Marriage Under Siege (26 page)

The door closed firmly
behind him. He distinctly heard the hollow scrape of metal as a key turned in
the old lock.

He stared at it in
disbelief. A mistake? A draught that had pushed the door closed? But draughts
did not turn locks. Here was no chance imprisonment. Mansell lifted a fist and
hammered on the door. And called Foxton's name.

'I hear you, my lord.' The
Steward's voice was faint behind the thick elm planks with their metal studs,
but quite distinct.

'Open the door, Foxton!'

'I must not.' There was no
hint in the Steward's voice of the cold sweat that touched his brow and the
back of his neck. 'I must keep the door closed, my lord. Her ladyship will
explain all.'

'Open the door!' A distinct
snarl now in the furious voice.

'No, my lord.'

The result was as might
have been expected. A string of fluent and lurid curses reached the Steward
clearly through the solid barrier of the door. Foxton hesitated no longer, but
took the coward's way and beat a hasty retreat to where Honoria stood, waiting.

'It is done, my lady.'

'Then I must speak with
him.'

'With respect, I would wait
a little time. His lordship is not—ah, amenable to the turn of events.'

'Colourful, is it?'

'A soldier's vocabulary, my
lady.'

'Go to bed, Master Foxton.
You have done more than your duty here tonight.'

He bowed and, without
further comment, melted into the shadows. He would, on balance, rather not be
party to the resulting conversation between his lord and lady.

And so Lord Mansell found
himself locked in his own chapel of Brampton Percy. It took him no time at all
to realise that he had fallen effortlessly into a trap. He stood with his back
to the door to survey the small chamber with narrowed eyes. The walls and arches
of the vaults, with no evidence of fractures, were as sturdy and formidable as
they had been for the past three hundred and fifty years. He also realised with
further mounting anger that it had been an exercise well planned. On a chest
beside the stone altar there was bread, cheese and meat, carefully wrapped in
cloth. In a bowl sat some wizened apples from the previous autumn. Ale and a
flask of good wine had been provided. A pile of blankets against the cold.
Candles and tinder box. A bucket—someone had been very thoughtful!

The walls were thick and
light came through mere arrow slits.

Shouting and beating on the
door would be futile. And so would escape through a window.

Mansell knew that he had no
choice but to tolerate his imprisonment—until someone decided to release him.
He knew without doubt who that someone was! Until
Honoria
decided to release him!

With nothing better to do,
he sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches, the only furnishings in the
room. And prepared to wait, his anger at a low simmer. What was Honoria
thinking? What devious route had her mind taken to persuade her into such an incredible
course of action? Surely she would welcome him home, to take over the siege
from her slight shoulders? To take his place in her bed again?

He worried at the problem,
turning the facts again and again, like a feral cat toying with its prey. And
his mind came back, again and again, with tedious repetition and vicious
persistence to one conclusion. That conclusion chilled his blood. For, if it
were true, his judgement of his wife's character had indeed been laughably and
fatally inaccurate.

Meanwhile, Honoria went to
sit in the solar to gather her composure and her courage. To give Francis time
to calm down. If there were enough years in her life, and his, for him to do
so.

Eventually, heart still
hammering in her breast, she knew that she could put off the moment of
reckoning no longer. She would go down to the chapel anteroom and explain to
him, through the door, why she had taken the steps she had. She would be calm
and decisive. She would not allow him to persuade her to release him. Not yet.
And then, she had no doubt at all, she would bear the brunt of his anger. At
least, as yet, there would be a locked door between them. And she would take
Morrighan with her for comfort. She would need it.

So, the lady found herself
standing outside the chapel door, the old stones dank and heavy with age,
pressing down on her spirits. The candle picked out the carving of zigzag and
dogtooth, lovingly created by some old craftsman, but the austere beauty of the
place, the serenity of the silence, touched her not at all. There was no sound
from beyond the locked door.

'Francis.' Her voice
croaked. Swallowed up by the vaulting above her. He would not hear such a
pathetic attempt! She took a deep breath. 'Francis!' 'Honoria.' The reply was
immediate. 'What the Devil do you mean by this? Open the door.'

'No. You must listen to
me.' She bent her head, her forehead almost pressed against the panels.

'I will not listen to
explanations through a closed door.'

'I have a reason for
keeping it locked.'

'I am sure you do!' She
caught the bitter edge even through the solid elm. But then, she had known that
it would not be an easy task.

'It would not be wise for
you to attack the Royalists just at this time. If—'

'You do not need to explain
anything, my lady. It may surprise you to know that I understand you perfectly.
How do you intend to carry out your plan? To keep me here until you can truss
me up like a boiling fowl and hand me over with the castle into the hands of Vavasour?
So he has the glory of taking not only Brampton Percy in the name of His
Majesty the King, but its lord as well. He must be rubbing his hands in delight
at the prospect.'

