Читать книгу Marriage Under Siege - Anne O'Brien, Anne O'Brien - Страница 6

An hour later the two round towers, built to overawe the local populace and protect the gateway with its massive double portcullis, loomed dark and forbidding before the small party of travellers. The March day was now drawing to an early close with scudding clouds and a chilling wind that whipped the travel-stained cloaks, tugged at broad-brimmed hats and unsettled the weary horses. It was not weather in which to travel, given the choice. Nor was the castle a welcoming prospect, but the two men approached confidently, knowing that they were expected and that the gate would not be closed against them.

It had been a long journey from London to this small cluster of houses and its imposing castle of Brampton Percy in the depths of the Welsh Marches. Days of poor weather, poor accommodation and even poorer roads in the year of Our Lord 1643. The War, now into its second year, had given rise to any amount of lawlessness, encouraging robbers and thieves to watch the two men with their entourage and their loaded pack horses with more than a little interest, but they had finally arrived at their destination without event. Perhaps the air of determination, of watchfulness and well-honed competence that surrounded the travellers, together with the clear array of weapons, had kept the footpads at bay. Certainly none had been prepared to take the risk.

More problematic had been the small groups of armed forces that frequently travelled the roads in these troubled times. It was not always easy to identify their affinity, to determine friend from foe, Royalist from Parliamentarian. For these two travellers and their dependants, a Parliamentarian force would have signified a friend, an exchange of news, some protection if they chose to travel on together. A Royalist party would have signalled at best instant captivity and a hefty ransom after a long and uncomfortable imprisonment in some local stronghold, at worst, ignominious death, their bodies stripped of everything of value and left to rot in a roadside ditch. So they had travelled carefully and discreetly, their clothes dark and serviceable, nothing to advertise their economic circumstances or social standing other than the quality of their horseflesh and the tally of servants who accompanied them.

On this final afternoon in the rural fastness of north-west Herefordshire, the heavy showers of rain and sleet had cleared, but there was no glimmer of sun or lightening of the heavy clouds, making the sight of the gatehouse doubly welcome. The village street was silent except for chickens scratching in the mud, the inhabitants taking refuge from the elements and the uncertainty, but the travellers were aware of watchful eyes as they passed. Their hands tightened on their sword hilts. No one could afford to be complacent, even when the assurance of hospitality was close at hand.

They made their way past the darkened forge at the crossroads, the timbered inn, the squat shape of St Barnabas’s church with its square tower, until their horses’ hooves clattered on the wet cobbles before the gateway. Immediately they were hailed by a watchman who had been posted to warn of their coming. After the briefest of conversations one of the metal-studded gates was pulled back, allowing them access across a wide dry ditch and beneath the fearsome metal teeth of the portcullis above their heads to the relative sanctuary of an inner passage, which led in turn to an inner courtyard. Someone had hung a lantern in readiness. It guttered, flickering wildly in the draughts, and did little to dispel the shadows of the inner court but yet was a sign of welcome to warm the hearts of the travellers. Servants now emerged from the stableblock and from the heavy wooden door that led from the top of an outdoor stone staircase into the Great Hall of the main house. They were clearly expected. Horses were held, baggage untied, the weary animals led away for food and grooming, servants shepherded in the direction of the kitchen range, leaving the two men to stand and take stock of their surroundings.

‘An impressive establishment.’ Sir Joshua, the shorter of the two, looked around with interest, trying unsuccessfully to keep his already saturated boots out of the standing water that was refusing to drain from the cobbled courtyard. ‘A little medieval for my taste, with little prospect of comfort—but definitely impressive. Built to keep out the Welsh, I expect, as well as the border raiders. Do you remember much of it?’

‘More or less, but I have not been here for years. Lord Edward was not the most welcoming member of the family in recent times.’ His companion, taller, broader, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through the heavy waves of damp hair that clung uncomfortably to his neck.

‘That’s families for you. And now it’s all yours!’

‘Mmm. But do I want it?’ The new owner turned on his heel and surveyed the claustrophobic weight of the heavy stone walls that surrounded them on all four sides, the small windows and the filthy cobbles, with a jaundiced air. ‘There was some argument years back. The story goes, according to my mother, that Lord Edward ordered my father out of the house at the point of a blunderbuss and threatened to fire without warning if he ever set eyes on him or my mother again. Or their children! I believe he described us as hell-born brats. Which was, as I recall, in all honesty the truth!’ A flash of a grin lit his face in the sombre light. ‘It did not trouble my sire overly. He never had any expectations of inheriting, after all. And he hated Edward like the Devil.’

