Battle-Torn Bride. Anne O'Brien

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СКАЧАТЬ of this—this disaster!

      And yet here in her home was the one man who had the power to turn her life on its head, with a single look from those eyes with their hooded lids, dark and watchful as a hovering raptor, that were even now intent on hers. The one man who could have turned her life to pure gold, causing her heart to throb with joy, her blood to heat with passion at his slightest touch. And what had he done? Why nothing—except to forsake her. Abandoning her to a cold, lonely existence with a man who disliked her, ignored her, humiliated her. To an existence without love.

      The day, a warm midsummer’s day when bees flooded the lavender stalks and swallows darted through the gaps in the stable doors to feed their offspring, had indeed started normally enough. Then, perhaps an hour after the midday meal, Sir William Somerton strode through the courtyard and into the stone-flagged entrance hall of his elegant but strongly defended manor house. He stood there, squinting in the sudden gloom, hands fisted on hips.

      “Beatrice!” His voice rebounded off the warm stone. “Beatrice!” His frown deepened as he raised his voice further.

      No response. The house remained silent around him. The tapestried hangings absorbed the sound.

      “Beatrice. In God’s name, where are you, girl?” He was halfway to the foot of the staircase with a hiss of ill-temper, when a lady appeared on the half landing, and came to a halt, looked down over the carved balustrade.

      “There you are. What are you doing? Why are you never around when I need you? We have visitors, it seems. Perhaps a score or more, so the sentry reports.”

      “I have been folding linen and storing it with herbs against the moth,” the lady explained to answer her lord’s first question. Her voice, composed despite her peremptory summons and its rough tone, contained no apology. She descended the stairs slowly, not quite to the bottom, so that her eyes, the deep purple of the heartsease in her herb garden but on this occasion lacking their tender gentleness, were on a level with Sir William’s. Her gaze was direct and did not fall before his fierce stare.

      “Who is it who visits, my lord?”

      “Lord Grey de Ruthin, by my soul.” Somerton’s grizzled brows merged into one heavy line at the prospect. His thin lips thinned further. “A black ragged staff, clear enough to see emblazoned on all the livery of the escort and on the standard. All very fine and imposing! He is accompanied by a number of gentlemen as well as an armed retinue. Quite an entourage, in fact.” Sir William stared at his wife. “What in God’s name will de Ruthin want?” A demand, as if Beatrice would know the answer. “I warrant I have paid my feudal dues to him this year.”

      “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?” СКАЧАТЬ