Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

“He’s fostered evil rumors about himself apurpose.”

“God save us, why?” Sir Walter asked.

“So that he can go unchallenged by any man.” Honor sneezed. “I knew him when he was old Leekshanks.”

“Be quiet, child. No more shrewish language regarding Lord Galen. It’s not wise to make an enemy of so powerful a man. Why are you so evil disposed toward him?”

Honor blushed and pressed her lips together. “He chased me off my own land. Galen de Marlowe has no chivalry. He’s a mean, conniving churl, and I hate him.”

“You’re being churlish yourself, my girl.” Sir Walter staved off her response with a raised finger. “No. There’s an end to the matter. Choose some other place to build your new house. Now, go put on some dry clothing, or by vespers you’ll have an ague. Come Perkin, I want to talk about the medicinal herbs. I want to see the feverfew, the mouse-ear, and the pimpernel, and we must hurry because I’ve yet to ride today.”

Honor scowled at her father, but quickly put on a smile when he suddenly turned back to her. “And tonight we’ll talk about who you’re going to marry. The king will soon want to know. Can’t put it off now that you’ve done with the Jennings.”

“But I’m a vowess.”

“And if King Edward hears of it, he’ll be furious and make you renounce your vows, so you might as well accustom yourself to giving them up. You know I only agreed to let you become a vowess temporarily, to help you rid yourself of the Jennings. Castle Stafford must have an heir, my child. You can’t leave our people without someone to take care of them.”

“I’m not. I’ll take care of them.”

“Of course you will. Now run upstairs and dry yourself. Then come find me and tell me who you want to marry.”

“No one.” At his severe look, she added, “No one at the moment, Father. I promise I’ll think of suitors after I build my house at Durance Guarde.”

“I’ll make a list for you.”

Honor threw up her hands as Sir Walter strode out of the hall, deep in conversation with Perkin. She’d hoped to convince Father that she wished to remain a widow. Widowhood provided a woman with independence. She could do as she liked with her property and govern her own life. As a married woman she’d be subject to a husband again.

No, she was better off without a man. Widowhood was the perfect state for her. If she could build her house at Durance Guarde, which was remote and deserted, the king might forget about her. Also, she could defend herself from there against any overzealous suitors who might attempt to force her into marriage.

She knew Father would harry her until she consented to marry again. But once she lived at Durance Guarde, he’d forget about her for long stretches of time. Father loved her, but he easily became distracted by his orchards, by his horses, dogs, and falcons, and by his collection of books. If only her mother were here. Mother had died giving birth to a stillborn son not long after Honor married, and Honor still considered sometimes, with a touch of self-pity, how different her life would have been had her mother lived.

A practical and headstrong woman, Jane Stafford would have understood Honor’s desire for independence. Honor still remembered how Mother would get her own way if she desired something and didn’t wish to quarrel. Father hated buying new clothing. He hated picking out fabrics, standing still for fittings, and choosing his daily outfits. If Jane showed him new materials or garments, he’d refuse to purchase them despite needing them. So Jane simply ordered new cloaks, hose, robes, or tunics and gave them to Sir Walter as presents. Sir Walter, having forgotten the fabrics and garments completely, accepted them with delight.

Honor smiled at the memory as she lifted her heavy, wet skirts and plodded up the stairs to her chamber. “I won’t have to lie, by my troth. I’ll simply refrain from discussing the subject of suitors.”

Sir Walter would be too busy to bother her much. The whole demesne was busy in spring.
Plowing, harrowing, and sowing had to be done, but along with these vital chores the peasants had to clear ditches, and repair broken banks, hedges, and fences. The manorial account rolls would swell with the costs of making and repairing tools, keeping animals, repairing mills and cowsheds, and paying mole catchers. In summer, the harvest would occupy him. If she was fortunate, she could avoid the unpleasant subject of remarriage until next winter. By that time she would have thought of new reasons to remain a vowess.

“Now,” she whispered, “how to eject old Leekshanks from Durance Guarde. That is the question.”

