Battle-Torn Bride

“I expect he will tell us soon enough.”

Beatrice recognised the name. A powerful magnate with influential friends. A Lancastrian, as were they, prepared to lead his retained army in the name of his Majesty King Henry VI against the traitorous might of the Dukes of York and Warwick who would seize the Crown and make York king.

William turned on his heel to stalk to the door at the sound of the gates being opened and the first of the mounted escort entering the courtyard. “Make preparations. Immediately!”

“What do you require?” Quite unruffled, Beatrice stepped down into the Hall, well used to speaking to her lord’s back.

“Ale and food for Lord Grey and the gentlemen. Tell Lawson to arrange ale for the men-at-arms in the courtyard.” He stepped outside, fists still on hips, to oversee the arrival. “I doubt they will stay long.”

Lord Grey de Ruthin and his undoubtedly impressive following clattered across the bridge over the moat and into the enclosed courtyard. Beatrice watched them from the open door. Glossy horseflesh, smart livery, the glint of sun on polished weapons and harness. The black ragged staff floating arrogantly over all, was imprinted on the breasts of the armed retainers.

William still stood and waited on the steps, very much the master of the Hall. He would not be intimidated in his own home, even though he realised the danger of antagonising this man to whom he owed feudal allegiance for the two prosperous manors of Letcham and Rosedale.

Beatrice had issued instructions to Master Lawson and was now tempted to linger to watch and listen. Something out of the way, something of importance to intrigue and interest, far more entertaining than folding linen and chasing moths. But, sensing her presence, William turned on her.

“Go about your work, madam. This is no place for you.”

So she withdrew a few steps, not bothering to hide the flounce of resentment, the swish of skirts. Not that William would notice. How dare he address her as if she were one of the servants! This man who was her husband, though not of her choosing, a man who was older than her own father would have been, had he lived. A man who treated her as nothing better than a chatelaine to manage his household and see to his comfort, in spite of the substantial dowry she had brought him, not to mention the alliance with the Hattons of Mears Ashby, her own influential family with their high-bred connections. The truth was that he had no need of her other than as a housekeeper and certainly no liking for her. Patience was not often in evidence in Sir William’s manner. He even preferred the ample figure of one of the serving maids to warm his bed. For which Beatrice realised she should be grateful, of course. William had an heir from his first marriage—two full-grown sons to carry on the family name. So Beatrice Hatton was an irrelevance—other than as a source of wealth and influence in local affairs.

She showed her teeth in nothing like a smile, but stepped back into the Hall, unwilling on this occasion to court her lord’s unpredictable wrath. Withdrawing, however, no farther than the shadows in the doorway from where she could still listen.

The gentlemen, perhaps six of them, dismounted in a flurry of activity and sharp orders. Lord Grey approached. His authority lay on his shoulders as evident as the heavy cloak, which he now discarded with the increasing warmth of the sun and draped over his horse’s withers. Stern of face, he was clearly not a man to brook disagreement with his demands.

“My Lord Grey. Welcome to Great Houghton Hall.” Sir William inclined his head in brusque recognition, managed a wintry smile at odds with the warmth of the afternoon.

“Somerton. I am grateful.” De Ruthin responded in like manner, equally cool. The noble visitor made it abundantly clear that here was no time for the niceties of extended greeting. “I would speak with you. A matter of urgent business—to be settled without delay.”

“All business is urgent with armies in the field, my lord.”

“And particularly when a battle is imminent.”

A taut silence hovered over the courtyard as if no one cared to acknowledge the possibility of another battle. Only the clink of horse harness, the stamp of restless hooves.

“A battle?” Sir William raised his chin. “Do you say?”

“The king is at Northampton with his army.” Lord Grey clamped his hands around his sword belt. “He is camped between the town walls and the River Nene.”

Northampton! So close! Beatrice angled her head to hear more of the present state of affairs as de Ruthin continued.

“We have been given warning that the Earl of Warwick is approaching from the south with a considerable force. There will undoubtedly be conflict unless Warwick chooses to retreat. I think he will not.”

“What do you need of me, my lord?” Sir William frowned. “My loyalty to the Lancastrian cause and my fealty to you has never been in doubt.”

“As I am aware. King Henry is grateful.” De Ruthin removed his leather gauntlets and slapped them against his leg, releasing a cloud of dust. “I would speak with you alone, Sir William, if you will. A matter for your private ear only.” It was a request but a flat stare compelled Somerton to accede.

“Very well.” Sir William resisted a shrug. “If you would come with me …”

“My thanks, Sir William. These gentlemen who accompany me—perhaps some refreshment—we have been on the road for a lengthy time this day and have not eaten.”

“Of course.” Sir William stepped aside to allow Lord Grey to precede him into the house. Who knew when the ironfisted support of Lord Grey de Ruthin might not be advantageous in this never-ending conflict between the fluctuating powers of the royal houses of York and Lancaster. “All is prepared in the Great Hall for the gentlemen of your party. There will be ale and food for all …”

Beatrice had already vanished to take up her duties. Whatever the purpose of Lord Grey de Ruthin’s visit, she doubted that it would have any bearing on her existence in this cheerless house.

