. “I thought it quite pretty.”
“Oh, it’s pretty enough,” he said. “But I find I prefer the britches.”
Portia’s eyes sparkled at the sensuous note in her husband’s voice. “I can hardly wear britches in the king’s presence.”
“No, but we’re leaving the king’s presence. I’ve done all I can here. The man’s as stubborn as an ox. He won’t make peace on Cromwell’s terms.”
“So the war will continue?”
“Presumably.” Rufus shook his head impatiently. “But I’ve had enough of it for the moment. I intend to spend the next few months supervising the rebuilding of my house, the civilizing of my sons, and …” He paused and pressed his thumb against her mouth. “And the loving of my unruly gosling of a wife.”
His eyes, vivid and filled with promise, held the slanted green gaze beneath him. A shiver ran down her spine as she waited, breathless, for the kiss that would make good the promise … for the moment when the enchanted circle enclosed them, the world faded, and she would know again the all-encompassing certainty that her life, her soul, her heart, belonged to this man as his belonged to her.
J
ANE
F
EATHER
is the
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of
The Emerald Swan, The Silver Rose, The Diamond Slipper, Vanity, Vice, Violet
, and many more historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over four million books in print.
DON’T MISS JANE FEATHER’S CAPTIVATING ROMANCE…
The Widow’s Kiss
Available from Bantam Books
Read on for a preview …
DERBYSHIRE, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER
1536
T
HE WOMAN STOOD
by the open window, the soft breeze stirring the folds of her blue silk hood as it hung down her back. She stood very still and straight, her dark gown shadowy against the dense velvet of the opened window curtains.
She heard him in the corridor outside, his heavy, lumbering step. She could picture his large frame lurching from side to side as he approached. Now he was outside the great oak door. She could hear his labored breathing. She could picture his bloodshot eyes, his reddened countenance, his lips slack with exertion.
The door burst open. Her husband filled the doorway, his richly jeweled gown swirling about him.
“By God, madam! You would dare to speak to me in such wise at my own table! In the hearing of our guests, of the household, scullions even!” A shower of spittle accompanied the slurred words as he advanced into the chamber, kicking the door shut behind him. It shivered on its hinges.
The woman stood her ground beside the window, her hands clasped quietly against her skirts. “And I say to you, husband, that if you ever threaten one of my daughters again, you will rue the day.” Her voice was barely above a whisper but the words came at him with the power of thunder.
For a second he seemed to hesitate, then he lunged for her with clenched fists upraised. Still she stood her ground, a slight derisive smile on her lips, her eyes, purple as sloes, fixed upon his face with such contempt, he bellowed in drunken rage.
As he reached her, one fist aimed at her pale face beneath its jeweled headdress, his only thought to smash the smile from her lips, to close the hateful contempt in her eyes, she stepped aside. Her foot caught his ankle and the speed and weight of his charge carried him forward.
For a second he seemed to hover at the very brink of the dark space beyond the low-silled window, then he twisted and fell. A shriek of astounded terror accompanied his plunge to the flagstones beneath.
The woman twitched aside the curtain so that she could look down without being seen. At first in the dark depths below the window she could make out nothing, then came the sound of upraised voices, the tread of many feet; light flickered as torchmen came running from the four corners of the courtyard. And now, in the light, she could see the dark, crumpled shape of her husband.
How small he looked, she thought, clasping her elbows across her breast with a little tremor. So much malevolence, so much violence, reduced, deflated, to that inert heap.
And then she seemed to come to life. She moved back swiftly to the far side of the chamber, where a small door gave onto the garderobe. She slipped into the small privy and stood for a second, listening. Running feet sounded in the corridor beyond her chamber. There was a loud knocking, then she heard the latch lift. As the door was flung wide she stepped out of the garderobe, hastily smoothing down her skirts.
An elderly woman stood in the doorway in her nightrobe, her head tucked beneath a white linen cap. “Ay! Ay! Ay!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands. “What is it, my chuck? What has happened here?” Behind her, curious faces pressed over her shoulder.
The woman spoke to those faces, her voice measured, calming. “I don’t know, Tilly. Lord Stephen came in while I was in the garderobe. He called to me. I was occupied … I couldn’t come to him immediately. He grew impatient … but …” She gave a little helpless shrug. “In his agitation, he must have lost his balance … fallen from the window. I didn’t see what happened.”
“Ay … ay … ay,” the other woman repeated, almost to herself. “And ’tis the fourth! Lord-a-mercy.” She fell silent as the younger woman fixed her with a hard, commanding stare.