Jacoba was in Honor’s chamber laying out dry clothing on the bed when Honor entered, deep in thought.

“Lady,” Jacoba said, holding out a drying cloth.

Honor took it, wiped her face, and patted her hair. As Jacoba began to strip the layers of soaked clothing from her, Honor frowned.

“I’m foully vexed. How am I to get rid of that cursed invading knave?”

“Oh, lady, you’re not still thinking of that, are you? If you test him, there’ll be terrible assaults and affrays, and your father will be furious.”

“I’m not going to attack him, Jacoba.”

Honor struggled out of her wet shift and pulled on a dry one, then put on a white underdress and a plain black gown and belt. She sat on the bed
while Jacoba combed the tangles out of her hair. Tapping her nail against her front teeth, she thought hard.

“Poison is too drastic.”

“It’s a sin,” Jacoba said as she combed.

“That too,” Honor replied. “If we make the roof leak in his chamber, he’ll simply repair it.”

“Can you bring suit, me lady?”

“Against a man who drinks with the king? I don’t wish to call attention to myself and be forced to marry again. And anyway, a suit wouldn’t frighten him. What frightens a warrior, Jacoba? What frightens a man who people think is a sorcerer?”

“Naught, lady.”

Honor played with a strand of copper hair. “Think, Jacoba. What frightens a man who consorts with demons, devils, and spirits?” She nibbled the ends of her hair, then dropped them. “That’s it!”

Jacoba started. “Lady Honor, you near stopped me heart.”

“Leave my hair for a moment.” She hurried to the door and called downstairs. “Theodoric, come here at once.”

Honor swept across the chamber, opened a carved chest and took out a stack of used parchment she kept for note taking. Next came a quill, ink, and a blotter.

Theodoric entered. “Lady?”

“Come here and write as I speak. Hurry, before I
forget my ideas. Let me see, I’ll need a white gown, and a long white wig. Write, Theodoric, write.” She paced in front of the clerk while Jacoba looked on in confusion. “My face and skin have to be white too. Write this, Theodoric—ground alabaster, beeswax, ass’s milk, oil of white poppies. And I’ll need something to make the stuff reflect light—egg whites, a coating of egg whites.”

She strode over to the small chest that contained her cosmetics and fumbled among the jars and bottles. “Write down kohl, and belladonna to make my pupils huge.” She began pacing again. “And I’ll need a screen of some kind. Cobweb lawn, the most transparent linen there is. Jacoba, you and Wilfred will accompany me to Holywell town. The market there is bound to have cobweb lawn.”

“I know what you’re planning, lady,” said Theodoric, “and it won’t work. Not after you had that terrible quarrel with him. He’ll be expecting something.”

“Wherefore I’ll wait at least a fortnight,” Honor replied. “Ah, Dagobert.”

Her young page came in bearing her traveling altar and placed it on the bed. Unlike most pages, Dagobert wasn’t the son of an aristocratic family, fostered out to a noble household; he was the son of an unmarried kitchen maid, Adela Trune, who had died in Aymer’s employ. Adela had been the daughter of Sir Walter Stafford’s steward, Baldwin. One day a few months before Aymer died, Adela
and another woman were dumping a heavy load of grout into an enormous boiling vat at the brewhouse. She lost her footing and fell in. Servants dragged her out, but she died three days later. Dagobert was left an orphan at the age of four.

Against Aymer’s wishes, Honor had taken the boy under her protection. Now Theodoric was teaching him to read and write. She’d never told anyone one of the most important reasons for her actions—she suspected that Aymer was Dagobert’s father. Adela would never speak about the father, but her son had Aymer’s jet-black hair and dusky rose lips, his stocky frame, and winning expression. What he lacked was Aymer’s callousness. He was standing beside the bed, rocking on his heels and looking at her with his customary solemn adoration. Honor smiled at him and held out her hand. He burst into a smile, bounced over to her, and grabbed her hand. He bowed over it and planted a wet kiss.

“God save you, me lady.” He was also getting lessons in deportment from Jacoba.

