Authors: Barker,Ashe
Resurrection
Resurrection
By
Ashe Barker
Copyright © 2016 by Baronet Press. All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are a work of fiction, intended for adults.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously by the author. Any resemblance to actual places, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Northern England, 1475
"Jane, come here at once." The strident tone rang out across the bailey. Heads turned, then were quickly bowed. Servants scurried even more swiftly about their business. No one would cross Margaret of Acton if they wished to keep the roof of their cottage over their head or their plough firmly embedded in the good, rich Northumbrian earth.
"Jane, where are you? Idiot girl." Lady Margaret muttered the last two words under her breath as she strode down the stone steps in front of the main portal and started to pick her way with care across the filth-spattered cobbles underfoot. Her aristocratic nose wrinkled in distaste as she navigated the slop and stench. "You! You, boy, get a broom and make this place habitable."
A hapless lad who had failed to absent himself in time fell victim to the countess' fierce glare as she extricated her satin slipper from a pile of some substance all within earshot would prefer not to name. "Yes, m'lady," he muttered, charging off in the direction of the stables to gather the necessary equipment for the task. Lady Margaret, Countess of Acton resumed her search for her missing and somewhat wayward daughter.
Jane had heard her mother's irritated tone, and she knew what the summons must mean. The horses prancing into their bailey earlier that afternoon, the noise and fuss and rowdy crowd now thronging in the hall as she slunk around the edge to slip unseen from the back door, could only mean one thing. Twyfford was here.
Or at least his father was. Her betrothed himself, the terrifying and strangely beautiful Gerard Twyfford, would not bother to come and see her in person. Why would he? He was more interested in his dogs and his horses than he was in his twelve year old bride. He would wed her, because his family required it, and once she was safely and inextricably ensnared as his wife Jane knew she would have to endure the rest of whatever that married state might entail. Her childlike understanding of the details was patchy at best, but Jane was adept at listening in doorways and behind curtains. She had heard the whispered horror of her elder sisters as they contemplated their forthcoming marriages.
Now, it was her turn. Her parents had negotiated a fine match and she knew she should be grateful for their diligence in the matter. She was to be lady of Roseworth castle, that proud, if somewhat dilapidated, stronghold in the north of the county on the banks of the River Coquet. In terms of her social standing it was a glittering match, and one only made possible by the fact that the Twyffords found themselves strapped for coin. Their noble keep was in dire need of fortification and repair and Jane's dowry would prove vital to their endeavours. In exchange for access to her funds her family would become allied to one of the most powerful houses in the land. The Twyffords were favourites of the court, confidantes of King Edward, and close friends of the king's brother, the powerful Duke of Gloucester who effectively ruled the whole of the north of England on his brother's behalf.
Jane pressed her forehead against the forelock of the grey pony she was petting in the stables. Cloud was her favourite, the mount she had learnt to ride on, and still her source of comfort when her world conspired against her.
"I must go, Cloud. They want me, you see. I am to marry, and then I shall leave here." Even to her own ears the wistfulness in the girl's tone was woefully apparent.
But perhaps not yet. Not quite yet
.
Jane straightened, did what she might to brush the stains from the front of her rough woolen day dress, though her efforts were quite futile, and she turned to answer her mother's call.
"Coming, Mama," she mumbled, just as the countess rounded the large stable door. Jane's heart sank. Her mother's face was a mask of irritation, and her slippers were quite ruined.
"What are you doing skulking in here? Did you not see the earl's party arriving? The sweet Lord knows they made enough din and mess about it. You need to get cleaned up before you present yourself in the hall, lest you be mistaken for an urchin crept in from the fields and not the daughter of a fine and noble house. Come, child, at once." The countess grabbed Jane's slender wrist and started to tow her back across the bailey in the direction of the keep's main portal.
Jane followed, trotting to keep up. All the way her mother berated her on every matter she could call to mind—Jane's general lack of grace and ineptitude in the skills befitting a future noblewoman, her grubby appearance, her sun-kissed complexion which her mother observed was more reminiscent of a milkmaid than a fine lady, her inability to dance more than a few faltering steps, her poor grasp of polite manners, and her apparent disinterest in all matters to do with her coming nuptials.
