Geoffrey Condit (5 page)

    “He knows a lot about horses?”  Catharine kept her distance from the horse.

    “They are one of his passions.”

    “And Mary?”  Catharine let the female wolf hound smell her hand.

    “He’s giving half of the puppies to the castle folk.  Three go to his noble friends,”  Bess said, pleased.

    “The puppies must be worth a great deal of money.”

    “He likes his people to prosper.”  Bess stroked the Great Horse’s nose.  “You must understand that Peter believes that people who live below the salt have dreams and hopes too.  So he finds those dreams and feeds them.  He doesn’t give the dream.  But he makes it so they have the ingredients to create the dream.  That is why his people love him.”

    “But isn’t he afraid of his people leaving?”  Catharine remembered his father’s anger when his tenants fled the manor for the city to live a year and a day to gain freedom.

    The girl chuckled when Grey Harold raised his upper lip and nickered.  “His people don’t flee his manors.  They are welcome to leave whenever they wish,” she said.  “But they don’t.  Peter pays much better than anyone else.”

    “And if a man commits a crime?”

    “If it’s not a crime of violence, he gives a second chance.  The next time he’s turned off the lands forever.   Everyone knows this.  Come,”  Bess said leading the way out of the stables. “I want to show you the King’s Chamber.”

    “King’s Chamber?”

    “Where King Edward used to stay when he visited.”

    “King Edward stayed at Trevor’s Mist?”

    “You’ve seen the flocks of sheep.  His Grace was a wool merchant.  Peter used to help.”  They were mounting the wide staircase to the second floor.

    A merchant for a King.  The darkening idea carried a bad taste in her mouth.  But she wasn’t surprised.  Edward kept the merchants of London happy, she knew, even at their suggestion once trying to evict the Henseatic League from their freehold in the Steelyard, in the heart of London.  He failed, but bore no grudges, and business continued as usual.

    The chamber, heated with a massive tile stove from Germany, dwarfed any chamber in the palace.  A great four poster bed, now bare of hangings, dominated the room.  Four giant chests lined one side of the wood paneled room.  “His Grace visited us six times during his reign.”  Bess said.

    They moved to the balcony overlooking the green before the palace.  A hundred men-at-arms were ranged in pairs, practicing sword play under the direction of Peter and a tall black bearded man whose bellowed broken English carried a French accent.

    “That’s Peter’s French sword master, Adrian de Chemeau.  He swears something fierce, but has a heart of gold.  A sword is like a living thing in his hand.  Peter is almost his equal.”

    “Lady Bess.”  A man’s amused voice rang out.  Bess tried to duck behind Catharine’s skirts.  “Master Thatcher is waiting for you, young lady.  In the solar.”  Bess straightened and made a face.

    Anthony Will, Peter’s Chief Steward, smiled.  “I’m sorry, Lady Catharine, to interrupt your tour.  But Lady Bess is carefully dodging her lessons.”  Bess shrugged, smiled and left, skipping as she went.

    “Anthony.”  He had helped her in the hours after the sudden wedding, arranging for her comfort.  Catharine felt she already knew the man.  She had heard much from the castle staff.  Graying at the temples, generous, competent,  Anthony had given his strength and honesty to the House of Trevor for nearly forty years.

    “My lady, I’m sure you will see her later in the day.  A well meaning child.  A healthy mischievous mind.  Peter requested I take over your tour, and answer any questions you may have to settle your mind.”

    “Thank you.”  She turned toward the clash of arms and sounds of straining sweating men.  “How many barons have a hundred men-at -arms?”

    “Lord Trobridge can muster near two thousand men-at-arms in two weeks’ notice.  This is a small number of his immediate following.”

    “My father had ten men-at-arms and three knight’s fees.  Wealth like this is hard to understand.”  Anthony waited in patient silence.  “I found a velvet-lined box in the chest this morning.  It held a number of rings made of iron, like my wedding band.”   She twisted the iron band on her finger.

    “They weren’t meant to be there.”  Anthony’s alert eyes darkened, his mouth tightened.

