скачать книгу бесплатно
‘My lady needs someone to talk to.’
‘So she isn’t talking to you?’ Josh looked at his friend with interested speculation.
All he received was a flat stare. ‘Not yet.’ And with that he had to be content.
Satisfied with the outcome of the visit, Mansell set out for Wigmore. Any lingering pleasant thoughts were quickly driven out of his mind at Wigmore, a towering fortress on a rocky outcrop, guarding the route from Hereford to the north. Another medieval stronghold, able to withstand any attack, as the steward there was quick to inform him. No enemy could creep up undetected and they could easily be repulsed by the heavy walls and towers.
‘But we need manpower, my lord Mansell. How can we hold off even the smallest force with only a handful of elderly servants and the kitchen maids?’
Mansell did not know the answer. And Brampton Percy was in no better state, notwithstanding the strength of its manmade fortifications.
He turned his horse’s head wearily for home, deciding against a courtesy call at Croft Castle. He did not feel up to fielding questions from Sir William about his proposed marriage and his alienation from county sympathies. He would go home. And marry Honoria, for good or ill.
Meanwhile the lady of Brampton Percy had spent her time equally profitably, hiring in girls from the village to tackle the more immediate problems. If she regretted her newly affianced lord’s absences from the castle, she did not admit it. Not even to herself. Instead, since escape to Leintwardine had been deliberately put to one side, she poured her energies into the deficiencies of her personal nightmare. Changes gradually became evident at the castle, most dramatically when her lord returned from a wet and trying day spent in assessing the distant acres of the manor of Burrington. Foxton and Honoria were engaged in directing Robert, who was perched on a precarious ladder with a mop, in cleaning cobwebs from the ceiling in one of the darker passages leading from the Great Hall. Surrounded by dust and spiders, they were unaware of their lord’s return until disturbed by a distinctly male and angry outburst from somewhere in the upper regions of the house.
‘Perhaps I should …’ Foxton turned nobly to discover the problem.
‘No.’ Honoria sighed a little. ‘I will go. After all, I initiated the problem, whatever it is. I think I can guess.’
She trod the stairs, Morrighan at her heels, to find her betrothed at the head of the staircase, still clad in boots and cloak, dripping puddles on the floor from a sodden hat clenched in one fist, glowering at one of the new serving girls who was speechless in terror at being accosted by the master of the house in an uncertain temper. Mansell immediately rounded on his lady, eyes full of temper, his hands fisted on his hips in a gesture of true male arrogance.
‘Perhaps you could explain to me, my lady, why the bed and window hangings have apparently disappeared from my room!’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘The chests and the clothes press are empty and it is as cold as the very devil in there with no fire laid, much less lit. There seems to be no one available to bring ale and food … and yet I seem to be falling over housemaids at every step, silly girls who tremble as if I would beat them when I ask a civil question. What is happening around here?’ The wolfhound stiffened and growled at the implied threat in his lordship’s raised voice. ‘And I am beset by this animal. Quiet!’ Morrighan dropped to a crouch beside Honoria’s skirts, hackles still raised, the growl subsiding to a low rumble. She continued to watch Mansell with narrowed eyes.
Honoria waited for the tirade to end, struggling to hide a smile. Then, as he ran out of complaints, she risked a glance at his face. Amusement drained away. All she could see was the imprint of weariness and strain, the grey eyes dark and troubled. And she felt inadequate to help him.
‘The room you have been occupying was not suitable, my lord. Far too small and cramped. I have changed it. You should be more comfortable in the future.’ It was all she could offer to assuage his anger.
He was not to be mollified. ‘You have changed it. I see. You might at least have asked …’ He glared at Morrighan, but to no effect. Her lip lifted in a snarl. He huffed out a breath and gave up.
‘You gave me the freedom to do as I wished, and I have done what I thought right. I am sorry if it does not please you. If you would come with me.’ Honoria turned her back, thus shutting out his fierce glare, not sounding sorry at all. ‘I have put you in the lord’s room, as is fitting.’
‘I think I would rather stay where I was.’ Unpleasant memories of Lord Edward rose before him.
