Geoffrey Condit (2 page)

    Peter continued,  “You will welcome her as one of our House.” 

    The people parted, making a corridor for a woman of middle years whose firm stride told nothing of her age.  The blond girl of the bouquet accompanied her.  Catharine felt the girl studying her.  In matching blue velvet gowns embroidered with gold thread, and jeweled tiaras, they ascended the twelve steps to the landing. 

    Peter whispered in Catharine’s ear.  “My mother, the Dowager Baroness Elenor, and my niece, Lady Bess.”  His warm fresh breath sent shivers up and down her spine.  Peter and the duke bowed to the ladies.

    Catharine found no sympathy in the Dowager’s grey-green eyes.  With a simple nod of satisfaction she stood beside Buckingham.  Bess showed something dark in her hand to Peter, who nodded.  She stepped back.

    Peter turned to the ancient priest.  “Please begin the ceremony, Father.”  Peter extended his right hand, keeping the scar ravaged side of his face hidden.  His swordsman’s hand, coarse and callused, took hers in its gentle grip.  His steady energy settled her.  Troubled, she turned to him, and realized how much his face was shaped like a leopard, a beast of prey.

    His golden eyes were distant, his face set hard.  The edge of his mouth turned down as though a thought troubled him.  The light pressure on Catharine’s hand did not change.

    She glanced at the blue-veined priest.  He intoned,  “In nomine Partris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

    Moments later, with sharp agony, she heard Peter plight her his troth.  The words, filled with music, somehow edged the distress, cutting to the quick of her soul, leaving it exposed without refuge.

    “I, Peter Trevor, do take thee Catharine Clifford in Holy Church, as my wedded wife, forsaking all others, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and woe, till death us do part, and there to I plight thee my troth.”  His voice, deep and melodious, carried across the silent crowd.

    She raised her eyes to the sky and sun, now reaching its zenith, and said a silent prayer for help.

    Then everything slowed like a dream.  As a little girl she’d played at wedding with her playmates.  Now, facing Peter, she spoke the well known words.  “I, Catharine Clifford, do take thee Peter Trevor in Holy Church, as my wedded husband, forsaking all others, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and woe, till death us do part, and there to I plight thee my troth.”

    The ceremony went all too fast.  The handsome knight of her dreams was instead a scared monster.  Tears welled in her eyes, and she bit her lip.  Buckingham used her as a tool of spite.  He’d forced her into a loveless union without care or consideration.

    The priest said,  “You have the ring, Lady Bess?”

    Lady Bess stepped forward with the ring.  The priest turned, and held the ring up before the throng of towns people and soldiers.  A roar of approval went up.  The tumult last for several long seconds and ended with applause.  Then the aging priest blessed the ring and gave it to Peter.

    Peter took Catharine’s left hand and went to each finger, slipping the ring part way on and off, saying, “In nomine Partris, et Felii, et Spiritus Sancti.”  Then he slipped the ring onto her third finger, and said,   “With this ring, I thee wed.”

    She stared down at the ring.  Black.  Unyielding.  An ugly black ring.  Iron, not gold.  A cruel joke.  But when she looked into Peter’s face, she knew it was anything but a joke.  This was a profound act of creation, an act of shaping, whose life and death lay in their hands.  Then the priest gave his blessing, and a door slammed shut in her heart.

    The Duke of Buckingham smiled, and moved forward to offer his congratulations.  He handed Peter a scroll.

    “The House of York,”  the duke said, “wishes only the happiness of its subjects.  Catharine was raised for a time with the King’s own son, Edward, Earl of Salisbury.  His Grace, for the love his son bears this lady, would not see her family lands leave her.   He graciously grants you the Clifford Barony of Westmoreland.  It will now be part of the Trevor holdings.  Be pleased he is so generous.”

    Catharine tried to think.  “Where are my belongings?”

    “Even now a wagon rumbles on the road to this castle with your belongings and servant.”   Buckingham fastened the collar of his black, gold trimmed cloak.  “His Grace, the King will be pleased.”  He examined his black velvet cap with gold thread, and smoothed the small peacock feather before he set the cap on his head at a rakish angle.  “You have one of the finest holdings in England, Lord Trobridge.  How long has it been in your family?”

    “Over eight hundred years, Harry,”  Peter said.

    “Let us hope it stays that way,”  Buckingham said.