    “I also noticed the Dowager Lady Trobridge wore an iron wedding band.  Come to think of it,  the priest was terribly pleased about the band at the wedding.  Why?”

    Anthony stiffened.  “The Trevor women have worn iron wedding bands for three hundred years, Lady Catharine.”

    “But why?  Gold is far more expensive.”

    “True.  But the Tenth Baroness decreed that every bride of Trobridge would wear an iron wedding band.  So it has been.  No bride has ever repudiated the ring.”

    “Are you saying the Trevor marriages have all been successful?”

    “History shows a stability there, my lady.  Family has always been the Trevor main focus.  My family has served the Lords of Trobridge for over two hundred and fifty years. My grandfather lived at the time of Richard the Second. The family’s marriages were strong beyond the memory of his grandfather.  Always great cunning was taken training the heir, and finding the right bride.  Money had little to do with it,  Women were sought for their spirit, brains, and loyalty.  You are the first bride in living memory forced on the House of Trevor.”  A slight smile formed on his lips.  “Still, perhaps this marriage will prove fortunate for the Trevor’s.  That is something only you and Peter can decide.”

    “He ...  he’s so horribly disfigured.” She lowered her eyes.

    “Have you sought to ask why?”  Anthony said.  “Eight years ago he and his friend were under graduates at Oxford.  A professional  swordsman named Allan Carnahan challenged Peter’s friend to a duel.  In the fight the friend was killed.  Peter was beaten, then bound while Carnahan used his sword  and slowly did what you see.  The mercenary took a very long time.”

    “God! How could anybody do such a thing?”

    “Peter vowed vengeance, but his father became seriously ill, and he had to learn to run the estates and trading enterprises.  Still, he has indulged his passion for the sword.  Even you have heard of Adrian de Chemeau.”

    “The best of the best.  My father saw him put on a dueling demonstration.  He was in near ecstasy watching, and spoke of the experience with great reverence ever after.”  She shook her head.  “The art of killing neatly with a sword.”

    “Your husband has been studying under him for six years.”

    “He’s healed now.”

    “Physically.  But raw wounds still festered inside.  He can be quite savage when he sees what he believes to an injustice.   Ho!”   Anthony pointed.

    The men had broken off and created a large ring.  In the center Peter and Adrian faced each other with sword and dagger.  Steel rang and sparks flew as blades sought flesh.  A running commentary in forceful broken English rose above the labored breathing and clash of steel.  Twice Peter touched  the Frenchman before the foreigner’s word cut Peter’s surcoat over his heart, exposing chain mail.  A startled chorus of male voices exclaimed aloud.  Catharine swallowed.

    The battle continued with renewed vigor.  A quarter of an hour sped by without a touch.  Then the Frenchman changed to a fast slashing attack.  Catharine watched Peter forced back almost of the edge of the ring.  He parried a thrust, seemed to fall, but came under Adrian’s guard, in seconds the sword master stood weaponless, sword and dagger whipped from his grasp.

    The black bearded giant bellowed with joy and wrapped Peter in a huge Gallic embrace, kissing him on both cheeks.  “You see, he is the master now.”  The others  gathered around the two exhausted men.  Catharine could make out his words.  “You need remember, the emotions are the key.  You enemy may know de sword, but you make him forget by making anger. Yes?”

     A sentry hurried over.  “Rider approaching, my lord.  He’s in our livery.”

    “Send down the drawbridge, John.  Escort him here at once.”  The deep music in his voice ran through Catharine’s body.  She wished somehow to store the sound within her.

    “My lady, I am needed. You must excuse me. I will send Bess to you again.”  Anthony bowed and withdrew.  Catharine stood silent, staring at the tangle of excited men.  It was plain Peter was very popular.   He tossed in a course joke, bringing a roar of male laughter.

    The courier rode straight to the men.  Dismounting, flushed and excited, he handed Peter a small scroll.  Peter thanked the man, broke the seal, and scanned the paper.  A silent expectation settled over the men.   Catharine could feel the welded purpose of the company.

