Geoffrey Condit (6 page)

    Catharine growled.

    “You don’t like him, your Yorkist lord?”  The old lady’s lips curled.

    “More like a merchant.”

    “All lords are merchants.  You’ve filled yer pretty head with tales of handsome knights, and lords who only hunt, and hawk, and pay court to the ladies.  Egads, girl, how do you think they have the money to do that?  They spend a lot of time tending their lands and people, at least the better ones do.  You have your head in the clouds, lass.”  She glanced at her charge, a shrewd twinkle in her eyes.  “He’s a handsome one too.”

    “Have you seen his face?”

    “What’s a scar to two, Catharine?”  She cracked a grin.  “It enhances the landscape, if you know what I mean.”

    “No.  I don’t know what you mean. And I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself, if you don’t mind.”

    “I mind, lass.  The deed is done,”  the old lady said matter-of-fact.  “The problem is you haven’t figured that out yet.”

    “I wish it hadn’t happened.”

    “He doesn’t want the marriage either, from what I hear,” she said.  “But the bloody sheet the people were parading around the town puts aside any chance of annulment.”

    Catharine felt the blood soar to her face.

    Agnes cackled.  “Girl, you’ve got to understand, you might not choose the land, but you plant the garden.”

    Torches lit the courtyard, casting uneven light and creating deep shadows.  The Inn of the Black Swam thronged with tired travelers.  Sir Hugh Addison, Peter’s master-at-arms, ordered camp set up in the field behind the inn.  After Peter and Anthony handed down Catharine and Bess from their mounts, Peter turned to Agnes,  “Mistress Scoville, may I help you down?”

    “Thank you, Sir Knight.”  The easy banter between the two irritated Catharine whose sore body ached in every possible place.

    An angry roar erupted from the interior of the inn.  A burly red headed man shot out of the front door and landed in the dirt at Catharine’s feet.  The irate innkeeper stomped out, looking like an enraged bear.  “If ya canna pay for the ale, donna be askin.”  He kicked dirt in the man’s flush face, and started back in.  The man snarled, pulled a dagger, and lunged at the innkeeper’s back.  Peter stuck out his foot, and the man sprawled on the ground.  He looked up and cursed, raising the dagger at Peter, but Anthony kicked the blade out of his hand.

    Three men-at-arms instantly pinned the struggling man to the earth.  A naked sword blade rested on his throat.  He lay still.

    “Wouldn’t ya know?  Some rich lording ... ”  A mailed fist backhanded across the offending mouth, leaving welling blood, and silence.

    “What do you want done with him, my lord?”  Torch light wavered in the breeze, sending shadows shifting.

    “Let’s see if his manners have improved,”  Peter said.  “What is your name?”

    The man’s sullen eyes glared.  “You’re not afraid with your men-at-arms here.  But if you would cross a sword blade. I could teach you a thing or two.”

    “Shall we teach him some manners, my lord?”

    “Indeed we shall.  The men are in need of entertainment.  Have them create a ring.  I’ll teach him some manners myself.”  Harsh male laughter crashed into the night.  In minutes, thirty men had ranged themselves into a circle of chain mail, faces expectant.   Several more torches burst into flames, lighting the darkness.

    Catharine and Bess stood behind Hugh and Anthony at the inn door.  Patrons of the inn poured out at the hint of the duel, and ranged themselves on fences, balconies, and out buildings.  Soon a brisk trade in bets, advice, and opinions erupted.  The heavy garlic breath of the innkeeper flooded around Catharine.  She wrinkled her nose, and eased away from him.

    “Release him.”  Peter stood in the circle, a spare sword in his callused hand.  He tossed the weapon  at the man’s feet, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.  “You said you were going to instruct me.  So pick up the sword and educate us.  Remember what your sword master taught you.”

    Catharine held her breath.  If Peter were to die ...

    The man retrieved the weapon and tested the steel.  He nodded.  “Good weapon.  I’ll be pleased to bury it in your flesh.”