"You should spend your days upon your knees, offering up thanks to the dear Lord that your father has been able to secure such a match for you, and that your betrothed is prepared to overlook your more obvious faults. Sir Gerard is a fine catch, a courageous soldier, and a loyal supporter of our noble King Edward. Already he has distinguished himself in battle and he will make a fine earl when the time comes."
"Yes, Mama, I know that. He is very... very fine indeed,"
"He is. He is indeed. He commands two thousand men, do you realise that, girl?"
Jane tried to imagine two thousand men all lined up in neat and tidy rows awaiting the commands to be issued by her near-enough sainted betrothed, but failed utterly. "Is that a lot, Mama?"
Lady Margaret cuffed her daughter around the back of her head, causing the child's russet waist-length plaits to swing wildly around her narrow shoulders. "Do not make sport of me, insolent chit. Why can you take nothing seriously? Do you not care what happens to your family? Would you have your father's efforts come to naught?"
"No, Mama. I was only—"
"Quiet. You have caused enough upheaval this day with your disappearing to converse with horses. Do you think I have nothing better to do with the house full of visitors than to traipse around the stables looking for you?"
"I am sorry. I never meant to disappear. I just wanted to talk to Cloud."
"That flea-bitten nag? That bag of bones is good for nothing more than feeding the hounds."
"No, Mama! Please—"
"Gloucester is here too, and Her Grace. Why must they all descend upon us at once?" Lady Margaret addressed the bailey at large rather than her grubby little daughter, but her remarks were sufficient for Jane to gather that Richard, Duke of Gloucester and his wife, Anne Neville, were also visiting. Normally her mother would be delighted to welcome the King's younger brother and his wife into their keep and would preen and fuss around such exalted company, but clearly she had other matters taxing her mind today.
Were it not for the dispiriting matter of her coming marriage, Jane herself would be pleased to see the handsome Duke of Gloucester. He had a pleasant smile, and didn't shout like most of the other men of her acquaintance. Richard was a respected and powerful nobleman, second only to the King himself, but he lacked the usual haughty airs of his rank. Jane liked him, though she had never had an opportunity to do more than observe him from a distance. And now, because of this horrible and impending marriage, her hero would gain the impression she was a surly and uncooperative wench. She had no option but to endure and obey, though in truth she would rather spend at least a few more years scrambling around the draughty castle or trotting her little mare over the rolling hills of Northumbria,.
Jane stumbled, only to be hauled back onto her feet. "Clumsy child. Come, we must hurry. The Earl of Roseworth will not relish being kept waiting.”
"Mama, I am hurrying, really I am." Jane panted as she struggled to keep up.
"Hush." The countess towed her reluctant charge through the great door and into the outer hall of Haveringham castle, the Actons' family seat. She gave Jane a hard shove in the direction of a narrow, circular staircase in the corner. "Make your way upstairs, quickly. I shall send Bessie to help you wash and change. Be sure to put on your fine blue damask, and for heaven's sake, cover that mane of yours. There's no need to remind the father of your betrothed of your father’s Celtic origins."
Jane scuttled to the stairs, happy to escape her mother's unsympathetic appraisal. However hard she tried, she could never come close to meeting her exacting standards. Even Jane's very appearance—surely not a failing which could rightly be laid at her door—seemed to enrage and offend. She bolted up the twisting stone stairway, careful to place her feet only on the wider outside edge of the steps as it would be easy to lose her footing and tumble the whole way back. Her half-sister, Mary, lost her life that way just two summers previously, a memory engraved on Jane's consciousness. Mary had been her closest ally in this household, just a couple of years her senior. The girls had grown up together and Jane missed her lost sibling with a passion bordering on obsession. She rarely spoke of her loss, apart from to Cloud, but of course the little mare did not count.
