Lindsay Townsend (8 page)

Stephen cocked his head on one side. “With
me?”

Her eyes darkened. “Even with you.” She
clenched her fists. “You are so reasonable.”

He shrugged, keeping matters light although
he knew these were things of shade. “For years you have not been able to be
angry. Now you can indulge.”

She frowned, looking ready to protest, but
he went on, seeking to show her that he understood. “And all alloys take time
to meld.”

“Alloys?”

“Is that not what marriage is?”

Her face fell. “I do not know.”

She is eighteen and has known no men but
brutes.
“Let me teach you,
Mistress Angel.”

She glanced at him, a wicked tease that
gave him heart and pleasure together. “A seven year apprenticeship?”  

He chuckled and kissed the tip of her nose.
As she scowled he eased his arms about her, then plucked a strand from the hay
and put it in his mouth, to make her laugh. When she found a feathery grass top
and tickled his face with it he reckoned they were making progress.

I shall court her. We shall court each
other. It will not take seven years, perhaps not even seven days. She is a
passionate creature who needs a little space to heal, a little time to know she
can trust me. I shall ask Tom if we can stay on, just for a few more days.

A few more days would serve in other ways,
too. Duke Henry would be back in London and he had things to tell him.

Isabella does not realize what she saw in
that goldsmith’s house and workshop, but I do. And it is the means to set her,
Matthew and the rest of us free.

Isabella was delighted that she and Stephen
stayed in the hay barn for so long, until long past nightfall and moon-rise.
They lay side by side in their soft, scented bower and talked. He told her of
his childhood in Kent and the delights that awaited her and Matthew. He told
her of serving as an apprentice. She told him of London, and its gossipy,
quarrelsome warm-hearted folk, of the alleyways close to
The Street
, of how
she had met Amice.

She did not speak of her marriage to
Richard. She knew Stephen understood her silence and that she did not need to
tell him, unless she chose. That freedom was a wonder to her and, she guessed,
another gift of love.
He loves me. That is the true miracle.

Her Stephen now.
He has helped me rescue
my son and we love each other. How am I now so lucky?

She knew, too, that he wanted her, but he
held off, proving he was no Richard Martinton. That night she slept beside her
son in Thomas’s workshop, on thick straw pallets. Again, without any long
explanation between them, Stephen understood her need to be close to Matthew. “It
lets him know you are there with him in the night,” he said, tactfully turning
the matter about.

“It will not be for long,” Isabella said
quickly.

His slow smile steadied her. “I know.”

During the next day and the days that
followed, Stephen was attentive and affectionate, giving her light kisses and
tiny caresses. After supper and evenings was their special time, out in the
hay-barn. To Isabella’s mingled delight and embarrassment, everyone knew it. By
the second evening Joanna and Matthew were even opening the workshop door and
pointing the way for them, giggling in joint and happy unity.

“I thought we were hurrying to Kent?” she
asked, on their third evening together.

Stephen shook his head. “No need for haste
now,” he answered mysteriously.

“Then your work?” she persisted.

He stroked her arm, a sweet tingle. “My lord
is used to my coming and going. And there have been many saints’ days of late, times
of holiday.”

She had forgotten about the holy days, overwhelmed
as she was by concern for her son. “Amice says that Sir William sent his
servant John to her shop yesterday. Her ‘prentice told the story of her going
on pilgrimage and the man went away.”

Stephen nodded. “They will not find us
here. Amice’s lad is sensible and he knows how to evade pursuit.”

“But for how long? How long will I have to
look over my shoulder to protect my son?” Again the rage was building, hot in
her head.

Stephen rolled a little away from her and
sat with his feet dangling into the hay loft. “It will not be for much longer,
Isabella, I swear it. When you spoke of seals, I knew we had a weapon against them.”

“How so? Men have seals for letters, yes,
but what of it?”

“Because one of the more lucrative, secret
and illegal trades in London is in forgery. They are forging seals! Why else
was Sir William so alarmed when your mother-in-law mentioned them? Why else the
secrecy? Making false seals is an evil crime and, depending on whose seals they
are copying, it may be treason.”

Ignoring his large scowl, Isabella settled
beside him and dangled her legs over the edge. As fast as it came, her anger
burned away, to be replaced by puzzlement. “Treason?”

“If they are making forgeries of the king’s
great seal, the one that he attaches to his charters and writs, then that is
treason.”

Would the family dare?
She thought of Sir William’s love of
luxury and had her answer. “We have no proof.”