'I will never do that...'
She found herself unable to think beyond the shock at his words.

'And what would
you
get from it, my dear wife?' The biting sarcasm
seared her soul. 'Is it from principle? Or have you been promised some more
tangible reward for your efforts towards the cause?'

'Francis—'

'I warn you—I will not make
it easy for you. You will have to overpower me physically to achieve it. How do
you intend to do it? Who have you bribed to obey your desires?'

'I have bribed no one.'

'Foxton, I presume. But you
will need more manpower than he can provide! Even you must realise that!' The
harsh laughter echoed eerily in the empty spaces.

'It is not my intention—'

But he was not listening.
The anger and bitterness poured out. 'I never thought that you would betray me,
Honoria, in spite of your upbringing, in spite of your education. It humiliates
me to know how wrong I was. If that was your intention, then you have succeeded
far more than you could ever have imagined.'

'I have not—'

'Go away, Honoria. I do not
wish to hear any more excuses. You will do your damnedest in your own way.'

She fled.

*
             
*
             
*

To be found by Mary, on her
knees before the fire once again in the solar. Her hands covered her face. When
she raised her head at the intrusion her eyes were dry, but they were desolate
indeed.

'What is it, Honor? You
look dreadful.' Mary sank to kneel beside her.

'I cannot say.'

'You must. Do you not trust
me after all that has happened?'

And, faced with this
challenge, a sympathetic ear and heart, she did. The whole complicated affair
poured out.

'So now he believes that I
plan to hold him prisoner—until I can hand him and Brampton Percy to Vavasour,
a gift to the Royalist cause.'

'I can see that he might,'
Mary replied after weighing up the different strands in the tale.

'Not if he had any respect
for my loyalty, he wouldn't. How can he believe that of me?'
And that,
admitted Honoria silently to herself,
was the worst part of the scenario.

'I don't suppose he is
thinking about loyalty, when he is locked up in something akin to a dungeon in
his own castle, by his wife.'

'No. Of course, you are
right. I do not suppose he is.' She turned her head from Mary's scrutiny as
weak tears pricked at her eyelids.

'So? Will you continue with
it?'

'Yes. I believe that I
must.' She blinked the tears away and rose to her feet. 'And hope that at the
end, when the Royalist army has gone and we have saved this blighted castle, my
lord's gratitude will outweigh his fury.'

'I would like to think so,
dear Honoria—but I doubt it.'

'Unfortunately, so do I.'

Chapter Eleven

'They are definitely
leaving. See those baggage wagons. And the troop of horse over there.'

'It must be a withdrawal.'

Honoria and Mary surveyed
the scene below them. It was still early in the day but there was unusual
activity, beyond the habitual early- morning wakening, in the force spread out
before them. Some of the infantry had moved their positions. Cavalry units were
pulling back from the front ranks. In spite of the early hour there was
evidence of officer involvement in the disposition of troops.

'I am certain there are
fewer than yesterday.' Honoria hugged her cloak around her shoulders with
white-knuckled tension.

The two ladies allowed
themselves a tentative sigh of relief.

All was quiet in the
chapel. Honoria had made no move to contact Francis since she had initiated his
imprisonment. She could afford, she decided, to leave him there for one more
day. He would not be comfortable. He would be furious. But his state of mind
was not an issue. His survival was.

Late afternoon. Sergeant
Drew reported that a troop of horse could clearly be seen riding towards the
south.

'Perhaps General Waller and
his Parliamentarian force have indeed attacked Gloucester. Perhaps this
it
truly the beginning of the end of our siege.'

Honoria and Mary looked at
each other, unwilling to expound further on their fears, clinging to the hope
that their prayers had been answered.

'I expect they decided that
it was not politic to attack a lady of high birth after all.' Mary hid her
anxieties behind a false smile of reassurance.

'Yes. By tomorrow they will
have gone.' Honoria said nothing to destroy the illusion. 'And then tomorrow I
will release my lord.'

But the dawn of the
following day shattered all Honoria's hopes.

She was awoken by a massive
explosion of noise, quickly followed by the crash and shudder as stones
thundered against stonework.

'They've brought up
mortars, my lady.' Sergeant Drew waylaid her on her dash to the gatehouse
parapet. 'Two of them. Huge things. Must have dragged them into position during
the night. And they are finding their range.'