   Peter looked up.   “Hugh, thirty men ready in an hour.  We ride to London.  It seems the Lord Constable has already started to move against us.  Buckingham’s confiscated a warehouse of ours as smuggled goods.”   Peter shouldered through the crowding men volunteering to Hugh, his master-at-arms.

    Outside the crowding men, Peter met Anthony and thrust the paper in his hands.  Anthony read it.  “We’ll be ready to go in an hour, Peter.”

    Catharine hurried down to the Great Hall, almost bumping into Bess.  “What is going on, Bess?”

    “We’re going to London, Catharine.  It’s a smelly dirty place, but I like it.  So alive.  People going everywhere.”  Her blue eyes sparkled.

    Peter entered the Great Hall with Anthony.  “I’m sorry, Catharine, I’ll be going to London.”

    “I’m going with you.”

    Peter’s face changed to irritation and then went blank.  “You need time here to collect yourself.  Get used to the people and your new home.”

    “There may be no new home with the way Buckingham is moving,”  she said, trying to stifle her anger.  “He wastes no time.”

    “It’s too dangerous, Catharine.”  Peter’s face remained wooden.

    “You forget, my lord, I lived with Buckingham for four years.”  She willed herself to be heard.  “There is information I could give you that might prove useful.”   

    Peter stared at her.

    “You don’t trust me.”

    He shifted his feet.  Sweat from the duel stood out on his forehead, darkening his hair.  “You have impeccable Lancaster background from both your family and former guardian,” he said.  “No, I don’t trust you.”

    She looked down and smoothed her gown, irritated that her future lay in another’s hands.  Schooling her expression, she looked up.  “I may know people who would be useful to you.  With Buckingham you can’t leave one stone unturned.  The man is too clever.”

    She felt his golden eyes resting on her.  A chill ran down her spine.  She wanted to touch his face tenderly, not turn away in revulsion or slap it.  How could this be?  The wanting.  This pounding in her heart. This growing need within to touch, to hold, to be part of ...  She felt the blood rising in her face.

     Peter smiled, wrinkling the savage scar.  “You blush becomes you, Catharine.”

    The music in his voice ...  She wanted more.  To touch the source of this ravaging music.  To make it part of her.  In her mind she began the forbidden - the touching.

    She squeezed her eyes shut, thankful no one could read her thoughts.  But opening them, she wasn’t so sure.  His leopard golden eyes studied her, creating within her a compelling want to touch him.  She stamped her foot, tightening her fists, and turned away exasperated.

    “I’m sorry, Catharine.”  Again the irresistible music raced through her.  “You’re right.  You might be useful in solving this problem.  Buckingham is ruthless.  He has something more in mind than my wealth.  That is only part of the picture.”  He paused and chuckled.  “You’ll find Agnes in our chamber.  Pack one small chest.  Everything you need you’ll find at our Great House in London.”

    Acute relief flooded her as she hurried up the wide staircase to their chamber.  Pausing at the landing, she stared at her trembling fists, and cursed the feelings and thoughts that betrayed her.  First her body, and now her emotions.  She glanced down at Peter still speaking with Anthony.  How in God’s sweet name could this be happening?  She wanted him, yet she hated what he was, a Yorkist merchant with a noble pedigree she could only wish for.  He had no loyalties except to himself and his estates.  Tears of frustrations wet her cheeks, and she wiped them away.  Glancing down again, she found his intense and unreadable gaze resting on her.  She tried to smile. He returned the smile, sketching a bow of encouragement.  God, why this man?

    Dust and drying sweat coated Catharine.  Six hours of rocking side saddle had made her back ache and chafed her in places she didn’t care to think about.  She stared in irritation at her husband, still unnaturally fresh, and obviously enjoying the ride.  Grey Harold tossed his mane, and Peter let the great beast have his head and race far ahead of the cavalcade.  The beauty of the man and horse, together as one, could not be denied.  Peter was in  his element.  Surely she could enjoy that, and still despise the marriage.

    Agnes, her maid, rode on a mule next to her.  The admiration in her ancient wrinkled face was plainly evident.  “Ye married a feisty one there, my sweet.  I’ll warrant he’ll make healthy children when the time comes.”