Chapter Two

Beatrice Somerton found herself face–to–face with the last man in the world she expected to see here. The man whom she had not set eyes on since that day in January, now well over two years ago, in the royal palace at Westminster. A face that haunted her sleeping and waking hours.

Lord Richard Stafford. A supporter of the legitimate Lancastrian claim of King Henry VI. A man with a notable reputation for his skills as a knight, both in the mock warfare of the tournament and in the grim reality of the battlefield. Men spoke of his prowess at Ludford Bridge when the Lancastrians had swept all before them and the Duke of York had been driven into exile in Ireland. Lord Richard had become recognised as one of the foremost adherents to the Crown, close relative of that most powerful aristocrat the Duke of Buckingham, who was the Commander of the king’s armies.

And now that Lord Richard stood before her, she was lost for words beyond the most distressingly mundane. At last, aware of some interested glances around her and through sheer force of will, she resorted to the polite smile and polished manners of the Lady of Great Houghton Hall.

“Lord Richard. Welcome. Some ale, I think.”

Whilst Lord Richard Stafford equally grasped at his disordered senses. With a perfectly bland expression he found enough presence of mind to execute a formal and graceful bow to the lady who had just dropped the tray on the table from unusually clumsy fingers. She was looking at him as if she were facing an other–worldly apparition in her home. He could not read the emotions that darkened her eyes and drained the delicate color from her skin.

“My thanks, Lady Beatrice. Ale would be most acceptable.”

Beatrice collected a jug of ale and a pewter cup. Then by common consent the lady and gentleman moved a little aside to the relative privacy of a window embrasure. The newly installed glass and enlarged openings, indicative of Sir William’s wealth and position in the locality, awarded them a most attractive view over the informal gardens that Beatrice loved and tended. The tumbling blooms of Rosa Mundi, the sweet upturned faces of the gillyflowers might waft their heady perfume, the lilies might flower with regal grace. But neither Lord Richard nor Lady Beatrice was aware. Neither did they so much as glance through the window at the tempting scene. She poured the ale and presented the goblet with lowered gaze. He accepted it, his eyes never leaving her face. If his hands should brush her fingers, the slightest of caresses in the acceptance, no one would notice or find room for comment. But Beatrice noticed, held her breath as the butterfly wings of physical awareness fluttered in her belly. For him the effect was a powerful blow to the gut. Desire for her, strong, unexpected, shuddered through him.

“Beatrice,” he murmured after a gulp of ale to ease the dryness of his throat that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. “Are you well?”

“Yes. And you?” Now she looked up. “As you see.”

And he looked amazing. He filled her whole horizon so that she could not take her eyes from him, all other in the room fading into insignificance. Tall and loose–limbed with the well–toned muscles of a soldier, Richard stood before her with all the elegant grace she remembered as being so characteristic of this man whom she had met at a Twelfth Night celebration at the royal court. His hair was the same dark brown with rich glints of gold and russet when caught in the sun’s rays. It fell heavily to wave around a face not conventionally handsome. Narrow and austere with a straight nose and firm chin, it was the face of a man who would command his own destiny and who would command others. A face of sharp angles and flat planes. There was the touch of arrogance she recalled so well. The dominance and the aura of controlled male power. And also the carved aestheticism, almost the face of a scholar, but the body of a man of action. A lethal combination for those who would look and admire. Beatrice found her eyes drawn to his once more. Clear and piercing beneath dark brows, their depths, somewhere tantalisingly between grey and green, gleamed with golden lights. Ah, yes. Just as in her dreams. So fierce and direct as they were, guarded by slightly heavy lids. An arresting face, to be sure. To draw the eyes of any woman and make her wonder.

“Are you happy?” His voice was also as she remembered. Cool and deep. Beautiful. Its silken tones stroked her senses so that memories shivered along the length of her spine to spin her back into the past. But this must not be! Shaking her head, she forced her mind to concentrate on the meaning of his words.

“Are you happy, Beatrice?”

She could not answer. Shook her head. Then, because honesty demanded it, replied, a little sharply because it touched on the heart of the matter between them. “I must not complain. Life is comfortable enough here. I have all I need and more. I lack for nothing of material wealth.”

There was a little silence that hung in the warm air.

“Have you married?” she found herself asking. His answer could not possibly have any bearing on her life, yet she found herself tensing against his reply.

“No. I have not.” Then, “Your parents. Are they in good health?”

“My father is dead, last year of one of the pestilent fevers. Ned, my brother, is now head of the family. He is settled at Mears Ashby with his wife and an infant son. My mother, Lady Margery, lives with them.” A deliberate hesitation to halt the rush of unimportant detail. Then in a low voice. “Ned would never have forced me to wed William Somerton just because his estate marched with ours.”

There was nothing Richard could say. He stretched out one hand as if he would touch her cheek, then let it fall. He could not. Too public. Too compromising.

“Does he—does Somerton treat you well?”

“He does not beat me.” Which said it all. Beatrice raised her head. Pride stiffened her spine.

“You deserve to be loved. Does he love you?” Richard persisted.

“No. He acquired an excellent dowry. And the Hatton connection. That is all he wanted. He has no need of me.” She could not prevent her fingers linking together. They were white with pressure but she was careful that her face should express no emotion.