Drew was horribly accurate.
Honoria looked, with bleak and horrified eyes, down on to the two massive
pieces of ordnance that they had positioned on the flat expanse before the
castle. The troops of horse might have melted away, but a small force of
infantry was still evident, and clearly intended to show its teeth. Heaped
beside the mortars Honoria could make out piles of huge stones—some of them
more than a foot wide—which would be aimed at her walls and the buildings
within them. And a number of culverin had been brought up to make worse the
damage done by the mortars.

'See, my lady. They will
fire the stones over the outer walls, to destroy the inner structures. And the
culverin will pound the outer defences. We can do little to prevent it. Unless
Captain Davies returns with his troop. That would help.' Sergeant Drew ran his
hand round the back of his neck, not liking the organised intent of the scene
below.

'My lord expects the
Captain any time soon. Let us hope that he returns before we are pounded into
dust.' Honoria tried to reassure, but her hopes were in ruins at her feet.

At a given signal, unseen
by the watchers on the castle walls, the Royalist attack began. Soldiers worked
feverishly, loading the massive stones into the mortars, to be flung with great
force over the outer walls into the castle itself. They had believed themselves
to be impregnable, Honoria thought, as a stone exploded on its target in a
shower of flints and sharp shards, lethal enough to tear a man to pieces. They
had been terribly wrong. Within the hour the peace and stagnation of the
earlier days of the siege had vanished. Noise, dust, the crash of stone on
stone, the pounding of walls by cannon-ball, all enveloped Brampton Percy in a
thick cloud, as did the acrid stench of burning and gunpowder.

I
must keep my head. I must remain calm.
Honoria issued
orders for her people to keep under cover.
The walls are
strong enough to keep them out. Perhaps they will see the futility of the
exercise and let us be.
She flinched as a boulder struck the wall
of the old keep, over to her right, and weighed her options. It did not seem to
her fevered mind that she had any. Francis had talked of using the old
cannon—Sergeant Drew would probably know how effective that could be. She must
speak with him. And the guards must be extra vigilant in case her enemies
decided to use flaming grenades against them. She could not think of that
horror of screams and searing flesh just now.

Honoria stood in the
courtyard. She needed to take action, now. However much she might dislike
Brampton Percy, she could not simply stand and allow her home to be destroyed
around her. She shivered at the one imperative decision that she must make. And
she knew what she must do. There really was no alternative.

'Mary. I think—'

'My lady...' A flustered
voice from behind her interrupted.

'Mistress Brierly. Are
matters still secure in the kitchens? I was not aware that you had suffered any
damage in that area.'

'Certainly, we have no
damage, my lady.' Mistress Brierly bustled up, neat and competent, brushing
dust from her sleeves and cuffs. 'Except for some broken dishes, dropped by a
kitchen maid when the wall of the keep was first struck. She is now recovering
from hysterics in the outer scullery. Would you wish for me to—?'

There was a crack of a
musket shot to their left. Sharp and forceful, an intrusion into the cacophony
of noise otherwise surrounding them.

Mistress Brierly cried out,
a sudden sucking in of breath in a recognition of surprised pain, her eyes
widening. Without a word she slid to the floor at Honoria's feet.

'What? Mistress Brierly?'
Honoria fell to her knees beside the stricken figure of her cook. Saw the
blood, felt the sticky wetness on her hand. And looked up in horror, seeing her
own expression mirrored on Mary's face as she crouched beside her.

Another musket shot
cracked, the bullet striking the wall behind them, causing flints to fly in all
directions. They cowered over the still form between then, Honoria's eyes
searching rapidly for the source.

Mary pointed. And Honoria
looked up.

Another sharp crack,
another spatter of stone on her head and shoulders, and she pinned its source.
On the flat roof of the church tower, looming above them, with its sheltering
parapet and its supreme view of the interior structures of the castle, Royalist
marksmen had taken up position.

Musket balls smacked
against the wall and the floor around them.

Sergeant Drew, two
men-at-arms and Dr Wright came running towards the little group of women from
all directions. Dr Wright bent to Mistress Brierly. Sergeant Drew immediately
took Honoria's arm to lift her to her feet. There was no mistaking the fear on
his face.

They have our range. The
Reverend Gower must have let them into the church. God damn him! You must
withdraw to safety, my lady. Your life is surely in danger here.'

'Yes. But you must carry
Mistress Brierly inside first. She has been hit and needs care.' She turned to
Dr Wright, who was running professional hands over the prone figure. He looked
up, face set and grave.

'It is no matter, my lady.
Mistress Brierly is dead.'

The barrage continued all
day, only coming to a halt when dusk melted into night. Standing in the kitchen
before the vast range, now without its mistress, Honoria took stock.

Mistress Brierly was dead!

