Marriage Under Siege (30 page)

He would not know that,
once in her bedchamber, his estranged wife allowed the pent-up emotions to
flood her. She leaned back against the closed door—and then simply slid down,
in abject misery, until she crouched on the floor and wept. For Mistress
Brierly. For the mistakes she had made. For Francis's compromised honour. And
for herself. That her pride had prevented her from taking her lord's proffered
hand and accepting his comfort. That her innate reserve should silence her from
pouring out all her love within his protective embrace.

'Who's there? What are you
doing out here? Come out unless you want my wolfhound to eat you. She is very
hungry, I assure you.'

All trace of amusement in
Honoria's voice was rigorously crushed. She pushed aside her immediate
frustration at this invasion of her hard-won privacy. She had needed some
solitude. And it seemed that she was unlikely to get it after all. But the
outcome might prove entertaining.

Although still early, she
had been surrounded by people ever since she had left her bedchamber. Mistress
Morgan, suffering from a sore shoulder, bruised arm and hip—she had slipped and
fallen on the damaged outer staircase—had been in need of comfort and
reassurance as Dr Wright had advised that she take to her bed for the day. Two
of the smaller children had a fever. Nothing serious, but Mary had been left to
dose them with powdered lovage in a little wine. And the chickens that remained
to them and not found their way into the pot were not laying. All that—not to
mention the effect of constant cannon fire on frayed nerves. True, the
besieging force remained small. But Henry Lingen showed no inclination to
dismantle the siege and go home. They had no choice but to sit it out.

And Francis watched her.
She knew it. Perhaps to ensure that she took no action that might undermine
their safety, she thought in her most cynical moments, and then chided herself
for lack of charity and fairness. Their paths crossed infrequently. Their
conversation referred merely to the demands of the day. They had had no
personal exchange of views since their edgy encounter in the Great Hall. Honoria
closed her mind against the wave of guilt that continued to undermine her
spirits. She had made the decisions and so would have to live with the
consequences. What use dredging up memories of their differences, of her
deliberate rejection of his offer of healing and reconciliation? She should
never have married him. She should never have allowed herself to be swayed by
Edward's selfish suggestions and her own ridiculous belief that she might find
happiness in this marriage. And how could she have been so foolish as to bring
up Katherine's name? She shuddered at the memory.

With such lowering thoughts
for company, on a bright, surprisingly frosty morning, Honoria escaped into the
private garden between the old keep and the outer walls. Once the enclosed area
had been the inner bailey of the first Norman motte-and-bailey fortress. Now it
was something of a wilderness. Previous inhabitants of Brampton Percy had
attempted to turn it into a pleasance with clipped hedges, trim paths and
scented plants, a perfect place to while away an hour when the enclosed space
caught the dying rays of the sun. Now it was neglected and overgrown,
unattractive even without
tl
>e stagnation and dank
air of winter. But Honoria was desperate. She had swathed herself in a heavy
cloak with fur lining and collar and pulled up the hood. With her she took
Morrighan, eager to stretch her legs, and the puppy Setanta. A rope was tied
securely to its collar to restrain its delight at any game of chew, run and
hide.

And Francis would not look for
her here.

She stood, quite motionless
for a long moment. The air was so cold it seared her lungs, turning her breath
to smoke. Frost iced the paths and the rough blades of grass, opaque yet
shimmering in the weak sunshine. Undipped bushes drooped, for once elegantly,
towards the ground with their burden of jewelled rime. She closed her eyes and
simply enjoyed the tranquillity, even the puppy apparently sensing her needs,
flopping quietly at her feet.

And then—a sharp sound. A
scuffle. Surely not an invader. No one could climb the walls without being
intercepted by the .guards under Captain Davies's stern command. And yet... She
had turned slowly on her heel to see one of the bushes shiver, where the
culprit was small and clumsy with little skill at concealment. Morrighan barked
and set off at a ground-covering lope to investigate, ears pricked, and
Honoria's lips twitched as she caught a further glimpse of the intruder.