“I thank you heartily, Master Dagobert.” Honor curtsied, laughed, and kissed his cheek.

Dagobert flushed and looked beleaguered. “Aw, me lady.”

“Your pardon, Dagobert.” She touched the tip of his nose with her forefinger. “Have you had your lesson today?”

“It’s too late, me lady.” Dagobert yawned elaborately.
“I am brought right low and weak by this day’s travels.”

“Then you’ll have two lessons tomorrow.”

“Aw, me lady.”

“But you may accompany me to Holywell market.”

Dagobert grinned.

Honor took his hand again. “And while we’re there, I want you to speak to as many of the folk at the market as you may. I want you to talk about something quite marvelous. Have you ever heard the tale of the lady Rowena and the castle of Durance Guarde?”

F
OUR
 

I
n the forest of Durance Guarde gnarled and disfigured trees cast long shadows of such blackness that they seemed to consume what little light filtered through the canopy. Dust motes floated undisturbed in the late afternoon shafts of light. Birds were scarce and silent, and foxes kept to their dens. Overhead a hawk coasted on an up-draft, but refrained from uttering its raucous cry. The whole forest seemed to hold its breath. Below, in the ward that surrounded the keep, Galen de Marlowe listened to the silence as he dumped oats into a bucket for his horse and left the dilapidated stable.

Unaffected by the oppressive quiet of the forest, Galen de Marlowe stepped into the sunshine and
inhaled the scent of wildflowers—primroses, lavender, and violets. He felt renewed, as if he’d slept undisturbed for a month. How paradoxical that the little shrew who’d nearly bashed a hole in his head was responsible for this wondrous improvement. The night after he’d chased her out of Durance Guarde, he’d slept without being tormented by the vision.

It made no sense, for on the morning she’d invaded the keep he’d felt exhausted from worry and lack of rest. He’d slept late and had just come downstairs from Berengar’s Tower. He was about to go outside, had his hand on the door, when it sprang open and rammed him on the forehead. By God’s mercy, he still felt the pain of that blow. He’d landed on his back, and the next thing he knew, a creature with flaming hair and black clothing was sitting on his chest, crushing him. He remembered little of what she’d said—shouted—at him. And then she’d tried to evict him from his own land, by the Trinity.

At first he’d been so surprised he hadn’t reacted. Then he’d noticed her wondrous fiery hair. And then he’d heard her witch’s screech. It pierced his skull and magnified the pain; it ruined his attempt to preserve what was left of his composure, and he’d turned on her. Perhaps he’d been harsh, but he wasn’t used to young women knocking him over like that.

Galen walked over to the well and began to
lower the bucket. He’d finally remembered who the copper-haired shrew was—Honor Stafford. No, Lady Honor Jennings. Who would have thought that nuisance of a child would grow to be so pleasing to behold? And still be a nuisance as an adult. He would have pitied Aymer Jennings if he were still alive. As the thought of Jennings’ death flitted through his head, Galen felt a surge of darkness, as if a vision were coming. Then it was gone.

Evidently she hasn’t banished all visions, Galen thought. Lady Honor had worked a little magic, but not a miracle. Surely she hadn’t come home for good. No, she’d be marrying again soon, and he hoped to some poor soul whose demesne was far to the north.

That was uncharitable. After all, she’d cured him of that menacing vision. He slept well now because of dreams that had replaced the vision. Dreams of Lady Honor. That first night he’d fallen asleep, weary from the pain in his head, and relived the encounter with the lady. Only this time when he drew close to frighten her into retreat, she hadn’t run away. He touched those strands of copper hair and found bronze, gold, and even silver. He pressed against her, and sensation flooded his body. The sun invaded his veins and turned his blood to liquid fire.

The dream went on, wrapping tendrils of arousal around him, leading him on, deeper and deeper into captivation until he opened his eyes to a new
day. Galen smiled, then realized he’d been standing in the middle of the ward with a bucket in his hand, grinning foolishly.

“Cease this folly,” he said to himself. “Would you have it said you’ve been undone by a woman?”