‘The rooms have been cleaned and put to rights,’ she assured him, understanding his reluctance. She pushed open a door on her left. ‘If you would but see. If you do not approve, I will make any changes you wish, of course.’ She stood back for him to enter and, taking pity, shut Morrighan out.
The room was a haven, warm and welcoming. Furniture polished. Hangings beaten and cleaned, glowing in their true colours of blue and gold. Bed made up with fresh linen and a coverlet to match the hangings. A fire in the grate, spreading its comforting warmth. Candles already lit, a flagon of ale on a court cupboard with pewter goblets. His possessions were no doubt put away in the chests and presses. She could not have done anything better to soothe her lord’s frustrations.
‘There is a dressing room through there,’ Honoria indicated. ‘And the door connects with my rooms. As you see, we were expecting you. One of the servants will bring you hot water immediately. And food-perhaps you would wish to eat here tonight as it late. I regret any inconvenience.’ She turned to hurry out before he could respond.
‘Honoria.’
She stopped but did not turn back. He felt the weariness and unwarranted anger drain away, to be replaced by an uncomfortable sense of shame that he should have allowed such a reaction to take control. And a reluctant ripple of humour as his mind replayed the ridiculous scene in the corridor.
‘Forgive me, lady. I have no excuse for such behaviour.’
‘You are wet and tired and your inheritance is a burden. It is understandable.’
He frowned at her rigid shoulders. He found her compliance disturbing. ‘If I can help in any way …’
‘Why, yes.’ She turned back now, head cocked, almost a mischievous smile on her lips.
‘I mistrust that look, lady.’
‘So you should. You should not have asked.’
‘So what is it?’
‘If you would arrange for the digging out of the drainage in the inner courtyard—it is blocked with leaves and debris after the winter rains. You must know that it is disgusting—ankle deep in stagnant water, and with the promise of warmer weather the smell will be wellnigh intolerable. It would also improve the atmosphere in the rooms that overlook the courtyard. They are prone to damp and mildew, as you must be aware.’
I definitely should not have asked. But nevertheless he was drawn into an answering smile at her resourcefulness in seizing the opportunity his casual comment offered.
‘Before or after our marriage?’
‘Whatever is convenient to you, my lord.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Oh, no. But the rest will keep.’ Honoria folded her hands before her, eyes downcast, lips curved in a demure smile, all complaisance again.
‘You are enjoying this, are you not?’
‘Why, yes. I suppose I am.’ He laughed aloud at the faint look of surprise on her face as she considered his observation.
‘It seems you have a talent for it. I expect I shall find more changes tomorrow.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
He grunted. ‘Before you go, I have a present for you.’
He hefted his saddle bags to the bed and searched through one of the pouches. ‘Mistress James from Eyton sent this for you with her best wishes. Made by her bees last year. I think it has not leaked—at least it does not feel sticky.’ He lifted it gingerly.
Honoria took the little pottery jar of honey, ran her fingers over its smooth surface. ‘How kind of her. I do not even know her. I have never been to Eyton.’
‘Oh, yes, and also this.’ Mansell searched in his pockets to finally extract a flat but uneven packet, well tied and sealed, which he handed over. ‘I know not its contents, but Mistress James suggested that you speak with Mistress Brierly, the cook, about it. Women’s matters, I presume.’
Honoria sniffed at the pleasantly spicy aroma that came with the package and fingered the bulky outlines beneath the paper. ‘I have no idea—perhaps some herbal remedies. I know nothing of such things, so I will follow Mistress James’s advice. But as for the honey … If you care for mulled ale, my lord, I will use it now.’
‘Thank you.’ He hesitated a moment. ‘Why do I get the feeling that I do not deserve your kindness?’ He took hold of her wrist, pulled her gently towards him, and searched her face closely. And why do I get the feeling that I am being managed, along with the rest of the house? It pleased him to see a hint of colour in her cheeks and less anxiety in her eyes. He also took note of the cobweb adhering to one of her ringlets and the dust that clung to her cuffs and the hem of her gown. It struck him that she was dressed more in keeping with his housekeeper than the Lady of Brampton Percy.
‘Don’t tire yourself,’ he advised lightly, unsure of her reaction. ‘It is a major task you have undertaken. Let Foxton and Mistress Morgan take the burden.’