The two men turned towards the outer staircase which would take them up to the main door.

‘Medieval or not,’ the new, albeit reluctant, lord continued, ‘I shall be glad to get out of this wind. I presume you will stay the night, Josh.’

Sir Joshua Hopton laughed. ‘Nothing would get me to travel on tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough. Lead on, Francis. As this is one of the strongest Royalist areas in the country, I do not fancy my chances if I travel on alone and am recognised. My family is too well known for its disloyal sympathies in this locality.’

‘Come, then. I will be glad to give you the freedom of Brampton Percy’s hospitality. Don’t look too closely to your left, but the rat that has just run along the wall is as large as an Irish wolfhound. Are you sure you wish to stay? Your bedchamber might boast a similar occupant.’

On a companionable laugh, the two men stepped through the doorway into a vast high-beamed room that had been constructed as the Great Hall of the twelfth-century border fortress of Brampton Percy. It was vast and echoing, still in the state of its original construction with an open minstrels’ gallery at the far end and any number of wooden screens, strategically placed in an attempt to deflect the prevalent draughts. Apart from a carved oak chest and two oak chairs with high backs and carved arms, the room was empty.

‘Welcome, my lord.’ A quiet voice spoke from behind them and a dark-suited individual emerged from the doorway, which would undoubtedly lead to the servants’ quarters, to bow with grave courtesy and respect. He was of slight build, elderly, with close-cropped white hair, clad in black. He addressed his next words to the new owner, clearly recognising him. ‘We have been expecting you, Sir Francis. My Lord Mansell, as I should now say. You will most likely not remember me. I am Foxton, Lord Edward’s Steward. If I may say so, my lord, I remember you from your visits here as a boy.’ His face remained solemn, but the wavering light from the candle that he carried caught the faintest of twinkles in his dark eyes.

‘Foxton. Yes, of course.’ A smile crossed Lord Mansell’s dark features, lightening his somewhat bleak expression as memories of happier times touched him. ‘The years pass, do they not? I believe I have one painful memory.’ His smile took on a wry twist. ‘Did you not cuff my ear for breaking a pane of rare coloured glass in the chapel?’

‘Indeed I did, my lord,’ the Steward replied with placid acknowledgement. ‘Children can be most high spirited. As you say, it is many years ago.’ Foxton placed the candle on the oak chest and stepped closer. ‘Allow me to take your cloaks and hats.’

‘This is Sir Joshua Hopton.’ Mansell indicated his fellow traveller. ‘He will stay tonight and then travel on to Ludlow tomorrow. I presume we can accommodate him?’

‘Of course, my lord. There will be no difficulty.’

They unfastened mud-caked cloaks, shaking off excess moisture, and handed over hats and gloves. Mansell looked askance at his boots and breeches, also liberally spattered and stained with signs of hard travel. ‘We are not fit for company, Foxton, but I believe that food and drink would be most welcome before anything else—and a fire. We have travelled far and fast today.’

‘Not to mention a comfortable seat.’ Sir Joshua groaned as he stretched his arms, flexed his shoulders. ‘I was becoming welded to that animal to my detriment. Anything with a cushion will be an answer to a prayer.’

‘Of course, Sir Joshua. All has been prepared in the old solar. Robert here will show you the way, my lord, if you have forgot. I hope you will accept my condolences on this sad occasion. All at Brampton Percy are relieved that you could come here so rapidly, given the unexpectedness of Lord Edward’s death and the dangers that threaten God-fearing folk when they set foot outside their homes.’

‘Thank you, Foxton. It is good to be here.’ Mansell’s words were politely bland, but he refused to meet Josh’s eye, deciding that it would not be politic to inform his new Steward of his true sentiments towards his inheritance.

‘I doubt they will be so delighted with your presence when they realise that your views on the present state of affairs in general and His Majesty in particular do not match so well with those of Lord Edward.’ Josh’s words were quietly spoken, for Francis’s ears only. ‘Or those of the rest of this county.’ His brows rose in anticipation. ‘It will be interesting to see the reaction when your neighbours discover that they have acquired a Parliamentarian fox in their comfortable Royalist hen-coop.’

‘Very true.’ Mansell grimaced, but refused to be drawn further. ‘I think that perhaps I will not mention that tonight—it is likely to be an inflammatory subject, as you say, and I have not the energy for anything more than food and a bed. Tomorrow, we shall see.’ He turned back to Foxton, who was preparing to carry off the garments in the direction of the kitchens. ‘Lord Edward’s burial, Master Foxton. Have arrangements been made for it to take place?’