    Peter laughed.  A low rumble of amusement ran through his men.  The stranger attacked in earnest.  Peter parried, but the man over reached himself.  His momentum drove him past Peter who whacked him with a resounding slap on the bottom with the flat of his sword.  When the man staggered and fell to his knees, the ring of men laughed.   Catharine smiled, but her heart beat quickened.

    “What is your name, swordsman?”

    “Castor Breckenridge.”  The torches fluttered in a breeze, making shadows run and dance.

    “My God.  A man of mythical proportions.  Who is your sword master, lad?”  Peter asked.

    “Allen Carnahan.”

    Startled, Peter hesitated for the briefest second.  The man growled and lunged.  But Peter parried, and Catharine sensed a hardening and a wariness in her husband.

    “Remember, gentlemen, about anger,”  Peter commented, countering a furious attack.  Castor backed off.

    He licked his lips, cleared his  throat, and spat into the dirt.  Chest heaving, he studied Peter.  Then he nodded, and began to attack again.  Twice Castor came close to touching Peter, who countered, sending him on the defensive.  Catharine watched the confusion growing in Castor’s eyes to be replaced by desperation.

    “First blood takes your woman,” Castor snarled.

    An angry growl rose from the men and some edged forward, swords out of their scabbards.

    “Put up. Hold the ring.  It’s almost over.”  The men fell back at Peter’s command.  Castor stood eager.

    If Peter makes one small mistake ...  I’d be free.  Free.  The richest heiress in England.  The unbidden thought thrust itself into Catharine’s mind. 

    “Almost over?”  Castor attacked again, and Peter feinted.  Too late, Castor tried to correct, and found the sword jerked out of his hand.  He knelt,  Peter’s sword at his throat.  “You won’t kill me,” he blustered.  “I’m part of the Duke of Buckingham’s household.  He’s Lord Constable.”

    “I never said I intended to kill you.  Only teach you some manners.  But hiding behind your master won’t help if you insult my wife again.  Do that and I will kill you, and your master will do nothing.”  The torchlight held steady.

    Castor’s yellow teeth showed under a breaking sneer.  “You have such a pretty face.”

    Peter’s sword bade rose and fell.  Castor howled in pain, nursing damaged knuckles.  “Next time you mention my pretty face you will lose the use of your sword hand.”  Peter’s sword twitched.  Castor, shaking, stared up as the steel pinned his hand to the earth.  The torches glutted in a strong breeze.  A low murmur ran through the spectators.  Catharine could feel the man’s agony.

     Peter said, “Can you see yourself without your sword hand?  Would life be worth living if you no longer had the means to bully people?   I think not.”

    Castor breathed in tight tortured gasps

    “Will you see the Butcher?”

    “Yes.”  Agony, raw and shaking, charged the air.

    “Tell your master the Lord of Trobridge will repay him for this pretty face.”  Peter withdrew the sword point.   Castor slumped back from his knees, bloodied hand cradled in his lap.  “Leave this place, Castor Breckenridge.  My anger may yet get the best of me.  You are safer gone.”  He gestured and two men-at-arms grabbed the shocked man and dragged him off.  A resounding cheer went up from Peter’s men.   “An extra barrel of ale for the men,”  he said.  Another cheer echoed.

    Peter handed his sword to Hugh as Catharine came up to them.  “You enjoyed yourself out there.”

    “I did.  The drama proved useful. They are of the same mold.  Carnahan will reintroduce himself.”  His lips curled with pleasure.  His eyes cold.

    “Haven’t you enough trouble with Buckingham?”

    HIs golden eyes smiled with his generous mouth.  “And you, Catharine?  Lancaster born and bred.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Forbidden thoughts, my lady?  Don’t fight them.  It’s a symptom of being human.  What did the poet, Richard Chastain say?  ‘They creep in on mouse quiet feet without guilt or sin, quicken the soul with a hundred gut wrenching questions and possibilities.’”  He brushed her arm with his hand.  She felt an electric shock run the length of her body.  “There is no need to seek confession over this, my dear.  I can survive the experience if you can.  I don’t think we need to give up on each other yet.”

    “That is hopeful news.”  Catharine smiled through stiff lips, and cursing her secret thoughts, followed Peter into the inn.  

