Geoffrey Condit (3 page)

    “I don’t know who you are.”  Her tankard tremble.

    “Exactly,”  he said, willing her to understand.  “Doesn’t that open whole fields of speculation?”

    “I don’t want to be married, my lord.”  She stared down at the floor   

    “You’d prefer the life you had, living with Buckingham?   The man has a reputation.”  Peter stood, back to the blazing hearth.

    “Surely you don’t think ... ”  She closed her mouth and looked up glaring at him.

    “What, that he has tried to compromise you?”  He watched her rise, fists white balls at her side.  “Has he?”

    “No.  But ... he has made remarks.”  She lowered her gaze, then met his, her eyes grey pools of heated anger.

    “Do you think you are safer here or with him?  He doesn’t always limit himself to words.”  He wanted to shake her.  The little fool. 

    “He wouldn’t dare touch a Ward of the Crown.”

    He let out a laugh, almost explosive.  “You forget he is a friend of King Richard.”

    “Richard is fair and just,”  she challenged.  

    “No one will argue that, but whose word would be taken if he dishonored you?” he said, arching his eyebrows, hating his hard tone of voice.   “The daughter of a forfeit Lancaster noble or the Lord Constable?”

    “Men.”  The deep disgust in her voice startled him.  “You don’t have to worry about being compromised.  You can do as you want.  We women are the prisoners of reputation.”

    “But you carry the future with the children you bear,” he said, surprised.  “Bearing and producing children is God like.”

    “In bondage. What future is that?”   She stomped her foot.

    “I can’t argue the point.”

    “I wanted to fall in love before I married.”

    Peter took the warm tankard into his great hands.  “Peasants do that, my lady.   I’d have preferred to wed according to my choice also.”

    “And after you tire of our bed, will you repair to the village?”

    He stared at her is disbelief.  The idiot creature.  Provoking a fight for no good cause.  The anger built within.  He took a deep breath.  “If you think every man is a rutting billy goat, you are mistaken.  I do not run around the countryside populating my sixty manors with by-blows.  However, many a lord has repaired to the village to seek relief from a shrew’s tongue.”

    Catharine’s face went crimson.  “How dare you!”  She rose to her feet, face suffused with rage.

    “I dare.  But we are getting ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?” he said, watching her lower her gaze to the polished oak floor.  “Now tell me about Buckingham.  Why does he harbor such a grudge that he’d surprise you with this marriage?”

    “Buckingham said my father lied to Queen Margarite against his father, and to King Edward against Buckingham himself.”  She swallowed.  “The man is a liar.”  She took a deep breath and went on.  “He vowed to obliterate my father’s house.  A holy oath he said.”

    Peter leaned forward.   “Your father - where is he?”

    “He fled to Brittany when Edward had him attainted outlaw.  He’s with Henry Tudor in Duke Francis’ Court.  Buckingham said since he poisoned people’s minds, he’d have his body poisoned in return.  He’s been trying to poison my father.”  She sipped her spiced wine, and seemed to relax a little.

    “Last of the Lancaster Princes next to our friend Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham.”  Peter set his tankard on the trestle table.

    “Doesn’t that tell you something?”  Catharine said, sitting back in the chair, grey eyes on Peter’s face.

    Peter handed her a cushion.  “I see. You think Buckingham has agents trying to poison Tudor so as to leave him as the sole Lancaster heir.  Their maternal grandfather’s were brothers, John and Edmund Beaufort. ”  The woman has a mind.  Peter’s interest sharpened.

    “It had occurred to me,”  Catharine said.  “We know Tudor has been the target of many assassination attempts.  They’ve all been laid at the feet of the House of York.”  Her hands clenched together, face muscles taut.  “If he is trying to poison my father, why not Tudor also?  It makes sense.”

    “But Buckingham has been raised to the highest position in the land,”  he protested.

    “Perhaps he’s been consumed with ambition.”  Her eyebrows arched.  “It has happened before.”

    “You’re saying that breathing the rarefied air of power, he’s become intoxicated and wants more.”  Peter chuckled.  “Harry for King?”

    “He could,”  Catharine said, voice sure.