‘Indeed, my lord. The Reverend Gower—the recent incumbent in the church here—has it all in hand. It is to be conducted here tomorrow, Wednesday, at St Barnabas’s, if that is to your convenience.’

‘I do not see any reason why not.’

They turned to follow in the wake of Robert—a soberly dressed servant whose lack of co-ordination and interested glances towards the newcomers betrayed his youth—heading towards the staircase at the far end of the Hall. Their boots sounded hollowly on the oaken boards of the vast room.

‘There is no need for you to feel that you should stay for that event.’ Mansell turned towards his friend, returning to the previous conversation, understanding Sir Joshua’s desire to reassure himself of the safety of his family in Ludlow. ‘And on first acquaintance, I doubt that I can offer you much in the way of comfort here.’ He raised his head to take in the hammer beams above with their festoons of cobwebs and shivered a little as the draughts permeated his damp clothes. There was clearly no form of heat in the room, no warming and welcoming fire, in spite of the vast cavern of a fireplace built into one wall. ‘I would think that nothing has been spent on this place, and certainly no major improvements made since it was built—when?—over three hundred years ago.’

‘Your first impression is most astute, my lord.’

The voice, calm and well modulated and distinctly feminine, took Mansell by surprise. He came to a rapid halt and looked round, keen eyes searching the deep shadows. He could not see the owner.

‘Most of the castle dates back over three hundred and fifty years, my Lord Mansell,’ the observation continued from his right. ‘And I can vouch for the fact that there has been little, if any, attempt to either improve, refurbish or extend it—to the detriment of all comfort and pleasure.’

He swung round. And saw a figure, certainly the owner of the voice, partly concealed in the shadows by the carved screen that ran along the north side of the Great Hall. Her clothes were dark; a glimpse of the pale skin of hands and face being the only sign that initially caught his attention. Presuming that it was merely a servant girl, if an unusually outspoken one, engaged in conducting her own household tasks, he would have continued his progress with merely an inclination of the head in her direction and a lift of his brows, but a discreet cough from Foxton behind him drew Mansell’s attention.

‘My lord …’

The lady approached with graceful steps to stand beside Foxton, her eyes never leaving Mansell’s face. As she emerged from the shadows he glimpsed a movement beside her which soon transformed itself into a large hound. It remained close to the lady’s skirts, as if it sensed her need for protection, its pale eyes fixed on Mansell, its lips lifted into the faintest of snarls, exposing long teeth. Mansell assessed its elegant limbs, its rough grey pelt, its broad head tapering to a narrow muzzle and allowed his lips to curl into a slight smile. So here was the wolfhound itself! The dog growled low in its throat, only quietening when a slender hand was placed on its head in warning.

Thus Mansell turned his attention to the lady, but with cursory interest. A relative? A female dependant? Clearly not a servant, not even the housekeeper, as now indicated by the style and quality of her raiment.

She stood quietly before him, waiting for Foxton, or Mansell, to take the initiative. She was dressed completely in black from head to foot with no decoration or redeeming features, no jewellery, no lace, but her gown was of the finest silk and the fashioning spoke of London. Her brown hair was neatly and severely confined at the nape of her neck, without curls or ringlets to soften the impression. An oval face with clear hazel eyes, well-marked brows and an unsmiling mouth. Her skin was pale, with delicate smudges beneath her eyes, the severe colour of her dress robbing her of even a reflected tint that might have been flattering. She looked, he thought, on the verge of total exhaustion. She was young, but yet not a girl. Not a beauty, but with a composed serenity that had its own attraction. Serene, that is, until he noted her hands, which were clasped before her, but not loosely. Her fingers, slender and elegant, were white with tension. And he could see a pulse beating rapidly in her throat above the high neckline of her gown. He returned his gaze to her face, his brows raised in polite enquiry. The lady simply stood and waited. He had the impression—why, he was unsure—that she had been standing in the shadows of the room since his arrival, watching and listening, making her own judgement. A finger of disquiet touched his spine.

Mansell had no idea who she was. And yet, there was perhaps something familiar about her … He cast a glance at Foxton to help him out of this uncomfortable situation. Before the steward could speak, the lady curtsied and spoke. Her voice, as before, was calm and soft, quite confident, confirming that she was no housekeeper.

‘We have been expecting you, Lord Mansell. You must be weary after your journey.’ There was not even the faintest smile of welcome to warm the conventional words. ‘And your travelling companion. I have arranged for food and wine in the solar, if that will please you. It is the warmest room.’