4

Peter raised a gloved hand.  The iron-bound double gate swung in on well-oiled hinges, exposing the wide courtyard to the tumult of Bishopgate Street.  Cobbled paving stones rang with the clip-clop of horse and mule hooves, the heavy thud of wooden cart wheels.  A host of smells assaulted Peter - earthy vegetables on their way to market, fresh hay from the countryside, and the stronger stench of unwashed bodies scurrying about their business.

    He caught Catharine’s curious gaze.  “It wasn’t your fault,” he said.  She blushed to the roots of her chestnut hair, and turned her face away.  A wisp of lavender flashed him back to last night when he’d become aware of her warm body snuggling against him in the dark.  Reaching out a tentative hand he’d come upon a warm curved thigh pressed against his leg.  They’d both pulled back suddenly, wide awake.  The tension lay charged between them.

    Desire and caution warring, Peter left the bed, and taking tinder and paper from the flax box, lit a candle.  The flame created a window through which they stared at each other.  Her dark chestnut hair spilled around her face, framing her look of alarm.  Her sleeping shift caught at breast and hip, accentuating her curves.  She scrambled to her knees, searching for the dagger.  Peter retrieved it from under the edge of his pillow and handed the weapon to her.  Growing conscious of her shaping night dress, his interested eyes, she pulled a large green robe over herself.

    Peter swore.  She turned red.  Then he got back into bed, turned his back to her, and lay there aware of her silent stare until he finally fell asleep.

    Now Catharine shifted on her horse.  “Last night wasn’t altogether unpleasant.” Her prim voice drew a smile from him.

    “How long have you known Sir Robert Brackenbury?” she asked.  Surrounded by their five man escort, they moved out of the gate.  The traffic of merchants, peddlers, and others flowed around them.

    “Six years,” Peter said.  “Brackenbury knew my father.”  The hawking voices of shopkeepers, peddlers lifted above the noisy traffic.

    “Have you met the King?”

    “Once.”   Peter felt his stomach tighten and the unbidden memories flooded his mind.

    “Are you ill, my lord?”

    “No.”  He dragged the word out.  The Battle of Tewkesbury.   May 1471.  His father weeping, saying his uncle was to be executed for treason the next day.  Peter forced the memory away.

    “You said you met the King?”

    “When I was sixteen.  During Tewkesbury.  I fought in the van of the army he commanded.”

    “You fought at Tewkesbury?”  She focused her full attention on Peter.  “You fought against your uncle?”

    He let out a harsh laugh.  “We didn’t have much choice.  King Edward made his summons, and we were too close to avoid joining the army.  It was bloody.”  He remembered the fear - long lines at the latrines the night before, shifting anxious men, and stomping horses sharing the half light of dawn.  Finally, relief when the killing began.

    “Anthony Will told me King Edward knighted you,”   Catharine said.

    “Aye.  On Bloody Meadow.  I’d saved his brother from a battle ax.  Then he executed my uncle.”

    “But your uncle was sworn to Lancaster and the Duke of Somerset.”

    “True.  He refused to deny his allegiance.”  Peter turned away, tears fresh on his scarred face.

    “I am sorry, my lord.  He was my intended.”

    Peter turned back, unashamed, his gaze locked with hers.

    “He meant a great deal to you,” she whispered, eyes wide, face serious.

    “We took him home with us.  Edward allowed the right of honorable burial.”  He wiped his eyes, and cursed the freshness of a memory twelve years old.

    “My lord?”

    “Thank you, John.”  Peter took the note from his retainer, and opened it.   Cursing silently, he chewed his lower lip.  Rotten timing.  But I have no choice.  He put the note in the cuff of his sleeve.

    “What is it?”  Catharine asked, voice curious.

    “We have to stop in the next courtyard to see an old friend.  It shouldn’t take but a few minutes.”

    “You look troubled.”  She shifted in the side saddle.

    “Troubled?”  He reined in a restive Grey Harold.  “I suppose I am.  This friend doesn’t know I’m married.”