    “I have no intention otherwise.”  Peter held his voice even, and his face impassive.

    “I remember that Sir William Trevor, your uncle, was executed with Somerset after Tewkesbury,”  Buckingham said, face grim.

    Peter became formal.  “A miscalculation on his part, Your Grace.”

    “I hope that behavior doesn’t extend to other members of the family.”  Buckingham hesitated at the top of the stairs.

    Peter grimaced.  “It does not.”

    Buckingham turned to Catharine.  “You must remember our conversation, Lady Trobridge.  I leave no stone unturned, nor do I stop until I’ve accomplished my goal.”  The arrogant turn of his lips, and amused glint in his gaze touched a nerve in Catharine.

    God rot you in Hell!  She clenched her fists, wanting to strangle the man.  She said, “I will remember your every word, Your Grace.”

    “Lady Catharine, don’t try to kill me with your eyes.”  Buckingham turned to Peter.  In a voice so low only they could hear, he said, “I pity your new husband.  What an excellent wedding night you shall both have.”  He continued down the stairs to his gelding.  “We will see you in London.  At Court.”  He signaled to his master-at-arms.

    Buckingham’s standard bearer with his banner moved out ahead of him.  The red cross of St. George preceded the red and black of Stafford.  Catharine counted the knots, and read the diagonal white over black motto.  In short order, horses hooves thundered over the drawbridge.  Then dust drifted away and relief flooded her.

    For the first time she allowed herself to take a good look at her new husband.  But she wasn’t prepared for his cold anger, and the crushed scroll in his great hand.  The title of her family and heritage were there.

    “Sir, be gentle with that paper,”  she said.  “You hold my family honors and lands.”

    He glared at her.  “I am married to a Lancaster woman whose family is forfeit, and I am suppose to be pleased?”

    “The Barony of Westmoreland is extensive.”

    “The Barony of Westmoreland is a hotbed of contentious idiots,”  he said, face red with anger.  He stared up at the sky.  “I don’t need the Trevor name poisoned in Court circles by being associated with Lancaster sympathies.”

    “Your uncle fought for Lancaster.”

    “And died, executed after Tewkesbury.”  Peter pressed his lips hard together.  His hands shook, and his golden eyes caught hers.  Catharine could feel their frightening power pour over her.

    “He was my plight-troth,” she said.

    “My father warned him.”

    “He was so kind ... ”

    “What did you know of him, my lady?  He died when you were a child.”

    “He gave me this.”  She pulled the locket and gold chain from her bodice.  The delicate chain flowed over her hand.   “I remember the day he gave it to me.  Before the Battle of Tewkesbury.”

    “Your uncle murdered a Prince of the Blood on the bridge at Wakefield Green.  What a charming pedigree you share.”

    She shuddered, remembering the bloodied cloak an old retainer had shown her, stains dark and dry.  Royal Blood.  “I know,” she said.  “The man was blood crazy.  They called him Queen Margarite’s Sword until he died taking an arrow through his throat at Ferrybridge  Crossing.”

    “So,  I’ve inherited all the sentiments and memories with the Barony.  These are dangerous things.  A constant sword in the guts of York.”  He reached out to touch her golden locket.  It fell open.  A small braid of brown hair lay inside.  They stood mesmerized for a long moment until Catharine snapped it shut.  “Uncle Will,”  he whispered.   “Wasted.  Wasted.  God, and for what?”

    Catharine closed her eyes, wanting to shut out the horror of the last hour.  Then she opened them to capture his golden ones.  “If you think my lord of Buckingham married us as a random malicious act, you’re fooling yourself.  The man maybe pleasure seeking, but he is far from an idiot.”

    Peter studied her.  “Why would Buckingham threaten a Trevor?” 

    “For money,” she said.  “I’ve heard his servants whisper that  he owes every moneylender in London.”

    “With his estates?”  Peter shook his head.  “It doesn’t make sense.”

    She twisted her fingers together.  “His private extravagances is astonishing.”

    “So Buckingham wants Trevor wealth.  To get his foot in the door, he pry’s it open with one of the enemy?”  His voice raised in disbelief.  “Someone whose family has felt the full displeasure of York?”

    Catharine averted her gaze and swallowed.  “I am not his agent.   I hate him.  He forced me into this marriage.”  Her voice rose in indignation.