‘Thank you. Foxton has so directed us. Mistress …?’ He saw the quick glance pass between Foxton and the lady.

‘I see that Lord Edward did not see fit to inform you, my lord.’ She met his enquiring gaze without shyness, her composure still intact. It ruffled him that he was the only one to feel in any way compromised by this situation.

‘Inform me? I am not sure …’ Impatience simmered. His brows snapped together in a heavy frown, usually guaranteed to provoke an instant response. Josh saw it and awaited the outcome with interest.

‘My lord.’ Foxton came to his rescue. ‘If I might be permitted to introduce you.’ He bowed towards the still figure at his side, his face enigmatic, but his eyes sharp. ‘I have the honour to introduce to you Honoria, Lady Mansell. The wife—the recent bride—of Lord Edward. This gentleman, my lady, is Sir Francis Brampton, a distant cousin of Lord Edward and, as heir to the title, now Lord Mansell. And Sir Joshua Hopton, who travels with him.’

The lady sank into a deep curtsy as the two gentlemen bowed. Sir Francis took the opportunity to attempt to marshal the jumble of facts and impressions that assailed him. This was not what he expected when he had received the news of Edward’s sudden death. This could probably provide him with an unnecessary complication. He forced his mind to focus on the most startling of the developments.

‘Edward’s wife? I was not aware.’ He fixed the lady with a stark stare as if the fault were hers. And then frowned as he took in her neat hair and clear features. ‘And yet … I believe that we have met before, my lady.’

‘We have, my lord, but I did not expect you to remember. It was more than two years ago—in London, before the outbreak of hostilities.’

‘Of course.’ He failed to hide the surprise in his voice. ‘You are Mistress Ingram, the Laxton heiress, if I am not mistaken. You were at Court in the autumn of 1640. At Whitehall. I was there with Katherine …’

‘Yes. I am—that is to say, I was Honoria Ingram.’

‘Indeed, we were introduced at one of the Queen’s masques. One of Inigo Jones’s extravaganzas.’ There was the merest hint of distaste in his voice.

‘I was there with Sir Robert Denham, my guardian, and his family.’

‘I know Sir Robert, of course. But my cousin’s wife! I had no idea …’

‘How should you, my lord?’ She watched his reactions with some detached interest, but without emotion, without involvement.

‘Lord Edward had always given the impression—to my father—that he had chosen not to marry and never would. We were given to believe that he did not hold women and the state of matrimony in very high regard.’

‘As for that, my lord, I am not in a position to give an opinion.’

The lady before him grew even paler, if that were possible. Lord Francis groaned inwardly at his clumsy choice of words and his thoughtless lack of tact. There was no excuse for it. Sir Joshua’s inelegant attempts to cover a laugh with a fit of coughing irritated him further and elicited a fierce glance in his direction before Mansell turned back to his cousin’s widow in a hopeless attempt to mend a few fences.

‘Forgive me, my lady. That was unwarranted. I did not intend any discourtesy. My manners appear to have gone begging after four days of travel in adverse conditions. Will you accept my apology?’

The lady gave her head a little shake. ‘It is not necessary, my lord. Your assessment of the situation is most percipient and quite correct. I believe that it was certainly not Lord Edward’s intent to marry until very recently. The prospect of a fortune in land and coin, however, can make even the most obstinate or the most jaundiced of men change his mind.’ The pause was barely discernible. ‘And Lord Edward was, without doubt, both.’

‘How long ago—since you were married?’ Mansell could not mistake the bitterness in her tone, however much she might try to conceal it, as she exposed the reason for the marriage with such terrible clarity.

For the first time the lady hesitated a little before she replied, perhaps disinclined to reveal more. There was the ghost of some emotion in her clear gaze, a mere shadow, but it was too fleeting for him to interpret. Her face remained impassive and her voice, when she finally answered, was without inflection as if explaining a matter of no account.

‘Four weeks ago, my lord, I was a bride. Now, I am a widow. I believe that it is Mr Wellings’s intention—Lord Edward’s lawyer from Ludlow, you understand—to discuss your inheritance and my jointure with you on Thursday, the day after the funeral.’ She turned away towards the staircase, effectively masking any further reaction to his questions and hindering any attempt on Mansell’s part to pry further. ‘Now, my lord, perhaps you and Sir Joshua would care to leave this extremely draughty hall for a place of a little more comfort. My solar is at least warm and relatively draught free. I am afraid that you will not find Brampton Percy, as you so astutely commented, very conducive to either comfort or convenience.’