“Lord Stephen was drunk,” the younger woman said evenly. “Everyone knew it … in the hall, at table. He could barely see straight. I must go down.” She hurried past the woman, past the crowd of gaping servants, gathering her skirts to facilitate her step.
Her steward came running across the great hall as she came down the stairs. “My lady … my lady … such a terrible thing.”
“What happened, Master Crowder? Does anyone know?”
The black-clad steward shook his head and the unloosened lappets of his bonnet flapped at his ears like crows’ wings. “Did you not see it, my lady? We thought you must have known what happened. ’Twas from your chamber window that he fell.”
“I was in the garderobe,” she said shortly. “Lord Stephen was drunk, Master Crowder. He must have lost his footing … his balance. It was ever thus.”
“Aye, ’tis true enough, madam. ’Twas ever thus with his lordship” The steward followed her out into the courtyard, where a crowd stood around the fallen man.
They gave way before the lady of the house, who knelt on the cobbles beside her husband. His neck was at an odd angle and blood pooled beneath his head. She placed a finger for form’s sake against the pulse in his neck. Then with a sigh sat back on her heels, the dark folds of her gown spreading around her.
“Where is Master Grice?”
“Here, my lady.” The priest came running from his little lodging behind the chapel, adjusting his gown as he came. “I heard the commotion, but I …” He stopped as he reached the body. His rosary beads clicked between his fingers as he gazed down and said with a heavy sigh, “May the Lord have mercy on his soul.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Lord Stephen’s wife. She rose to her feet in a graceful movement. “Take my lord’s body to the chapel to be washed and prepared. We will say a mass at dawn. He will He in state for the respects of the household and the peasants before his burial tomorrow evening.”
She turned and made her way back through the crowd, back into the house, ducking her head as she stepped through the small door that was set into the larger one to keep the cold and the draughts from invading the hall.
Lady Guinevere was a widow once more.
LONDON, APRIL 1537
“How
MANY HUSBANDS
did you say?” The king turned his heavy head towards Thomas Cromwell, his Lord Privy Seal. His eyes rested with almost languid indifference on his ministers grave countenance, but no one in the king’s presence chamber at Hampton Court believed in that indifference.
“Four, Highness.”
“And the lady is of what years?”
“Eight and twenty, Highness.”
“She has been busy, it would seem,” Henry mused.
“It would seem a husband has little luck in the lady’s bed,” a voice remarked dryly from a dark, paneled corner of the chamber.
The king’s gaze swung towards a man of tall and powerful build, dressed in black and gold. A man whose soldierly bearing seemed ill suited to his rich dress, the tapestry-hung comforts of the chamber, the whispers, the spies, the gossip-mongering of King Henry’s court. He had an air of impatience, of a man who preferred to be doing rather than talking, but there was a gleam of humor in his eyes, a natural curve to his mouth, and his voice was as dry as sere leaves.
“It would seem you have the right of it, Hugh,” the king responded. “And how is it exactly that these unlucky husbands have met their deaths?”
“Lord Hugh has more precise knowledge than I.” Privy Seal waved a beringed hand towards the man in the corner.
“I have a certain interest, Highness.” Hugh of Beaucaire stepped forward into the light that poured through the diamond-paned windows behind the king’s head. “Lady Mallory, as she now is … the
widowed
Lady Mallory … was married to a distant cousin of my father’s when she was sixteen. He was her first husband. There is some family land in dispute. I claim it for my own son. Lady Mallory will entertain no such claim. She has kept every penny, every hectare of land from each of her husbands.”
“No mean feat,” Privy Seal commented. “For a woman.”
“How could she do such a thing?” The king’s eyes gleamed in the deep rolls of flesh in which they were embedded like two bright currants in dough.
“She has some considerable knowledge of the law of property, Highness,” Lord Hugh said. “A knowledge the bereaved widow puts into practice before embarking on a new union.”
“She draws up her own marriage contracts?” The king was incredulous. He pulled on his beard, the great carbuncle on his index finger glowing with crimson fire.
“Exactly so, Highness.”
“Body of God!”
“In each of her marriages the lady has ensured that on the death of her husband she inherits lock, stock, and barrel.”
“And the husbands have all died …” mused the king.
“Each and every one of them.”
“Are there heirs?”
“Two young daughters. The progeny of her second husband, Lord Hadlow.”
The king shook his head slowly. “Body of God,” he muttered again. “These contracts cannot be overset?”
Privy Seal lifted a sheaf of papers from the desk. “I have had lawyers examining each one with a fine-tooth comb, Highness. They are drawn up as right and tight as if witnessed by the Star Chamber itself.”
“Do we join Hugh of Beaucaire in his interest in these holdings?” Henry inquired.