    “He would have to have someone to guide him, I think.”  Peter’s mind roamed the idea, interest fortifying his excitement.  “Buckingham’s doing this now is unnatural.  Who would want to use him?”

    “The Woodville’s,” she said immediately. “The duke’s wife is Katharine Woodville.  ‘That grasping family stands on its hindquarters scheming for power and money.  Then trumpets its excesses with hated parades.’  Sir Alexander Hampton described them so with drunken eloquence.  A pack of rapacious wolves heavy on the scent of power.  Edward’s Queen Elizabeth Woodville heard him, and hounded her husband until he had Hampton attainted for treason.”  Pater laughed.  “But not before he arranged his escape, settling Hampton in Flanders with his wealth.  Edward was no fool”

    Peter picked up an almond cake, thoughtful.  “You’re well informed.  Who have you been talking to?”

    Catharine smiled, red lips breaking over kitten white teeth.  “Why Katharine Woodville, the duke’s unfortunate wife, among others.  She had a conscience.”

    “A rare thing for a Woodville,” he said, pleased to see her relax.  “Who else have you seen around Buckingham?”

    “Other Woodville’s.  The uncles and sons.  Ones that haven’t been executed or attainted yet.  The family is a plague, and prolific as pigs. You need  to remember that the Woodville claim to the Throne, Prince Edward and Prince Richard have been declared illegitimate.”  She put the tankard down, and picked up an almond cake.  “Richard is King.  The Woodville’s have a back door into Buckingham’s house via Katharine.  They consider him one of the pack now, to be promoted and handled with care.”

    Peter waved a hand.  “We’re building a case where none exist, Catharine.”  He saw her straighten and their odd familiarity died.

    “You need to remember, my lord,”  she said, sitting stiff, voice prim, “that the Woodville’s are ever hopeful that their princes can be placed back on the Throne.”

    “But there is no legal precedent,” he protested.

    “No legal one, but Plantagenet’s have never been a stable family.  Relatives close to the Throne have usurped it time and again.”  She ate the almond cake, and continued.  “As long as the claimant had a certain amount of Plantagenet blood this has been accepted since King John murdered the unfortunate Arthur and Henry Bolingbrook stole the Throne from his cousin Richard II.”

    Peter shook his head, careful to keep his scar hidden. He said, “If Buckingham were King, he’d surely kill the Princes.  They have a claim by blood no one can deny.  The Woodville’s would be fools to trust Buckingham.”  He turned to face the fire, to warm away the  night chill.  He could feel her will penetrating his mind and flinched.

    “The Woodville’s are desperate.  They have lost everything now that Richard is on the Throne.”   Her voice turned to a plea.  “Can’t you see?  They’ll play any game, create any scenario, to further their chances.”   The passion in her voice swept into him.

    Peter swallowed.  “You said the duke needs Trevor wealth.  What about Woodville wealth?  They stole half of Edward’s Treasury.”  He waited. wanting to hear more, astonished at her grasp of the situation.

    “They’ll share with no one unless they’re sure of the return.  Above all, they are greedy for money.  You need to remember they are from a knight’s manor.  They have risen to the heights, and now, except for Edward’s children as pawns, they have nothing.”  She took another treat.  “They are universally hated not only for their greed, but also for rising above their rank.  As far as Edward’s Treasury is concerned, they had to sell some of his personal possessions to bury the man.”

    He moved to one side, letting the warmth of the fire pass to Catharine.  “I know nothing of your family, save your father now in Brittany.  Tell me of them.”

    “My mother died of a sickness gleaned from three days and nights in the rain after being chased out of our manor by Yorkist soldiers.’  Her voice trembled.

    “I’m sorry.  The misery of war.  You have a brother.  What of him?”

    “He’s sixteen.”  She ran a tongue over her lips.

    “Do you have any idea where he is?”  He touched her arm.  “Any idea at all?”

    She jumped, and settled back in the chair when he moved next to her. “No.  No I don’t.”

    “How old are you, Catharine?”  Her shock at his touch cause him to move further away, toward the high bed.  Servants had dusted the counterpane with seeds.  Fertility.   He smiled and wondered if she noticed.  Then he walked to the window overlooking the green.