She arrived in the chamber she had shared with Mary, closely followed by Bessie. The lumbering maidservant had had sole charge of the day-to-day care of the Acton brood for as long as anyone could recall, and she bustled into action now. In just a few well-managed minutes Bessie had Jane stripped, thoroughly scrubbed with a combination of cool water and lye soap, and re-clothed in the requisite pale blue damask and matching slippers. Her hair had been brushed and re-plaited, then tucked discreetly into a cone-shaped headdress and further concealed beneath a veil of fine gauze. The maid stood back, her head cocked to one side, to peruse her work.
"Ye'll do, lass. Get yerself down stairs, now. They're in the hall, awaitin’ on ye."
Despite the maid's urging, Jane still dawdled as she descended the spiral staircase leading back down to the great hall. On the few occasions she had encountered her future father-in-law, Sir Thomas Twyfford, the Earl of Roseworth, he had seemed to her to be a truly fearsome individual. Perhaps he was not quite so terrifying as the prospect of marriage to his son, but he was formidable enough with his stocky build, thick, grey hair and full beard, and a voice which could lift the rafters should he so choose. She had no illusions about her worth to this man. He looked at Jane, and he saw a pile of cash. It was there, in his cold, calculating gaze. Jane was nothing to him but a heap of glittering, golden pieces, the wealth he required to stave off the impending disaster his castle was becoming.
The earl's booming tones reached her long before she arrived at the foot of the stairs. Jane slowed, listened, then made her way across the outer hall at a snail's pace.
The door to the great hall stood open and Jane could hear the babble of voices from within. Roseworth's ringing tone dominated, but she could also pick out her own parents' less strident contribution. They were discussing her, or more specifically, the arrangements for her forthcoming marriage.
"The match has been agreed since the wench was but two years old. We've tarried for long enough, 'tis time to conclude the matter," proclaimed the earl. "She can shift herself to Roseworth and join our household without delay."
"Jane is still but a child. We agreed that we would delay the marriage until she is sixteen summers, another four years at least." Jane's father sounded hesitant, though his assessment of the matter matched Jane's own understanding. To her way of thinking even the advanced age of sixteen seemed far too soon to be marrying.
"Nonsense. Marriage will be the making of her." Lady Margaret clearly did not share her husband's reticence on the matter. "Jane needs a firm hand, discipline, a purpose, and good, honest work to keep her occupied. She can learn to manage a household well enough here, but t'would make better sense for her to hone her skills by her own hearth. I agree with Sir Thomas, there is no cause to delay further."
"Aye… well, I'll own that you are the better judge, madam..." Sir William Acton did not sound to be convinced by his wife's arguments, but there would be no meaningful protest from her father, that much was clear.
With a small, despairing sob Jane stepped back, away from the door.
"Ouch! Have a care, little maid. You are trampling all over my foot."
At the deep, masculine voice behind her Jane whirled, to find herself face to stomach with their most honoured and exalted guest, the Duke of Gloucester. As Jane craned her neck to peer up at him he flattened his lips in a mock wince and rubbed the top of his right foot against his left calf. "Do you make a regular practice of listening at doors, little Lady Jane? If so, may I advise that you refine your methods of subterfuge and indulge your habit in a more secluded setting."
"Your Grace, I... I was not... I am sorry, truly..." Jane stammered, her tears streaming down her cheeks as the enormity of her situation sank in. Not only was she about to be exiled into domestic drudgery at Roseworth castle, but she had managed to offend and injure the King's brother. Without doubt her mother would thrash her for this, and she'd be lucky if she was able to sleep for the next several nights until the soreness abated. The Lady Margaret had a vicious way with a switch, as Jane knew all too well.
Could this day become any worse?
"Richard, you are frightening the child. Please stop play-acting and produce a kerchief if you would. I am ready to wager she will not possess such a thing anywhere upon her person—certainly I would not have at her age." This more sympathetic observation came from Anne, the Duchess of Gloucester, who now appeared from behind her husband to regard Jane with some concern. "The poor child, she is sobbing fit to raise the dead."