    Peter gripped her shoulders.  “If that is true, then why did he chose you?  The duke has the Bohm estates.  He shouldn’t be short of money.”  He released her.

    “Question begets question, my lord.  A riddle that has no answer.”  She smoothed her white cambric dress, and tugged at her iron wedding ring, but it wouldn’t go over her knuckle.  She began to despair, and now understood the frantic feelings of a trapped animal.  

     “You are part of the answer new wife with the saucy tongue and sharpened wit.”  His tawny eyes locked with hers.  “I shall not rest until I have the answers.”

    She swallowed, silently cursing Buckingham, and the insanity which caused her to marry this man with a face out of a nightmare.

2

The red glow from the embers spilled on the marble floor before the great hearth.  A smoldering anger framed the questions in Peter’s mind.  What do I do about Catharine?  Why did Buckingham force her on me?  What does he want her to do, expect her to do?  What could she do?

    There was no question that Buckingham planned this attack, had chosen Catharine for his weapon.  But why Catharine?  She was resentful, not worldly.  What was so special about her that she was forcibly put in his household?  A sudden sense of danger and fear for his people rose in his mind, tightening his stomach muscles.  God’s Blood, why?

    Jesus wept,  I walk a dozen tightropes already.  I don’t need more.  He drew an uncertain breath and reviewed what he know about Henry Stafford, Second Duke of Buckingham, next to Henry Tudor, the last of the Lancaster Princes.  His Father, Humphrey, Earl of Stafford, had died at the Battle of St. Albans in ’55 for Lancaster.  His grandfather, the First Duke of Buckingham, died for Lancaster at the Battle of Northampton in July of ’60.  This Second Duke, rich beyond need, pleasure loving, and proud, never let anyone forget his lineage.

    The former King, Edward IV, never trusted Buckingham, and excluded him from government.  The private man he did not know beyond friends warning that the man was prideful and arrogant.  He’d met the duke casually in social settings, but had never been impressed one way or another.  Now it seemed, under King Richard, his true colors had come forward in a disturbing fashion.  I’ll have to see what my agents can find out.

    And Catharine?  God, how revolting I must seem to her.  She must loath me for my looks.  Janus.  One side normal, the other a ravaged nightmare.  He swallowed, raised his callused hand to trace the deep gathered scar down the side of his face.  His fingers shook.  When he stood beside her, waiting for the priest to begin, she’d averted her eyes, hunched  her shoulders, twisting on nervous feet.  And later, when he’d transferred the kiss of peace to Catharine after the mass, he’d felt her dry lifeless lips.  Why he expected more he did not know.  A little death has begun to grow inside of him then.  A mourning for what might have been.  He wanted to touch her hair, but hadn’t dared.  Her fierce grey eyes and pert face had challenged him, and he knew her revulsion.  Now, remembering, his fist tightened.

    He’d learned to live with the scar because that was the way he was, and what he had to do.  But it didn’t stop the secret looks of wonder and horror.  He traced the scar again with shaking finger.

    Carnahan.  Allen ‘Butcher’ Carnahan.  God’s Blood!  He remembered the mercenary flushed with heat, eyes too bright, and stinking wine-soddened breath, laughing while he slowly dragged the sword down his face.  Peter struggled with his bonds, but to no avail.  Blood flowed down his body to mingle with the blood of his dying friend, helpless with a stomach wound.

    Peter’s fists tightened and crashed down on the trestle table before him.  With a loud clap the table buckled to the marble floor, candelabra and goblet careening across polished stone.

    Jesus wept!  To have a sword and Carnahan before him.  Peter fell to his knees, and stared at his shaking hands.  Dragging a ragged breath, he heaved himself  back into the master chair.  Enough.  Servants would talk.  He was master, and this was his wedding night.  He raised his eyes to the ceiling.  Catharine would be in his chamber.  Their chamber now.

    She would be bathing.  A steaming tub.  Naked white flesh.  Her wedding dress had shown the swelling curves of her breasts.  Peter swallowed, his body responded to his imagination, and then quit.  Cold.  How am I to enjoy someone who finds me loathsome and repulsive?  Who can’t bear to look at me, much less have me touch her?

    Having seen the successes of his parents and grandparents, he always looked forward to marriage.  There had been many offers from the great houses England, Scotland, and the Continent.  The Howards, Beauforts, Beauchamps, Percys, Douglas, Hamiltons, and Scotts sent emissaries.  The Hapsburg, the French houses of Valois, Orleans, and Bourbon all made advances from their cadet branches.  He’d been in the active process of evaluating these offers.  Now all was lost.