“It will be found, believe me. Tomorrow, I
intend to seek an audience with Duke Henry, who has now returned to his palace
at the Savoy. When I tell my lord what I suspect the Martintons are doing, his men
will raid their workshops.” Smiling grimly, Stephen stretched his arms above
his head. “Sir William and the rest will never trouble you again, I promise
you.”

 Never again, a wonderful thought, so large
in scope that she could scarcely believe it. In a fierce spurt of joy she
almost forgot where she was sitting. Stephen caught her arm and steadied her.

“I think you should come away from that
drop,” he growled.

 “I will when you do. Matthew and I will be
free to walk in London before we go on to your manor house in Kent?” she added
quickly, to divert him.

“If it pleases you.” Stephen trailed a
fingertip over her left breast. “Though ‘manor house’ sounds very grand. It is
simply a home.”

“A home for all of us.” It was so lovely to
be able to say that.

“Yes, it is that.”  He rubbed noses with
her. “Are you eager to be out and about in your city again?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Would you like to stroll out now, Mistress
Angel? The evening is fine.”

Startled, Isabella glanced back at the
inviting piles of hay and tried to quell her disappointment and yes, her
resentment. “If you like.” She wondered if she sounded sulky.

Keeping her face composed, she watched
Stephen swing his legs round and step away from the drop. Copying him, she did not
think she had revealed any of her feelings but gasped now as he suddenly snared
her in a fierce embrace.

“This is what I like,” he told her, kissing
her lips and hands and throat. “I think you do, too, or should I stop?”

“No,” she said quickly, turning so he could
cup her breasts. “Do not stop, Stephen, please.”

He lifted her in his arms and laid her down
in the hay. He enfolded and caressed and undressed her, saying how very
beautiful she was. He told her he loved her, over and over. He coaxed her to
undress him and when she called him beautiful, he laughed.

Slowly and very sweetly, they joined. For
her, and for the first time in her life, she understood how man and woman could
truly be one. Fearing pain and tearing, she knew only dizzying, glorious
pleasure, followed by a hot, sweaty, salty tenderness.

And then more, again, much more…

****

That night she and Stephen slept in the hay
loft—when they slept at all.

“I must come with you. Yes, Duke Henry has
summoned you, Ste, but this concerns me and mine.”

“Ste” was Isabella’s new nickname for him.
Stephen was not sure if he liked it and he certainly disapproved of her idea of
flitting with him to the Savoy. He drummed his fingers on his belt and looked down
his nose at her. A few days ago, his maddening little wench would have argued
or paled when he glowered. Now she merely tapped her foot. A pretty foot, clad
in a new boot, but then she was pretty altogether and regaining weight.

“And Matthew?”
Surely mentioning her son
will stop this mad idea.

Isabella took a deep breath, as if to blow
away the eddying breeze that plucked at her skirts and hair. “Amice and Thomas
are walking back to her shop today. Matthew and Joanna are desperate to go with
them. Please, Stephen, the children are going wild, cooped up like doves in a
cote. Let them go out with them. And let me come with you.”

She was hard to resist when she pleaded but
he tried. “What if this whole matter goes against me?”

The instant he spoke he knew he had made a
mistake. Isabella pounced on it at once. “Then you must not go, either.”

He snorted. “One does not ignore a duke.”

 “As your betrothed I should be with you,
to support you, Ste.”

No, I do not like Ste as a pet name, but
that will keep. This could be life and death.
“There may be a trial by ordeal.” He planned to wear
chain mail and take his weapons, ready to fight.

Isabella straightened and tilted up her
chin, trying to make herself look taller. The rising wind howled behind her as
she declared, “I should be the one to undergo it. I heard of the seals. I told
you of them. If your duke requires witnesses then he will need to question me.”

“No, I want you safe.” He rubbed the tight
muscles at the back of his neck, wishing the weather would whip into a roaring
gale, to keep her at home. “Sir William and his kin may be there.”

“I would like to face them. I would like to
win over them, just once.”

A score for her and a natural desire but,
staring at his determined, breeze-blown angel, Stephen felt an ashy despair. “I
could not bear the thought of you or Matt at risk, Isabella. It would hamper
me.”

Now she did pale. “I had not considered
that. I am sorry.” She looked away from him to the pink dawn seeping round the
roof-tops and scratched at her hand, a trick she did when nervous.

“Why can Isabella not go with you?” His
sister stepped into the courtyard and closed on them rapidly. “Has she not
spent enough time waiting on others?”

Isabella blushed a deep rose but Bedelia
was far from finished. “Those wretched Martintons are not God. Duke Henry has
more sense than to give them victory. Take her with you to the Savoy, Stevie.
You will both be easier.”