‘But they do. Mistress Morgan is the most efficient of housekeepers and the servants are most willing.’ Honoria stood quietly, more than a little aware of the light clasp of his fingers. She swallowed carefully against the rapid beat of her pulse, trying to keep her voice even. ‘I think that they welcome a change of lord, although they would not say so to me.’
Mansell shrugged. ‘I would like to take you to my home in Suffolk. You would not have to work hard there.’
‘I should like that.’ She smiled shyly up at him, touched by his thoughtful concern for her well-being.
Brushing away the cobweb, he bent his head to press his lips to her wrist. She did not pull away this time. But he felt her pulse pick up its rhythm beneath the warmth of his mouth. He lifted his head. ‘Thank you, Honoria. I like the changes you have made. I apologise for my boorish humour.’
‘There is no need, my lord.’
He would have pulled her closer still, to transfer his kiss from her wrist to her soft lips, so close, so tempting … He had never even kissed her, he suddenly realised! Even when she had promised to be his bride. Struck uncomfortably by the omission, he would have lowered his mouth to hers. But she pulled back and escaped his loosened hold, colour deepening in her face.
‘I will have food brought when you are ready, my lord.’
His eyes followed her speculatively as she hurried from his room.
Chapter Four
Within the week the Reverend Gower was presiding over another service in St Barnabas’s Church at Brampton Percy. He had expressed his opinions over such a speedy remarriage of the Widow as forcefully as he dare. Most unseemly, of course, in the circumstances, Lord Edward being dead less than a month, even if the Bishop of Hereford saw fit to issue a special licence. What was the world coming to when the dictates of God and Crown were held in such disrespect what with the law and order in the countryside going to rack and ruin and no honest man able to travel except in fear of his life? And now the new lord treating the laws of God in such a cavalier fashion and Lady Mansell herself willing to be a party to his schemes … But as the incumbent of a church in Lord Mansell’s gift, even God’s servant must be aware that it would not pay him to voice his disfavour too strongly if he valued his living.
Thus he presided over the marriage of Francis Brampton, Lord Mansell, and Honoria Mansell, previously Honoria Ingram, ably supported by Sir Joshua Hopton and his lively sister Mary. Given the depth of cold in the church, all the participants were well shrouded in cloaks, but it could be noticed by anyone sufficiently interested in so trivial a matter that the bride, in spite of her recent bereavement, did not wear black. It was indeed noticed and approved with a wry twist of the lips.
The service was brief and stark, the ceremonial kiss a mere cold and formal meeting of lips. Honoria found it hard to cling to reality, even as she tried to concentrate on the Reverend Gower’s reluctant blessing. Only the firm clasp of Mansell’s hand on hers kept her anchored to the fact that she was once more a bride.
The bridal party returned to the Great Hall of the castle to some semblance of festivities. The servants and the tenants of the cottages of Brampton Percy had been invited and so were present in force to enjoy the food and wish their lord and lady well. Ale, far superior to Lord Edward’s dwindling casks and brought from Ludlow under Sir Joshua’s escort, flowed freely and some local musicians had been hired to lighten the atmosphere with shawms and drums.
Honoria too had been busy, with Master Foxton’s willing help. The Hall had been restored to glory: vast logs set for a fire that would do justice to the size and height of the room, furniture arranged and more screens unearthed from the cellars to do battle against the draughts. It was a more cheerful occasion than the burial the previous week and, although it was not graced by any of the county families, it was thought by all present to be most satisfactory. And not least by Lord Mansell. Under the influence of ale and music the natural reticence of the tenants soon wore off, giving their new lord a useful opportunity to further his acquaintance and put names to faces.
‘So you have indeed married the widow!’ Catching him in a quiet moment, Sir Joshua raised his tankard in a silent toast to his friend and host. ‘I will not ask you if you know what you are doing.’
‘Tactful at last, Josh?’
‘No. You must have had your reasons.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘Does your lady realise that your views are diametrically opposed in relation to our esteemed monarch?’
‘She does, of course. She is no fool, nor is she ignorant of the state of the county. But we are hoping that it will not cause unnecessary dissension between us. Why should it, after all?’