    The Cliffords were minor nobility who served greater houses.   Never wealthy or with great political influence, the height of their power came with the control of the Barony of Westmoreland, forfeit for their siding with Lancaster.  Now it’s mine.  God, what do I do with a hotbed of Lancaster sentiment?  Was that Buckingham’s idea too?  To discredit me?  I’m charged with keeping the peace on my lands.  I’ll have to send a lieutenant north to represent me until I can get away to survey the place.  Damn.  Two distractions I don’t need or want.  A hostile wife and a hostile addition to my holdings.  What is Buckingham plotting?

    “My lord?”

    “Anthony.”  Peter straightened in his great chair, and looked up into the kind weathered face of his oldest friend.

    “Your wife awaits in your chambers.  Your lady mother requests your presence before you retire.”

    Peter smiled, sensed words left unsaid.  “Spit it out, man.  We’ve known each other too long to keep things hidden.”  He tapped on the older man’s immaculate sleeve.  The red glow from the embers ran the shiny cloth to liquid claret.

    “It’s Mary belle, sir.  She would like to see you.  Something about a wedding night tradition.”

    Peter watched Anthony’s shrewd lips purse and his brown eyes twinkle.  “Light some torches, make up the fire, right the table.  Then show the kitchen staff in.  I know Mary belle.  She cannot be denied.”  Peter chuckled and stood.

    “Very good, sir.”  In short order the table was righted, and several torches burst into flame, their dancing light illuminating the ornate Great Hall.  Peter turned, his back to the blazing fire.

    A great round woman shuffled out of the kitchen door, her silver tray holding three steaming tankards.  A dish of confections and small cakes sparkled in the torch light.  Mary belle smelled of soap, clean and refreshing.  The snowy shelf of her great bosom comforted the room.  Her blue eyes smiled.  “A tradition, Lord Peter.”  He always felt a small child in her maternal presence.  “A new married man carries comfort to his bride to gentle the night and toast the future.”

    Peter accepted the tray, and bowed.  “Thank you, Mary belle.  Ask your staff to come forward.”  He handed the tray to Anthony.  Ten men, women, and children crowded forward.  “The dinner tasted magnificent.”  He rewarded each person with a silver penny, inquired after their needs, and gave Anthony instructions.  “The new Lady Trobridge thanks you.”   He looked at the third tankard and gestured.

    Mary belle’s round face split into  a white gap  toothed grin.  “Your lady mother, sir.”

    “Thank you, Mary belle.  She will appreciate it, I am sure.”  He picked up the tray.  “Now I go to comfort the night.  Sleep well.”  Discreet laughter followed him and his torch bearer as they mounted the wide elegant stone staircase.

    Peter stopped at the door to his mother’s chamber.  “Thank you, Simon.  Leave the torch in the socket.  I won’t need you anymore tonight.”  He handed the man a silver penny.  The old man bowed and disappeared in the dark.  Peter knocked.

    “Come.”  He opened the arched oak door and stepped into candlelight,  closing the door behind him.  Setting the tray down, he went to salute his mother on her cheeks.  She sat on the great bed piled with pillows and comforters.  A fire blazed and crackled in the hearth.  Her green eyes lit with genuine affection.  She pulled him to sit beside her.

    “You wished to see me, Mother?”

    “We need to discuss the care of horses, Peter.”

    “Mother ...  ”

    “Bring me my tankard, and be quiet.”  A snore lacerated the air.  His mother grabbed a stick and gently poked the blanket - wrapped figure on the low cot.  “Turn over, Blanche.  You’re snoring.”   The figure heaved, and the snoring stopped.

    “Horses?”  Peter perched on the edge of her bed, opening and closing his hands, a mutinous feeling spreading within.

   “Pay attention.”  She warmed her hands on the tankard.  The blue and silver counterpane hugged the bottom of her blue velvet robe.  “Peter, would you beat a horse because it was new and high spirited?”

   “No, I would correct its behavior,” he said automatically.  “What would you suggest, Mother?”

    “Try to understand it.  Give it space to learn, to change,” she said.  “Perhaps it had an owner before you who taught it differently.” 