So she issued her less than
stern challenge.

Out from the bush fell a
short, dishevelled figure to sprawl on the floor at
Morrighan's
feet. The puppy pulled hard against Honoria's restraining hand to join in the
possibility of play.

'Who are you? Come here.'

The boy—no more than
twelve—scrambled to his feet, backing away, a wary eye on the dog.

'Tell me who you are or I
will order my dog to bite you! And this puppy will lick you to death.'

'I'm not doing harm,
m'lady.' Relief warred with fear on his face as he measured her unthreatening
words against the size of the teeth of the hound before him. 'I'm not doing no
wrong.' His young voice squeaked with uncertainty.

'Come here and let me look
at you.'

'Only if you call the dog
off. I'm
afeared
.' He shrank back as if he would have
taken refuge in the bushes again.

Honoria snapped her
fingers, bringing Morrighan obediently to her heels. She hid a smile. 'Tom,
isn't it? From the smithy?'

'Aye, m'lady.' He bobbed
his head, now breathing more easily. 'And you're her ladyship... Lady Mansell.'

'I am. What are you doing
in my garden, Tom?'

'Nothing, my lady.' Tom
gulped visibly. 'My ma said if she fell over me again she would warm my
backside. She would, an' all. She's a hard hand and can be quick.'

'I can imagine.' She looked
at him, assessingly. Thin. Wiry. A shock of dark hair and a thin face full of
mischief.

'I suppose you have nothing
to do here.' She could have sympathy for his plight. 'And are tired of being
shut up behind closed doors.'

'I wish I could go to be a
soldier,' he stammered, sensing a willing audience usually denied him. 'And go
and fight. To march into battle and fire a gun. I would like that.'

'I can't help you there.'
She would not complicate matters by asking which side he would prefer to fight
for. 'But you have the look to me of a likely lad. Have you been to the stables
to see if Master Sollers needs any help?'

'He says to clear out and
stay out. He says I upset the horses.'

'I see. What did you do?'

'Nothing, my lady.' His
voice was innocent of all wrongdoing, but she caught the gleam in his eye.
'Just hung about,
y'know
.' He paused consideringly,
his emotions clearly visible on his young face. 'Can I do something for you,
m'lady?'

'Yes. I think perhaps you
can. Have you got lots of energy?'

'Yes, m'lady.' He drew
himself up to his full small height. 'I can run all day if I have to.'

'Then will you exercise my
dogs? They have been shut inside far too long.'

'I can do that, m'lady.' He
eyed them, sounding less than confident.

'There is no need to fear
them, you know. They may be big, but they are very gentle. Unless you are a wolf,
of course!'

Tom still looked
unconvinced but determined.

'Here.' She handed him the
rope. 'Make them run. Throw sticks. Anything to burn off energy. I shall go and
sit over there.'

She duly sat on a stone
bench in the shelter of the wall and watched. Tom threw and ran, his
nervousness melting away, the dogs joining in. They bounded and retrieved, the
puppy released from its restraints and rolling on the grass as Morrighan leapt
and pounced in mock conflict. Tom stamped and clapped, as involved in the game
as the hounds, his dark hair flying, his cheeks glowing in the sharp air. Honoria
simply closed her eyes, soaking in a patch of sunlight, and let the activity
and noise wash over her. Just a half-hour, she told herself. No one would miss
her. Even fifteen minutes. Just enough.

Mansell missed her. He had
spent the time since breaking his fast at the crack of dawn in inspecting
ordnance with Priam Davies and Sergeant Drew. They were now low on shot and
bullets. A solution? If they stripped the lead from the castle roofs, Priam
suggested, they could cast their own. A pity that the church roof was out of
bounds to them. An onerous task, which would render many rooms less than
watertight, but it would increase their fire power and so their chances of
survival. They would make a start that afternoon—and pray for dry weather. And
then Master Sollers wanted to discuss fodder for the horses. A sortie to
commandeer more would be necessary before too long. Firewood was becoming an
urgent matter. Food supplies were just satisfactory, but their accommodation
was stretched to the limit...

