An Honourable Estate (27 page)

Had he tempted her affection, she wondered, as she noticed
the way his dark hair fell in waves to the collar of his dark blue tunic. 
The hand that rested on the table was strong and clean and the nails were
neatly trimmed.  He smiled when he caught her looking at him and the smile
masked an expression she recognised as desire.  He had kept himself in
check up until now, but she knew that he would not wait much longer.  The
sun was already beginning to sink in the reddened sky and a freshening wind was
creeping from the east, making the cloths on the trestles flap irritably. 
Sir Edmund reached for her hand.

“You look chilled, my lady,” he said.  “Shall we go
inside?”

Mabel nodded and cast a warning look towards Mistress
Palmer.  She had forbidden her to indulge in any of the traditional
marriage bed superstitions, where family and friends would escort the couple to
their chamber.  She had also told a slightly shocked Father Gilbert that
she wanted no blessing of the bed, for it had been blessed when she married
William and that it was only her union with him that was fitting in the sight
of God.  The priest had tried to change her mind, but she had been
adamant, and if Sir Edmund was surprised that they were not accompanied as he
led her inside the manor house he made no comment.

Outside, the villagers laughed and shouted as they cleared
away the remains of the feast.  There was still music from the minstrels
and the sound of clapping hands echoed on the evening air as the dancing went
on.

“I think they will dance until dawn,” remarked Sir Edmund.

“You provided a sumptuous feast.  It’s a long time since
they ate so well.  No wonder they are happy,” said Mabel, wondering if he
really thought that it would only take a few roasted fowl and kegs of wine for
him to win the approval of his tenants at Haigh.  She knew that their support
had been for her and that they all wished her happiness, though most knew that
this marriage had not been her own free choice.

She looked around at the windows where Sir Edmund was closing
the shutters against the night air, at the precious beeswax candles that he had
provided, the fireplace with its bright fire, the table, the benches ‒
William’s chair.  She went to touch it, remembering the times he had sat
there until late and she had gone to him, draping her arm around his shoulders
and kissing his rough cheek and whispering in his ear that it was time for
bed.  He used to look up with mischievous eyes and smile and she would go
to the bedchamber to check the little girls were sound asleep before he came to
her.

Tonight Bella and Amelia would stay with Mistress
Palmer.  Even though their new bedchamber was ready, Mabel did not want
them to be in the manor house.  She did not want them to hear her cry out
if she found that her resolve to be meek and compliant was weak.

Too soon the servants were sent to their own beds, the fires
covered and the house made secure.  Sir Edmund held out his hand for
hers. 

“Are you ready?” he asked.  She nodded, avoiding his
eyes.  He took her through to the bedchamber and closed the door firmly. 
The bed had been made up with fresh linen sheets and Edith had sprinkled dried
herbs across the covers and over the floor, filling the room with the scent of
flowers.  Mabel watched as Sir Edmund unlaced the blue tunic and shook it
from his arms before laying it over the coffer that had once held all her
wealth.  He pulled off his leather shoes and rolled his hose down his
muscular legs as he sat on the edge of the bed.  Then he took off his
linen undershirt to reveal a surprisingly broad chest, dusted with freckles and
fine hair.  Wearing only his braies he looked across at her.

“Do you mean to come to me still wearing your wedding gown?”
he asked.  Mabel shook her head and began to untie the cords of the
jewelled and embroidered belt that circled her slim waist; his wedding gift to
her.  Her fingers shook and she was aware of him watching her as she
struggled with it.  She slipped the blue gown and the white kirtle from
her shivering body and folded them neatly into her coffer.  Then she
removed her shoes and peeled off the silk stockings, grasping at the wall to
help keep her balance rather than sit beside him on the bed.

She kept on the embroidered chemise, but she knew that it was
so finely woven that her body was revealed beneath it, and she felt ashamed and
humiliated as he looked at her for a long time.

“Come to me,” he said at last and, like a prisoner going to
the block, she walked slowly across the chamber to stand before him.  He
reached out and his hands on her hips were hot as he pulled her close, between
his legs.  She closed her eyes so that she couldn’t see him admiring her
breasts as they pressed against the thin fabric.  His arms encircled her
and she placed her hands reluctantly on his shoulders, feeling his hard muscles
as he pressed her tightly against him.  Warm lips kissed her neck and
throat and as his hands began to move over her she felt the betrayal of her
body as it responded to his touch.

He lifted the chemise and stripped it from her then pulled
her down with him onto the bed, rolling her over until she was beneath
him.  His mouth covered hers, gently seeking the pleasure of her lips and
against her will she found that she did not resist him.  His slow and
gentle caresses kindled desires in her that she could not control, and when his
warm hands parted her thighs and his weight held her against the mattress she
didn’t struggle.  She closed her eyes tightly and clenched her fingers
into fists as she felt him push inside her.  She tried hard not to think
about William, but the sensations she felt within her made her yearn for him
even more.

When Sir Edmund had finished and parted from her she turned
away and lay curled on her side with a blanket clutched to her as she tried to
contain her tears, afraid that her response would make him angry.  But as
she lay trying to stifle her sobs she felt him move and his hand touched her
arm.

“Mabel?  Did I hurt you?  You should have told me.”

She shook her head in the darkness as she fought to control
herself.  “You did not hurt me,” she told him, wishing that he would leave
her alone and go to sleep.

“Then why do you weep?” he asked in a puzzled voice.  “I
hope it is not because you find me unkind.”

“I do not weep, my lord,” she told him, wiping her eyes and
nose on the blanket as she struggled to make her voice sound even and
controlled.  She moved away from him in the bed and a moment later he
withdrew his hand, though she could hear by his breathing that he did not sleep
either and they both lay very still and quiet, waiting for the morning to come,
the silence only disturbed by the laughter of the last villagers making their
way home.