Her mind could not yet come
to terms with that outrageous event, even though she had overseen with tender
care the laying out of her cook's body. The kitchen servants were calm, waiting
on her decisions, but she detected traces of tears on more than one cheek.
There was none of the habitual gossip or chatter around her. Mistress Morgan
was shocked into silence, her normal healthy colour leached from her skin to
drawn greyness. Foxton stood with head bowed. Mary leaned back in a chair near
the fire, hands lax in exhaustion, gown filthy. Honoria did not care to think
of her own appearance, but knew that she must not weaken, must keep control of
the reins, hold the household together after this one shattering day of vicious
bombardment.

*
             
*
             
*

'The walls are holding
against the culverin, my lady.' Sergeant Drew stood before her to report,
stalwart and upright, but his voice betraying his concerns. 'The internal
structure is suffering from the mortar, of course. The stable block is almost
destroyed and the south side of the old keep is damaged—although not broken
through. There is some internal damage to the east wing. The outer staircase
from the courtyard can only be used with care. If they decide to manoeuvre a
demi-culverin up the stairs to the church tower, we are in dire trouble.'

'My thanks, Sergeant Drew.
We are all grateful for your work today.' Indeed, Honoria did not know how she
would have survived without his staunch presence.

'My lady... Is his lordship
restored to health? We have great need of him.'

Honoria avoided his eyes,
but slanted a glance towards Master Foxton, who had lifted his head as he
sensed the impending result. 'Yes. Yes, we do indeed have need of him. I will
speak with him.'

Alone with Mary and Foxton,
Honoria allowed her thoughts to surface. 'So much for my plan. And so much for
the professed Royalist chivalry against a woman alone.' Her words were bitter,
her face a mask. 'And all I have achieved is the death of Mistress Brierly.'

'It could have worked. It
could have saved many lives.' Mary covered her arm with her hand and squeezed
in a depth of compassion.

'Perhaps.'

'Nothing could have
prevented Mistress
Brierly's
death, my lady.' Foxton
added his weight behind the reassurance. 'If the Royalists were able to occupy
the church tower, I do not see what we—or my lord— could have done to prevent
it.'

'You are very kind, Master
Foxton. I wish I could believe you.'

'You did everything you
could, my lady. But now we need his lordship. Shall I release him?'

'Not only kind, but very
brave!' Honoria's smile contained no humour. 'But I must release my lord—and
beg his forgiveness, I suppose.'

'He will understand.'
Mary's frown denied her tone.

Honoria's laugh was harsh
and strained. 'No. I do not believe for one moment that he will. And, in truth,
I find that I cannot blame him.'

*
             
*
             
*

'Well?'

Cold anger shimmered round
him. His eyes were glacial, his expression harsh with rigidly controlled fury.
Lord Mansell lounged as much at ease as it was possible to be on an upright
pew, legs extended, ankles crossed, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He did
not rise at Honoria's approach, but surveyed her, from head to foot and back
again. There was no respect here, she realised, none of the thoughtful courtesy
that she had come to enjoy. But then she could expect no less.

She stood, straight and
slim before him, holding on to pride and dignity, with the grey shadow of
Morrighan pressing against her skirts for comfort. 'I was wrong. My plan
failed.'

'And so?' His voice was
soft but implacable.

Honoria
wet
her
dry lips with her tongue and swallowed nervously. What could she
say? She stood and looked at him, eyes wide.

He refused to break the
silence.

'They have sent a mortar.
Two of them.'

'I have heard.'

'We need you. We need to
know what to do to...'

She was lost for words and
could clearly expect no help from the contemptuous man before her. She lapsed
into an agony of silence again.

'So.' He still did not stir
from his insolent position. 'You have decided, I presume, not to hand me over
to Vavasour as a trophy of war—or not on this occasion, at least. I would be
interested to know how you intended to do it. And what made you so suddenly
change your mind. Was the price not high enough for you?' The sneer drained her
face of blood.

'I never—'

Mansell surged to his feet,
causing her to flinch and step back. 'Don't worry.' In two steps he stood
before her, seizing her wrist in a harsh clasp. 'I do not make war on women. I
have no intention of striking you, whatever the extent of your betrayal. And
nor do I wish to hear any excuses. I think you will agree that there are more
pressing demands on my time, madam.' He released her with fastidious disdain,
as if her very presence disgusted him. 'It would please me if you stayed out of
my sight for some little time. You are ill named indeed, my lady.
Honor
is singularly inappropriate for your actions this
day.' And swept past her, leaving her alone in the icy chapel to savour the
very depths of despair. The ache in her heart was intense. The possibility of
mending her relations with her lord now beyond contemplation.