    Catharine gave him a curious look.  “Your friend will be upset?”  A double gate yawned open and they walked their horses into a wide courtyard before a two story manor house.  Brown eddies of dust swirled around their horses hooves.  Grooms took their reins.  The creak of saddle leather, and clang of metal on metal sounded as they dismounted.  Their armed retainers were ushered toward the kitchens for refreshment.  The smell of fresh bread wafted across the courtyard.   The chatter of servants, the nicker of horses mixed in the air.  The gate closed.

    A tall graceful woman, her shining brown hair in coiled braids, walked to greet them.  Her brown gown trimmed with fox fur kicked gently behind her with each step.  Mischievous green eyes lighted with pleasure.  “Peter.”  She held out her hands.

    Peter took her hands, and bowed, kissing her creamy cheek.  “Jane.”  He swallowed, wanting to be away, but this had to be done.  He schooled his face, uncertain feelings working in his chest.

    Jane turned to Catharine and took her hands.  “And who is this enchanting creature?”  Her fingers felt the iron wedding band, and she recoiled.   Face pale, she glanced at Peter and recovered.  Her smile, now like glass, returned.  “I’m sorry,” she said graciously.

    “Lady Jane Beauchamps, this is my new wife, Catharine Clifford.”

    “By the King’s command,” Catharine added.

    “Richard did this?”  Jane’s astonished  gaze rested on Peter.  She still held Catharine’s hands, and her face remained pale.  He could see the frantic struggle for control taking place in her.   Sick inside, he willed himself to control his face and voice.

    “His Grace gave me the former Clifford Barony of Westmorland.”  Peter accepted the goblet of watered wine, and sipped.

    “A Lancaster stronghold.  He secures it with you since you’re known to bind your people to you with love and justice.  What more could a King want?”  She nodded, restoring Catharine’s hand, and accepted a goblet of Renish wine.  It trembled in her hands.  “A wise move.  Your family is known to be free of treachery and ambition.  Good for the Realm.”

    They stepped into the manor house.  Peter wanted to take Jane in his arms and drive the desolation away.  He glanced at Catharine.  Her face, though largely masked, betrayed a mixture of anger and wariness.  Sunlight splashed onto the polished wood floor, and lit the colors of the tapestries, giving life to the people and animals frolicking there.  Peter touched the wool.  “We think the Lord Constable is responsible,” he said.

    Jane cocked her head.  “Why Buckingham?  What interest does he have in creating this marriage?”  The heiress of the Beauchamps bit a honey cake, her masterful nose dominating her pleasing features.  She must be devastated inside, Peter thought.  Poor Jane.

    “We aren’t sure, ” Catharine said.  “I was a Ward of the Crown in his custody.  He brought me to Trevor’s Mist for the marriage pretending we were out on a hunting trip.”  She breathed a ragged breath.  “Privately, he vowed to obliterate my House from the face of the earth.”

    Jane said,  “He’s made many enemies since attaching his natural arrogance to his high offices.  You must ever keep your wits about you with men like that in high places.”  She frowned.  “Revenge is a petty man’s vice, but it drives people like the duke.  You have much to lose, Peter.”  She surveyed them, still unnaturally pale.  “I will send my good servants to find information that might be useful.”

    “Thank you, Jane, ” Peter said, beginning to relax.

    She turned to Catharine.  “You are the most fortunate of women.  You’ve been given every opportunity.”

    Catharine swallowed and said, voice tight,  “I’m not sure of that.”

    Jane gave a short laugh.  “Once you’ve gotten over that silly idea, you’ll see what I say is true.”  She locked gazes with Catharine.  “Don’t wait too long.  You haven’t the luxury with Buckingham interested in your lives.”

    Later, in the saddle after their leave taking, Catharine turned to Peer, her eyes hard, lips tight.  Her voice sounded strained.  “She was one of ... ”

    “My wives-to-be?”  Peter stared at her. “Yes.  To be blunt, she headed the list.  I was ... ”

    “Hoping?“  She finished, venom in her voice.

