Marriage Under Siege

‘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.