    “Nineteen.  How old are you, my lord?”

    He felt her eyes on his back, and shifted.  “Twenty-eight.  I am the Eighteenth Baron Trobridge.  I have no brother and sisters.”

    “There is no Master of Trobridge?  A nephew?  A cousin?”

    “No.  No male heirs.  Bess has been my heir.”  The nearness of her youth, her clean scent, and her beauty struck a responsive chord in his body.  He tightened his muscles.  He could see the torches lighting the battlements, and people moving in and out of the shadows.  I must control myself.

    “Did I say something wrong, my lord?  You sound distressed.”

    “Nothing wrong, Catharine.  Are you sure you can’t tell me anything of your brother?”  He didn’t trust himself to face her.   

    “No.  He was declared outlaw with my father.  Buckingham’s doing.  My father testified before a royal commission of oyer and terminer.  He brought out some questionable behavior of Buckingham’s.  My father was serving in the household of Thomas, Lord Stanley after we lost our manor.  Buckingham ... ”  Her voice faltered.

    “What?  What did our mutual monster do?”

    A tear slid down her cheek.  She sniffed, fighting her tears, raising her head, defiant, as he offered his handkerchief.  “The duke said, ‘even now my agents are hounding your brother.’  I have no idea if William even lives.  But he is fair game.  A reward from the royal courts has been posted for his capture.  Then he will be tried for treason as my father would if captured.  There is no hope for him.”

    “There is always hope,” he said, voice positive.  “It’s how people live.  Without it we are nothing.”

    “Easy for you  to say, Yorkist lord.”  She fingered a jeweled necklace, heavy with sapphires.  “One of the richest men in the Kingdom.  What cares have you?”  Her voice cut bitter.

    “You forget our mutual monster, and what he intends to do.”

    “You’re for York and I’m for Lancaster.”

    Peter snorted.  Stubborn creature.  “You’re being a little simplistic.  Like most nobles,  I’m  for myself.  It matters little who is on the Throne.  We have to work around the various factions just to survive.”  He fought down his impatience at her short sighted prejudice.  Peter turned suddenly from the window, facing Catharine, and was startled by her sharp reaction with tiny hands, flashing eyes.

    “Ha!  A self-server.  A man with no loyalties except for himself,”  she said lips curling.  “Wouldn’t you know I’d be cursed with a husband who cares only for his own skin, and slithers around dodging responsibility.”

    God’s Blood!  The fury rose consuming.   He fought it down until, trembling, until he could control himself.  He stepped close and grabbed her arm.  He could feel her surprised breath on his face.  “I have responsibilities,”  he said, voice low and hard, “to my people.  Kings may come and go, but the Lords of Trobridge have ruled here eight hundred years. I have no intention of destroying my House or my people with one way loyalties.  The Trevor’s have survived Saxon quarrels, Norman heavy-handedness, and Plantagenet usurpations.  God willing, we will continue to do so.  So take care with your tongue.”  He released her and walked to the window, breathing heavy.

     “You have no principles, my lord.”  Her voice, hurt and edged with fury, shook.

    “Oh, careful of your tongue, my lady.  My principals have little to do with loyalties to another family’s ambitions, and butchering innocent people in the name of dynasty.  That is self-serving.”

    “What do your principals include?  I need to know what I’m marrying into so I can act accordingly.”  The slight twist of her delicate lips curled Peter’s fist.  He opened and close his hands, stepping back.

    “They include looking after my people’s needs.  I own sixty manors.  These people depend on me.  I have trading interests, and counting houses in London, Bristol, across the Narrow Sea in the Low Countries, and elsewhere, Venice and Genoa.  Those people  who make up the counting houses and trading companies depend on me also.  I am not some petty nobleman who simply husbands his lands and hopes for the best during dynastic wars.  My interests and responsibilities are great and wide spread.”

    “Trading before loyalties, my lord?”  Again she arched her eyebrows, her red lips curling.  He wanted to kiss her now.  To run his hands through her lustrous chestnut hair.  Then have her come willing and eager into his arms, and not turn away with fright at his face and terror at his body.