‘I have heard rumour. Your neighbours are beginning to see you with suspicion and there is talk of removing those who might upset the close unity hereabouts.’ Josh’s cheerful face was marred by lines of concern. ‘It might just come to a matter of arms. There are any number of extremists willing to put the matter to the sword.’
‘I know it. I too have heard such murmurings.’ Sir Francis eyed his glass of wine thoughtfully as he voiced his present concern for the first time. ‘Although I married Honoria to give her protection, I am beginning to think that I might have inadvertently put her in more danger. She might have been safer not to be tied to me. Sir William Croft did me the honour of giving me a warning of what might occur.’ He tightened his lips pensively. ‘But it is done. And perhaps today is not such for talking war.’
‘Certainly.’ Josh smiled in understanding. ‘You have my congratulations, Francis. I wish you happy. The past months have not been kind. Your lady looks well.’
‘Hmm. She does.’
Honoria was in deep debate with Mistress Brierly at the far side of the room. He had no difficulty in picking her out of the crowd today. True to her word she had cast off her mourning and now stood in the glory of a full-skirted dress of deep sapphire satin, which glowed and shimmered as she moved in the candlelight. A tiny back train fell regally from her shoulders to brush the floor when she walked. The boned bodice and low neckline drew attention to the curve of her bosom and her slender waist. The deep collar and cuffs were edged with the finest lace.
She turned from her conversation and their eyes caught across the Hall. He raised his glass in a silent salute; she responded with the faintest of smiles and a flush of delicate colour which tinted her cheeks. She had a grace and a tasteful and polished refinement of which he had been unaware. She still looked tired, but there was a glow to her fair skin and her hair shone. The deep blue was flattering to her pale complexion where the black had merely deadened her pallor. Mary, quick to volunteer her skills as lady’s maid and expert gossip, had brushed and coaxed Honoria’s soft brown hair up and back to cascade in deep ringlets with wispy curls around her temples. Hazel eyes glinted gold and green as they caught the light. She is quite lovely, he thought as he drank. How could I not have been aware?
As he watched, Honoria turned her head and bent to accept a posy of the earliest primroses from one of the village children. She smiled and spoke to the little girl, who giggled and ran to her mother’s skirts. A pretty tableau that caused many to smile and nod, but one that had Mansell catch his breath and turn his face away. Memories were so easily triggered, however unwelcome, however inappropriate. Sometimes in the dead of night, when sleep evaded him, he could still feel Katherine’s softness against him. Still taste her on his lips. Perhaps the intense grief was less than it was—he no longer wallowed helplessly, without anchor, in a sea of despair—but it still had the power to attack and rend with sharp claws. They had known each other so intimately, their moods, their thought processes even. It had been so easy to communicate by a mere look or gesture—words were not always necessary. A few short months of heaven had been granted them, together as man and wife, and now, the child also lost, he was left with a lifetime of purgatory.
He tore his tortured mind away, chided himself for allowing such thoughts to surface. Honoria deserved better. Life must go on and he had need of an heir. It was, beyond doubt, a satisfactory settlement for both himself and the lady. And with a deliberate effort of will he closed his mind against the vivid pictures of a previous such occasion when good fortune and enduring love promised to cast their blessings on a tawny-haired, green-eyed bride.
* * *
When the ale and food had disappeared except for the final crumbs, and the tenants could find no more excuse for lingering, there was much whispering behind the screen that led from the kitchens. Master Foxton eventually emerged with due dignity and a silence fell as at a prearranged signal.
The Steward, solemn and seemly, made a short speech of congratulation, followed by a spatter of polite applause. And then, with a grave smile, he raised a hand. ‘We thought to give our new lord a gift on the occasion of his marriage,’ he announced.
Robert staggered out from behind the screen with a log basket, covered with a cloth. He placed it on the floor before Master Foxton’s feet, where it began to rock unsteadily.
‘It is clear to everyone that Lord Edward’s wolfhound has attached herself exclusively to Lady Mansell,’ he continued. He looked round the circle of faces, where smiles were already forming. ‘We though it would be fitting to give our lord one of his own. We are fortunate indeed that Mistress Brierly has a nephew who is employed at Croft Castle. Sir William was very willing to provide us with our needs.’
