“Who fears the flagging hopes of a few miserable traitors?” Alan insisted. “And how many will follow? Five Welsh dreamers? Six vengeful reivers from the Scottish borders? Seven fools who’ve angered our king, so think they’ll do better under another?”
Nicholas said quietly, “Northumberland perhaps, since it’s to him that Tudor writes and asks to marry one of his wife’s wealthy sisters?”
“And how about my Lord Stanley,” muttered David, “who is wed already to Tudor’s mother? And Stanley’s wretched brother, who has never kept to the same side in any battle as he began it, lest he changes twice.”
Nicholas began to limp back to the house, and even with the use of the crutch, dragged one leg and was unable to stand on the other. The bandage over his forehead had been finally discarded but the scar remained livid while his hand was still thickly protected. “I’ve no desire for war,” he said. “And doubt I could even prove my loyalty if an invasion came. It will be months before I could ride to battle. Any call to arms before winter, and I’d be forced to sit at home like an old woman. With one hand cocooned and a damned great hole in my knee? I can hardly ride, let alone fight. Jerrid too. He’s worse wounded than I am and has been ordered back to bed rest for the third time with enough fever to stew pottage. At least I can hobble around and make my wishes known.”
“So I shall stay with his lordship, as you ask me,” David nodded. “But if war comes indeed, sir, I ask to join it, and to answer the call in your place. Aiming to earn your pride if you cannot join the battle yourself, my lord.”
“Enough battle talk.” Nicholas turned again and, leaning on the stout wooden crutch, continued to limp back to the house. He called over his shoulder. “Only a week or two, David, then I’ll send for you. In the meantime, tell my uncle he’s lucky I’ve not sent him Hectic Harry instead.”
Emeline was waiting for him outside the principal doorway beyond the stable courtyard. “Sissy is sitting upstairs clutching her parcels. She’s sulking because she doesn’t want to make the first half of her journey in our company. But Aunt Elizabeth seems happy to get back to Nottingham, and has started dreaming of weddings.”
“For herself?” Nicholas laughed.
“It wouldn’t surprise me. I think my mother is secretly wondering about a second marriage too. Though she also says the best chance any woman has to make her own decisions and rule her own destiny, is when she’s a widow,”
“A rich widow. Though I cannot imagine your mother ever allowing anyone else ruling her fortunes from now on, married or otherwise.” His smile widened. “And you know, I presume, my love, that you take after your mother. And that’s no bad thing at all.”
“I shall miss her. And Avice too. I hope they’ll visit often though Wrotham is so far away. But,” admitted Emeline, “I hope Sissy doesn’t. I feel terribly sorry for her, and she’ll be lonely without Adrian. But much as I love you, Nicholas, your family is rather a difficult matter. And I know it’s shocking of me to say so, but I also hope your father doesn’t come home too often either.”
“He won’t.” Nicholas put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and led her inside. “He’s no reason to leave court now, especially since he’s discovered what he thought was scandal against the Chatwyn name is actually Chatwyn pride and royal favour. Besides,” Nicholas added softly, “he’ll never learn to like me, you know. It no longer concerns me since I’m well accustomed to it. Peter will always remain the grand favourite, and now cannot ever grow to disappoint. So just poor Nick, scarred and foolish, is left to carry the name.”
“I think I hate your father.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “He’s a poor sad creature, my love, pickled in wine and with all hope of a proud future lost. You should pity him.”
The journey had been slow with tiring days in the saddle but wayside inns bright lit each night, relieved calls for the ostlers, easing aching backs with hot spiced hippocras and laughing at chickens underfoot in the straw strewn courtyards, boys rushing to stable the horses, the landlord hurrying out with smiles, trays of raisin cakes and steaming jugs of wine, Nicholas taking his wife in his arms and hustling her across the cobbles, late evenings talking and drinking over the supper table and then warm beds shared in comfort until the next morning dawned rosy, cockerels crowing outside the windows and the whole procedure starting all over again.
Now at last the castle beckoned. There were new born fluff ball ducklings on the moat, and a pair of scrubby cygnets keeping a watery pace behind their elegant parents. The herb gardens were flushed in emerald and the clambering briar roses were a fresh scramble of thorny perfumes. The gaping mouths of the stone gargoyles were toasted warm in the sunshine and polished glass spun green tinged promises across cushioned settles. Huge iron chandeliers again swung in the grand hall, its walls repainted with scenes of myth and chivalry, and the great feasting table was new carved with chairs and benches high backed and fit for royalty. The great Keep housed new decorated bedchambers with downy pillows, silken bed curtains and canopied posts. Most importantly the quarters for his lordship were newly positioned very close to those of her ladyship.
Summer settled across the farmlands and forests, with rolling clouds and the shrill whistle of the falcons. Crops ripened and fields turned golden. Pasture spread dry and green. Late June and the year of our Lord, 1485, and England was at peace, serene beneath the sun.
Emeline discovered the little stone steps she had run to on her wedding night when fire had ravaged the castle. She stood leaning against the solid newel, gazing up into the narrow shadows. The fire was only a memory now, and the misery of her marriage bed not even remembered. But some memories renewed others. It had been assumed that the earl, drunken sprawled at the table after the rest of the guests had retired, had knocked over some candles. His lordship had surely started the fire that had well near killed him.
But she wondered. For Adrian’s carnage had always been accompanied by fire. Peter’s murder was discovered when his body was half charred, extinguished only by the spillage of wine from the table. And her own father’s murder had been half hidden within a mighty blaze. Even the home of the old woman responsible for Sysabel’s abortion had been burned, and almost all the lane ruined beside. Coincidence was not always a coincidence. And Emeline knew that Adrian, before taking his sister home, had certainly been present at her wedding feast.
Her thoughts were interrupted. One strong arm slipped around her waist, breath hot against her cheek, and a half teasing whisper. “Does a faithful husband deserve some special manner of welcome when he brings his wife safe home?” His left hand was no longer bandaged, but the stumps of the two middle fingers remained swollen, angry and inflamed. Emeline knew the pain remained.
“It’s not long since you told me you were an impotent drunkard.” She smiled. “So are you drunk, my love? Perhaps just a little?”
“What ignominious distrust!” She heard his low laugh echoing up the chilly staircase. “I’m investigating the joys of sobriety, my sweetling. Come and test me.” So he led her up the steps and she held his hand. Very slowly Nicholas dragged one leg, with a grip of the other hand tight to the balustrade, then up again without pause. Suddenly there was a gust of bright fresh breeze in their faces as they stood together on the battlements.
The evening sun hung low, edging the treetops into silhouettes as the frogs began to call from the moat. Nicholas smiled and the slanting shadow stripes crept into the deep scar down his face, playing along the new shallow scar across his forehead. Emeline reached up, caressing the scars as she often did.
His right hand was tight over her breast. The neckline of her gown was deep, her cleavage covered by white gauze. Nicholas pushed his fingers past the velvet and the gauze, tracing her nipple. He nuzzled her ear. “Not cold, my love?”