Stephen knew he was beaten. He threw up his
hands, biting back the question, “Did you put her up to this?” to his anxious
betrothed. Isabella did not do those kind of underhand things.
And
how
would you like to be left behind? Not much.
“Very well! Can you walk in
those new boots?”

“Yes, Stephen,” said Isabella quickly.

She looked so meek and biddable he wanted
to take her to bed again, although they had only just risen from the hay loft.
Contenting himself  with kissing her, Stephen opened the gate through which
they could walk down to the Thames to pick up a wherry. “Come then, before I
change my mind.”

****

For the third time that month Isabella
found herself at the enormous palace of the Savoy as she and Stephen were
escorted by three liveried servants of lord Henry toward the ducal apartments
set behind the great hall.
One day I might come here and be at ease and
happy to admire, but not today.
The palace was vast, its grounds sprawling,
its servants endless, but what were these things to her? As she and Stephen
crossed a courtyard the sneaking breeze snapped at her ankles and nipped her
ears, reminding her, though she needed no reminders, of others who had pinched
and bullied her.

I may meet Richard’s family here. I must be
prepared.
She cast her
mind back to what Sir William and her mother-in-law had said about seals but
could think of nothing new. She felt a squeeze on her hand.

“Not far and not long now.” Stephen, his
dark hair twirled by the breeze, gave her a comforting smile. “Whatever
happens, you and Matthew will remain together. Duke Henry swore as much to me.”

A glint in his eyes made her gasp. “You
compelled the duke to swear this?” she said softly, conscious, though Stephen
seemed unconcerned, of those liveried servants.

“I suggested that if he wanted me to
testify he should do so.” He laughed at her expression and swung her hand. “Be
not so worried, Mistress Angel. My lord is a fair man.” He tugged her closer
and dropped a kiss on her trembling mouth. “And he will adore you.”

His green-gray eyes twinkled at her,
reminding her of a form of lapis lazuli. And there was something about that
brilliant, blue-green stone that was important, that Sir William had said, or
done, some action.

She creased her forehead and scratched her
fingers, striving to remember. Beside her Stephen dipped his head as they
entered a cloistered walk, then sneaked a kiss from her as the shadows briefly
hid them.

“Stephen!”

He grinned. “Better than Ste, at least.”

So she would have to find another pet name.
And he had done it. He had diverted her and now as she relaxed a little the
vital memory shimmered through and she caught it.

“What?” he said.

She shook her head. She could be
mysterious.

They turned round one corner of the
cloister—straight into three more servants of the duke, bringing Sir William
and his party. There were over a dozen of them, Isabella realized with a
sickening jolt, and every man armed to the teeth. Her nerves already at
screaming pitch, she heard the screech of a blade and saw sparks on the cloister
wall as a squire in Sir William’s party clumsily drew his sword.

“Traitor!” roared Sir William, spitting the
word as his whole party charged, ignoring and even cutting at the duke’s people
in their rush to reach her.

It was madness and Isabella felt it herself.
As Stephen leapt forward to shield her, she jumped sideways, screaming, “Here,
then, here!” and drew her dagger—the sharp, honed dagger that Stephen had given
her.

With yells, bared weapons and whirling arms
the gaudy column surged like a sea breaker toward her, but Stephen lunged and
shielded her again, his sword arm faster than lightning. One of Sir William’s
men screamed and toppled, clutching a gaping, pumping wound in his chest.
Another slipped on the blood and crashed against a pillar, crumpling into a
dark, twitching heap. Stephen charged a second time and another man screamed,
his cry cutting off abruptly as he fell. Backing up against another pillar,
Isabella saw a blur of movement from the corner of her eye as a man tried to
come at Stephen from his blind side.

“No!” She slashed with her puny knife,
ducking as a blade sparked down the pillar toward her. She could not escape its
lethal track…

A huge hand clamped round her arm and
yanked her away. Stephen whirled and dropped her behind him, roared and took
guard again, the cloister echoing with his battle cry.

“Stand fast! Hold!” called another voice,
clear and cold. More armed men spilled along the cloister walk, swiftly and efficiently
disarming Sir William and his people. Stephen lowered his sword and closed his
eyes.

“You have convinced me, Stephen.” Pale,
lean and elegant, Duke Henry stalked into his own cloister and took in the
scene. “Now I will hear the rest. Within the treasure room, I think.”