“When one woman owns most of a county as extensive and as rich in resources as Derbyshire, the king and his Exchequer have a certain interest,” Privy Seal said. “At the very least, one might be interested in adequate tithing.”
The king was silent for a minute. When he spoke it was again in a musing tone. “And if, of course, foul play were suspected with any of these … uh … untimely deaths, then one could not leave the perpetrator in possession of her ill-gotten gains.”
“Or indeed her head,” Privy Seal murmured.
“Mmm.” The king looked up once more at Lord Hugh. “Do you suspect foul play, my lord?”
“Let us just say that I find the coincidences a little difficult to believe. One husband dies falling off his horse in a stag hunt. Now, that, I grant Your Highness, is a not uncommon occurrence. But then the second is slain by a huntsman’s arrow … an arrow that no huntsman present would acknowledge. The third dies of a sudden
and mysterious wasting disease … a man in his prime, vigorous, never known a day’s illness in his life. And the fourth falls from a window … the lady’s own chamber window … and breaks his neck.”
Lord Hugh tapped off each death on his fingers, a faintly incredulous note in his quiet voice as he enumerated the catalogue.
“Aye, ’tis passing strange,” the king agreed. “We should investigate these deaths, I believe, Lord Cromwell.”
Privy Seal nodded. “Hugh of Beaucaire, if it pleases Your Highness, has agreed to undertake the task.”
“I have no objection. He has an interest himself, after all … but …” Here the king paused, frowning. “One thing I find most intriguing. How is it that the lady has managed to persuade four knights, gentlemen of family and property, to agree to her terms of marriage?”
“Witchcraft, Highness.” The Bishop of Winchester in his scarlet robes spoke up for the first time. “There can be no other explanation. Her victims were known to be learned, in full possession of their faculties at the time they made the acquaintance of Lady Guinevere. Only a man bewitched would agree to the terms upon which she insisted. I request that the woman be brought here for examination, whatever findings Lord Hugh makes.”
“Of what countenance is the woman? Do we know?”
“I have here a likeness, made some two years after her marriage to my father’s cousin. She may have changed, of course.” Hugh handed his sovereign a painted miniature set in a diamond-studded frame.
The king examined the miniature. “Here is beauty indeed,” he murmured. “She would have to have changed considerably to be less than pleasing now.” He looked up, closing his large paw over the miniature. “I find myself most interested in making the acquaintance of this beautiful sorceress, who seems also to be an accomplished lawyer. Whether she be murderer or not, I will see her.”
“It will be a journey of some two months, Highness. I will leave at once.” Hugh of Beaucaire bowed, waited for a second to see if the sovereign’s giant hand would disgorge the miniature, and when it became clear that it was lost forever, bowed again and left the chamber.
It was hot and quiet in the forest. A deep somnolence had settled over the broad green rides beneath the canopy of giant oaks and beeches. Even the birds were still, their song silenced by the heat. The hunting party gathered in the grove, listening for the horn of a beater that would tell them their quarry had been started.
“Will there be a boar, Mama?” A little girl on a dappled pony spoke in a whisper, hushed and awed by the expectant silence around her. She held a small bow, an arrow already set to the string.
Guinevere looked down at her elder daughter and smiled. “There should be, Pen. I have spent enough money on stocking the forest to ensure a boar when we want one.”
“My lady, ’tis a hot day. Boar go to ground in the heat,” the chief huntsman apologized, his distress at the possibility of failing the child clear on his countenance.
“But it’s my birthday, Greene. You promised me I should shoot a boar on my birthday,” the child protested, still in a whisper.
“Not even Greene can produce miracles,” her mother said. There was a hint of reproof in her voice, and the child immediately nodded and smiled at the huntsman.
“Of course I understand, Greene. Only …” she added, rather spoiling the gracious effect, “only I had told my sister I would shoot a boar on my birthday and maybe I won’t, and then she will be bound to shoot one on hers.”
Knowing the Lady Philippa as he did, the chief huntsman had little doubt that she would indeed succeed where her sister might not and shoot her first boar on her tenth birthday. Fortunately he was spared a response by the sound of a horn, high and commanding, then a great crashing through the underbrush. The hounds leaped forward on their leashes with shrill barks. The horses shifted on the grass, sniffed the wind, tense in expectation.
“’Tis not one of our horns,” the huntsman said, puzzled.
“But it’s our boar,” Lady Guinevere stated. “Come, Pen.” She nudged her milk-white mare into action and galloped across the glade towards the trees, where the crashing of the undergrowth continued. The child followed on her pony and Greene blew on his horn. The leashed dogs raced forward at the summons, the huntsmen chasing after them.