Chapter Twelve

The Battle of Boroughbridge

At
last, with their empty stomachs filled, William and Dicken lay down on their
pallet beds.  Sleep was a long time coming for William as he watched the
flickering night candle and listened to the groaning of those who had shown
even less restraint than he had at the supper table.

Beside him young Dicken was lost in the easy slumber of
childhood and William smiled as he watched the slow rise and fall of the boy’s
chest.  He loved his two daughters without question, but he had always
yearned for a son and, although Mab had never been reluctant to bear one, they
had not, so far, been blessed.  The famine hadn’t helped, he thought, as
he lay and luxuriated in the unaccustomed feeling of having overeaten, although
a pang of guilt plagued him as he remembered Mab’s stick thin body the last
time he had lain with her and he hoped that she and the girls were safe and
fed.

At least she would approve of what he’d decided to do about
Dicken, he thought.  The boy had told him that his family home was not far
distant, but when he had offered to take him there a look of terror had seized
the boy’s face.

“Do you not want to go home?” William had asked him, finding
it strange that the boy seemed reluctant.

“They will send me back to Lymesey.”

“No.  I’m sure they won’t.  Not when they hear how
he treated you and see your scars.  They’ll be more likely to go and knock
him down again,” said William, absently flexing the fingers of his right hand
as he remembered the pleasure he had gained from punching the man.

But Dicken still shook his head.  “My father thinks that
the discipline is good for me,” he explained quietly.  “If you take me
home and tell him that I have had a beating, he will give me another for
bringing shame on him.”

William had reached out to the frightened child and, with an
arm around his thin shoulders, had drawn him closer as they sat side by
side.  “Then I will not take you back,” he had promised.

“What will happen to me now?” Dicken had asked after a
moment. 

“You can stay with me,” he’d told him.  “You can join my
household and be my squire, and in a year or two I will teach you to be a
knight.”  He had smiled in satisfaction at his decision.  The king
had suggested that he join the forces that were going north for another assault
on the Scots.  It would be useful for him to have a boy to clean his
harnesses and run errands and generally attend to him rather than riding
alone.  Besides, he liked young Dicken and enjoyed his company.

William reached out an arm and fondled Calab’s ears. 
The dog whimpered obligingly and William heard his tail thud a few times on the
floor.  If only it was Mab lying beside him, he thought, as he turned over
again and tried once more to sleep.

The next morning he went to the priory church and, having
dipped his fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross, he went up
to the chancel and the magnificent tomb that the king had erected over the body
of Piers Gaveston.  It was ornate, with twisting vines of flowers and
fruit adorning the panels and on the top, chiselled from the finest white
marble, was an effigy of Gaveston in full armour that bore such a striking resemblance
to the man that William shivered in the dank church ‒ both with cold and
with the revulsion he still felt at the murder by the Earl of Lancaster. 
He owed Lancaster nothing he thought, shaking off the years of loyal service
that he had given in return for the lands at Haigh and Blackrod.  He could
not support a man who had committed such an atrocity and who had betrayed his
cousin to the Scots.  He touched a hand to the tomb in a gesture of regret
and an appeal for forgiveness.  There had been nothing he could have done
to save Gaveston, but he could repay the man by remaining loyal to Edward and
helping him to wreak his revenge.

A week later, warmed and fed and rested, William took his
leave of the king who had given him armour, a cloak, new clothing for both
himself and Dicken, a tent, a packhorse to carry their belongings and a
well-filled purse.  He had bowed gratefully from Edward’s presence after
thanking him for his generosity and now, with a letter of introduction to Sir
Andrew Harcla carefully stowed in his bags, he and Dicken rode out across the
causeway, away from Langley and headed north again.

They had not ridden far when William heard the sound of an
approaching party.  He reined back Hengist to make way for them to pass on
the narrow road when he saw that it was a horse litter coming towards them.

“Move off the road!” cried an outrider and William urged his
stallion onto the wet grass at the side of the rutted track.

 He sat and watched as the party approached and it was
only when Dicken whispered urgently, “My lord!  It is Lymesey!” that he
realised the danger.  To run would attract attention, he decided. 
The best they could do was to keep their heads down, as if in obeisance, as the
man passed and hope that he did not recognise either of them.

From the corner of his eye William saw the curtain of the
litter twitch, but Sir Peter Lymesey only glanced and then looked away, having
reassured himself that whoever was on the road had stepped aside for him.

As the sound of the hooves faded away into the distance
William turned to Dicken and relieved smiles spread over their faces until they
were both laughing uncontrollably.  Then, still chuckling at the near
escape, they heeled the horses back to the track.

“Will we stop at Chorleigh on the way?” asked Dicken as they
rode with a feeble sun on their backs and an icy wind in their faces.  The
boy had voiced the question that William had been pondering over for a day
now.  It was to Haigh that he really wanted to go, and with his pardon
secured inside his tunic he ought to have been free to do so, but he was
uncertain whether the sheriff of Lancaster would extend him much of a welcome
and he decided that it might be better to keep his head low until the earl had
been dealt a final blow.  They could perhaps call at Chorleigh though, he
thought.  There might be news of Mab and it might be possible to get a
message to her.

“We’ll stop a night at Chorleigh,” he replied, turning
slightly in his saddle so that his words were not whisked away on the wind. 
“But I don’t want to linger long.  We have a duty to the king in exchange
for all he has given us.”

Dicken nodded with an enthusiastic grin.  He looked
happy, thought William, who had felt the tension ease from the boy with every
pace away from his family home and from Sir Peter Lymesey.