Now, for a few moments, he
was free to find his wife. But there was no sign of her and he knew that she
was deliberately keeping her distance from him. So his attempts to find common
ground, to win her confidences again, had failed utterly. And there was no
time. No privacy. No moment when some occurrence would not demand his or
Honoria's presence. He had watched her help Dr Wright splint a broken arm.
Wring the necks of two hapless chickens with grim fortitude. Rescue a small
child from a dangerous investigation of a pile of crumbling masonry, hitching
her skirts to climb with agile grace. Yet, in spite of her neat composure, her
unflagging energy and constant activity, he was aware of the strain in her
eyes and in the line between her brows—only when she thought no one was
watching her, of course.

He knew her sufficiently
well to detect her skill at disguising her worries under a shell of calm
competence. And he also knew beyond doubt that he was the last person she would
now turn to in an emergency. Once, at Wigmore, he had sensed a bond between
them. Something which, if nurtured, could have bloomed to their mutual
delight. It had startled him, he remembered. And he had wanted it—and her. But
now? Now she would never admit to any strain or burden him with further
demands, as if she did not consider him willing to shoulder some of her
responsibilities.

His lips thinned
momentarily into a bitter line. And what a damnable burden it had been to put
on to an unknown bride. And a bride who, it seemed, felt threatened by the
ghost of his first wife. He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure how to
deal with it. He did not like this unfamiliar uncertainty one little bit. He
simply wished that Honoria would turn to him sometimes and allow him to comfort
and soothe.

She did not, of course. She
would not, as if she thought that he would scorn any plea for help. And so his
thoughts came full Circle, without remedy for the bottomless crevasse between
them.

He thought that he might
find her on the battlement walk, so started to climb the outer stairs—when the
eruption of noise from below reached him. The inner bailey! Hurriedly he
retraced his steps to the garden, unsure of what he would find there, disquiet
mounting as the voices rose.

First he heard Honoria's
voice raised sharply in warning. Then a young voice, which he did not
recognise, shouting in excitement and unbridled joy. Then the instantly recognisable
deep baying of Morrighan, followed by the excited yelps of the puppy. And
finally a shriek from Honoria. Followed by another, even louder.

His heart stopped—then
bounded forward as fear gripped. It tore at his nerves as he raced down the
steps.
She is hurt.
Another shriek echoed
from the walls. He swung through the archway, hand already drawing his sword,
and came to a halt.

Chaos. But no danger.
Unless caused by sheer high spirits.

The puppy raced round the
undipped bushes in circles, chased by a scruffy, dark-haired child intent on capturing
it. He flung himself headlong and managed to grasp its collar, only to be
dragged along the ground. Honoria came to help, but was hampered by her heavy
cloak and Morrighan. Between them, lady and boy tied a rope to
Setanta's
collar but the puppy escaped with crafty agility
and made a bid for freedom, winding the rope around Honoria's ankles in the
process.

'Watch out, m'lady. I can't
hold him.'

Too late. The rope pulled
tight and Honoria sat heavily in the frosted grass. Skirts and cloak billowing,
hair escaping from its combs, her hood fell back. The puppy launched itself,
all lolling tongue and large feet, to lick her hands and face without mercy.
She fended it off. And laughed. From his position by the arch, Francis saw that
his wife's lips were parted, eyes sparkling, face flushed with the pure
pleasure of the moment. Her laughter was unrestrained and carefree, that of a
young girl, smoothing out the lines of tension and worry. He had forgotten that
she was still so very young. At that moment there seemed to be little in age
between her and the boy who capered and whooped round her. She wiped the tears
from her cheeks, still trying to push away the foolish animal.