Foxton bowed to Lord Mansell and walked forward to take the cover from the basket, which immediately rocked on to its side and deposited a small grey creature on to the floor. It rolled and struggled to its feet with gangling energy, to lick the outstretched hand offered by Sir Francis. It was totally ungainly, uncoordinated and entirely charming, its grey pelt still soft with the fur of babyhood. There was no indication here, in the large head and spindly limbs, of the majesty of lithe strength and imposing stature that would one day have the ability to bring down and kill a full-grown wolf.
The puppy rolled on to its back to offer its belly for a rub.
Lord Francis obliged with a laugh. ‘Is this your doing, my lady?’ He glanced up at her, the gleam in his eye acknowledging the success of the gift.
He saw that her face was flushed and she smiled, a glimpse of neat white teeth. Her eyes held the slightest of sparkles as the puppy struggled to lick her lord’s hands again.
‘I claim no involvement—although Master Foxton did ask my opinion.’
‘He is a fine animal.’ Mansell rose to his feet and addressed the ranks of servants and tenants. ‘I shall value him, especially when he learns not to sit on my feet or make puddles on the floor.’ The puppy in its excitement had achieved both.
There was a general laugh and rustle of appreciation.
‘I suppose with Morrighan we should continue the theme of Irish heroes—he had better be Setanta. He will grow into the dignity of his name. And mine, I hope! I would thank you all for your good wishes this day for myself and for my lady, and for your kind thoughts.’
He has a light and easy touch, Honoria thought, her smile lingering. He is nothing like Lord Edward!
Everyone left, even Sir Joshua and Mary finding things to do elsewhere in the castle, finally giving the newly wedded pair a little space together in the vastness of the Hall. The puppy slept by the hearth in utter exhaustion. Morrighan kept her place beside Honoria, ignoring the newcomer as was fitting for something so lacking in gravitas.
It all had a dreamlike quality, Honoria thought. The ceremony, the festivities. They did not know each other. It was purely a business arrangement. And yet … she would hope for more. Surely he would not deal with her as Edward had? Her new lord had never treated her with anything but respect and sensitivity.
Her lord now stood beside her with no one to cushion their seclusion, resplendent in black satin breeches and jacket, collar and cuffs edged with lace. He wore none of the ribbons and decorations so loved by the court gallants, but the deep blue sash holding his doublet in place added an air of elegant celebration. His stark features were softened by the flattering candlelight—and perhaps by the occasion—his grey eyes darker and unfathomable. A frisson of anticipation ran through her veins, but whether pleasurable or edgy she was uncertain.
‘Well, my lady?’
She realised that she had been simply standing, lost in thought. ‘I, too, have a gift for you, my lord.’
‘Does it have teeth?’
She laughed, impulsively, for once. ‘Not as such, but it can bite.’
She walked from him to the fireplace from where she rescued a long slender package, wrapped in fine cloth. She handed it to him. ‘This belonged to my father. I never knew him, or my mother, but this was kept for me. Sir Robert gave it to me on the occasion of my first marriage.’
He took it, carefully unwrapped it, knowing what he would find. Here was a far more serious gift. Although unused and stored for so many years, the steel was bright and sharp, still honed to cut through flesh and bone. The blade was deeply incised down the centre, chased with an intricate leaf decoration, the hilt beautifully curved and weighted and fit easily to his hand. It was a magnificent weapon, worthy of any gentleman. With it was a scabbard of tooled leather with tassels and loops to attach to a belt. It spoke of foreign workmanship at the hands of a master craftsman.
Mansell lifted the sword and made a practice lunge, before examining the quality of the steel, the balance of hilt and blade. ‘It is splendid. I could not expect anything so fine.’ She watched as he ran his fingers, skilled and knowledgeable, over the engraving, the lethal edges.
‘Does it please you? It was always my intention to give it to my husband.’
‘Yet you did not give it to Lord Edward?’ His voice made it just a question rather than a statement.
‘No. I did not.’ She made no effort to excuse or explain but watched him, wary as a young deer.
‘Then I am doubly honoured. Without doubt it pleases me. It will be my pleasure to wear it, my lady.’ Silently he hoped that he would not be called upon to use it, in either hot or cold blood—that Josh’s previous words held no element of premonition.