    “At one time, yes.  We hoped to be married.”  Mother of God.  Difficult woman.  Can’t she see Jane has nothing to do with her?  “Look, Catharine, let’s not pursue the hurt.  It’s mine.  Not yours.  We’ve both been damaged by the events of the last few days.  Let’s not compound them.”  He glanced over at her tight face, light revealing the fine sculptured planes.

    “They’re already compounded,”  she replied, staring straight ahead.

    Exasperated, he swore under his breath.  Jealous creature.  “You ... ”

    “My lord!  The Duke of Buckingham approaches.”

    The Stafford banner floated red and black against the blue morning sky.  Twelve armed retainers preceded the duke, who was wearing black edged with gold.   He halted his black gelding in front of Peter.  “I see marriage agrees with you.  Your expressions could compete with a thunderstorm.  How pleasant to see that my efforts bear fruit.”

    “Good day to you, my lord of Buckingham,”  Peter said. “We were just saying our marriage might have been God-sent.”  He smiled.

    The duke’s face drained of color and his eyes narrowed.  He cleared his throat.  “Pray enlighten me.”

    “In your hast to marry us, you forgot that Catharine’s mother was a Neville cousin.  One of the most influential families in the realm.”

    “Ha.  Traitors to a man.”  The duke sneered.  “The Neville’s played both sides, Lancaster and York, until King Edward killed them.”

    “But the Neville women still have the King’s ear,”  Peter said, “Remember his Queen and mother.  Be careful, my lord, less you offend them.”

    “You threaten the Lord Constable?”  Buckingham asked, astounded.

    “No one threatens anyone, my lord,”  Peter said, his voice cool.

    “I have the power to determine treason, and to pass judgment on the guilty.”  Buckingham’s nostrils flared, genuine anger in his voice.

    “No one is questioning your office, Your Grace.  I simply offer a word of caution.  If a hunter seeks a mighty prey, he should take care to insure the prey doesn’t hunt him in return.”

    Catharine sucked in her breath.  The air stood charged with his veiled threat and insult.

    The duke’s face went red.  He strangled on his words.  “By God, man ... ”

    “Your Grace, ” Peter said, still smiling.  “We but pass the day in sweet conversation.”  Catharine touched his arm, plainly alarmed.

    “Your words reek of carelessness, Sir Peter.  You are one of the great barons in the land.  I thought better of you.”  Buckingham’s knuckles went white on his reins.  “I see you arranged with the Attorney General to have the charges dropped and your warehouse restored to you.”

    Peter reined in a restive Grey Harold.  The duke’s gelding back stepped.  “It was plainly a false charge, Your Grace.”

    The duke smile thinned.  “No matter.  It served its purpose.”

    “You would do well to remember who knighted Peter and why, Your Grace.”  Catharine’s soft voice lit the air dangerously.

    “The lady dares instruct me,”  the duke said acidly. “Sir Peter, you’d do well to control your wife.  I suggest beating her twice a day.”   He nodded curtly to his retainers to move off.  “We will meet again.  The play is not over.”

    “Indeed.  It’s only the beginning, my lord duke,” Peter said, tasting bile.  The duke spurred his gelding and rode on.

    “How did you know my mother was a Neville?”

    “I make it my business to know a great many things,”  Peter said.  “One of my grandmother’s was a Neville.”  He chuckled.  “I know what you’re thinking.”

    “What was that?” she asked, face very white.

    “Because we are distantly related, you’re thinking we could get our marriage annulled.”

    “It did cross my mind.”

    Her open challenging stare made him grimace.  Difficult wench.  Mother of God.  What did I do to deserve this?  “The King has decreed our marriage, Catharine.  He doesn’t command lightly.”

    “You know the King.  You have great friends in the Church.”

    “I haven’t seen the King since that day in Tewkesbury.  Yes, I do have high friends in the Church.  Even to the Throne of Peter in Rome, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to try to get the marriage annulled.  One doesn’t insult one’s monarch.”

    “What are your other objections?”

    He could feel her barely submerged anger, grief for a future dying before it could be born.  “You forget the bloody sheet which the servants paraded around the castle and town after our wedding night.  We used it as a tool to give us space.  But it may be the very thing that keeps us married.”