Why there, Isabella wondered, before she
recollected that Stephen had mentioned that the French King was a hostage
within this palace.
The duke will not want the king of the French to hear unsavory
tales of forged great seals and the London goldsmiths.
Her chest tightened
at what was to come.
However this story of seals spins out, please let the
duke believe us
. Fast on the heels of that reflection came another; more a clammy
feeling of rising panic and a heart-felt plea than a thought.
Please,
please, let Stephen be safe, Stephen and my son.

Reaction was setting in, from the shock of
the fight. Already it seemed a distant event, half a legend
. Stephen and I
were attacked at the Savoy by the kindred of my dead husband
. She shuddered
and her jaw would not work as she tried to mouth thanks to her betrothed.

Time felt to have slowed down, but now she
realized only an instant had passed. The duke walked up, his dark eyes very
kind. To her amazement, he offered her his arm. “My lady.”

“No lady,” hissed Margery Martinson from
somewhere behind Sir William. “The morals of a mermaid. She will not keep her
latest paramour for long—”

“I will have silence,” the duke said, and
now there was.

****

Within the treasure room, Stephen lost no
time in standing beside Isabella, a public show of support.
 I am her betrothed
and husband-to-be. Hurt her and you must deal with me
. Besides, she was so
wan he feared she might faint, especially as she swayed slightly on her feet.
He looked at his lord, a silent plea that Isabella be given a chair. Her crazy courage
had horrified him and yet it was so much her, loving and caring and passionate.
She kept glancing at him now, her blue eyes wary and shuttered, as if she
expected him to tear her head off for leaping to defend him.

I am not so unfair, though I admit you
startled me.
He had surely
lost a year of his life in worry when she had pitched herself into the fray.
Her
own family by marriage, attacking her! What bastards.
Striving to keep his
temper, he tapped his sword belt
.
It was a great relief that the duke
clearly liked her, but even though he trusted his lord, a worm of disquiet
still squirmed within his head.
The sooner I get you down to the country, my
sweet, the better.

It amused and rather gratified him that she
could stand amidst this mort of treasure and still be staring at him, a slow up
and down look as if she was checking he was truly unhurt. She flicked a
sideways glance at the dark-robed duke, seated on his chair on a small dais at
the back of the room, but she spared no looks for Sir William and his allies,
nor any for the heaps of  treasure ranged round them.

It was hot and stuffy in the packed,
windowless chamber, with men and a few women arranged in a semi-circle about
the dais, but no one was in danger of dozing.

Attentive as a hound on point, Duke Henry
leaned forward. “A seat for my lady Isabella.”

At once a stool was found and brought.
Stephen breathed out a long sigh of relief as Isabella sank onto the seat. The
duke smiled at her,  candle-light glinting on his fair hair. “Will you have a
glass of malmsey, my lady? I believe you know wine and I trust you will like
this.”

Without waiting for an answer, Duke Henry
snapped his fingers and only Stephen understood that his lord’s small frown was
due to gout, which plagued him. Everyone else stared at the floor tiles while
the message went out through the palace corridors.

Moments later, as he watched a server push
through the lines of people to pour the duke and Isabella glasses of wine,
Stephen reflected on what Duke Henry had said.
So my lord has looked into
her background. Is that good?
He could only hope it was.

“The wine is fine, my lady?” the duke asked,
as Isabella took a sip.

“It is excellent, my lord.” Hearing her
gentle, clear answer, Stephen was relieved afresh, less so when his lord nodded
and said, “To business, then.”

“We should wait for Sir Nicholas,” said Sir
William at once, gathering allies, Stephen guessed. But the duke shook his
head.

“You have sufficient with your kindred, Sir
William,” he said mildly, adding with more bite, “I do not feel my palace will
withstand any more numbers of your goldsmith’s guild.”

“But, my lord, Sir Nicholas is—”

“Late,” said Duke Henry. “We begin now.”

Here we go
. Checking his weapons were still good in case he
should be challenged, Stephen braced himself, ready to give an account and sink
Sir William and his kin forever.

****

The arguments raged and Isabella listened
closely, horribly aware that the fate of her son and her own future happiness
were at stake. Stephen spoke first, of seals and forgery, of Sir William and
his kin so fearful of discovery of their illegal enterprise that they attacked
him and her before the duke could hear their account.

“Yet my men have found no sign of any fake
seals at the workshops of Sir William,” remarked the duke.

“Because there is none,” Sir William
interrupted, and now he launched into a lengthy counter-argument, fixing on
her. According to her uncle by marriage she was a liar, an unfit mother and a
wanton. “She has seduced your poor armorer by her wiles and by wicked magic,”
Sir William finished gravely.