    “Then I’d try to find out how it has been treated.”

    “And if it had come to you expecting fear and pain?”

    “I’d gentle the creature as best I could and teach it not to fear,”  he said and stood.  “Where is this going, Mother?”

    She put a hand on his arm and he sank down on the soft bed.  Raising an imperious hand, she said, “If you had a new horse, never ridden, and you were required to ride it every day, how would you treat it?”

    “Be friends to it,” he said, exasperation beginning to rise within.

    “Every animal has its own personality.  You might run into problems,” she said.

    “I’d work around the problem the best I could.  Make the most of it.”   Best humor her.  He smiled, finding it impossible to be angry with her.

    “And the horse?”

    “I’d hope over time we’d become friends and work together.”

    “And if you developed such a harmony with this horse that you felt a part of each other?” she asked, studying him gravely.

    “Made for each other, so to speak?”

    “Yes.”  Her frank gaze met his perplexed one.

    “That is, of course, the ideal.  I’ve known that with only two horses, The Great Horses.  Old Nick, and now with Grey Harold, my battle stallion.”  He fell silent with his memories.  “A good horse makes you feel complete.”

    “Keep that feeling.  Now off to bed with you, Peter.”

    He smiled faintly at her admonition and dismissal.  Still puzzled by the conversation, he kissed the pale cheek she presented him, took the tray, and went to the door.  Turning with his hand on the latch, he saw her handsome face half averted.  Tears spilled on her still flawless cheek, and her slim lips curved into a smile while she caressed the worn iron wedding ring on her finger.  Peter closed the door without a sound, and turned to his chamber across the hall.

    Catharine was beautiful.  Tiny.  Exquisite.  Like the fine clay figurine he’s purchased once at a fair in Burge.  So life-like it took his breath away.  The beautiful haunting face and gentle searching eyes fascinated him.  No one knew where it had come from.  One of a kind.  The workmanship stunning down to the last detail, enthralled him for days.  Now he had Catharine.  As exquisite as the figurine and living flesh.

    But Catharine was Lancaster baggage deliberately dumped on him to pollute his House.  The tainted Clifford’s mixed with the Trevor’s to ruin and to cast suspicion.   The thoughts disturbed him.  He searched his brief knowledge of Catharine, but could fine nothing false or artificial with her.  There were no answers, only questions.  He shrugged.

    And what of this inane conversation about horses?  He’d never known his mother to make meaningless small talk.  Then it hit him.  “Sweet Jesus!”  He let out a shuddering breath.  How could he have been so stupid, so blind?  It was about Catharine all along.  His mother was warning him as best she could.  Catharine, for better or worse, was going to spend the rest of her days with him.  The thought sobered him, and he hesitated at the door.  They were to live as husband and wife, this was the beginning.  Then, breathing a prayer, he knocked on his own bedroom door.

    “Come in.”  Her voice, low and strained, sounded depressed, but then he expected tears and fear.  He found her robed in green, damp chestnut hair brushed in a cascade over her shoulders.  She stood, face taut, and moved away from the great chair.  “My lord.”  Her voice cool, matched her grey eyes.

    Peter smiled and set the tray on the short trestle table by the blazing hearth.  “You are warm enough?”

    “Thank you.  The bath was hot, and much appreciated.”  She began to pace, twisting the cloth belt at her waist.  Her thin tight lips and sharp glances made him turn away to compose himself.  Anger and physical desire  warred.  He must control himself, his temper above all things.

    “Please sit down, my lady.”

    “You make me sound like an old woman.  My name is Catharine.”

    “I’m perfectly aware of your name.”  He frowned.  This wasn’t going like he planned.  “Here is a tankard of spiced wine heated for your pleasure.”

    “Trying to get me drunk, my lord?”  Her defiant eyes challenged.  “Is that the way it’s done?”

    Peter glanced to the Italian oil lamps that hung from the ceiling lighting the room.  Good Sweet Christ.  Exasperating creature.  “My lady, I could force my attentions on you anytime I wish, and do so legally.  But I have no intention of plowing a field of briers and thorns.”  He watched her sudden arrested movement, the shocked half-opened mouth with reddening face as she sank into the great chair.  She accepted the steaming tankard.  Peter held the plate as she chose a treat.  “You’d do well to curb your tongue, my lady.  Who do you think I am?  Some uncouth monster drooling to get you in bed?”