The Duke's Dark Secret (Historical Victorian Romance) (8 page)

              “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Gertie told her, allowing one of Louisa’s children, young Thomas Bradford, to wheel her about. “Uncle Jim was a good man. One of the last of the pioneers of this town, you know.”

              “I suppose that’s right.” She allowed. walking beside her.

              The spread was offered in the barn, a huge affair with cornbread, roasted chickens, and steaming baked potatoes alongside rows of pies. Thomas tried to abandon the wheelchair and go for food right away, but Louisa admonished him.

              “You see to it Gertie gets a proper place at the table before you try any such foolishness young man.”

              “Sorry, ma. Didn’t mean anything by it.” He apologized.

              Gertie smiled up at the woman. “I swear, he’s looking a bit more like his father every day.”

              White-haired Jeb Bradford came up behind her then, stroking his short-trimmed beard. “I don’t know about that. I see a bit of Louisa in all the children.”

              “I’ll allow that’s true enough.” Gertie agreed.

              The family took their places around the table, as practically all the town sat as well.

              “Father,” young Rebecca asked Jeb, “Is it good that Uncle Jim lived to see the new century?”

              “I should say so.” He agreed. “He had said often enough that he hoped he’d have the opportunity to know what the world looked like in 1900. It’s a different world, to be certain. It is certainly no longer the West we knew when we first settled these lands.”

              Louisa nodded her agreement. The Lucky Star had been torn down long ago, as had most of the original buildings along Main Street. The Daisy’s building still stood, but the restaurant had become a bank. The church was among one of the few original buildings left during the wave of great change that had taken place with the increased settlement of Colorado.

              She looked down the table at the line of family members and acquaintances, looking for friendly faces. Ann had come from Denver, where she had married and had children of her own. It was wonderful to see her, she thought. Surprising everyone, Bob Tate had come to town as well, though he was only a little younger than Uncle Jim and was having trouble getting around.

              Jeb felt like a few words should be said, so he stood up. “I want to thank you all for coming to pay your respects. Louisa and I have come to feel you’re not just neighbors. You’re all family.

              “Uncle Jim was loved by everyone. He had a big heart and was the most loyal, kind man I ever knew. He taught me everything I needed to know about raising a family and running a ranch. He’ll always be missed.”

              Several people stood and gave stories about times spent with Uncle Jim before it was agreed that it was okay to start in with the meal.

              The meal finished, it was time to catch up and for well-wishers to tell their best Uncle Jim stories. Louisa took Jeb aside as this was going on, worried for her husband.

              “Are you doing okay?” She asked as they stepped away from the crowd. He was gazing out at the lonely river far and away on their property.

              “I am doing fine. Thanks for asking, Louisa. I was just thinking of the days after we first met.”

              “Do you regret any of it?” She asked, snuggling up to him.

              “No. One of these days, we’ll have to tell the kids about everything that happened. They’re too young still, I suppose.”

              “Don’t think they haven’t heard rumors.” The shooting of Frank Durant and the events surrounding that day had become local legend. Some people were convinced Jeb and Louisa had killed no less than 20 desperate cowboys in their effort to free the town from an evil influence.

              “We’ll set the record straight when the time is right.” Jeb agreed. “One thing I’m sure about, though. I’m glad I asked you to marry me.”

              “And I’m glad I said yes. You’ve given me everything I ever hoped for. A new life, happiness, and a good home on these fruitful plains.”

THE END

Heart of the Nobleman

by Ainsley Cameron

              The carriage rocked from side to side while William de Mort gazed out of the open window. His eyes fixed on the castle that dominated the lush green valley. The castle’s tall rectangular keep sat safely behind a stone ring of imposing fortifications. Still, the young Baron felt unimpressed and slammed the shutter closed.  “To think I inherited this... No wonder they call father, Berty the bastard.”

~

              At the castle’s gatehouse William stepped out of the carriage onto the cobblestones where he was met by the castle’s chamberlain. William looked down his nose at the skinny fair haired man. “And you are?”

              “I am Peter, my Liege. The castle’s chamberlain.”

              “So you are supposedly my right-hand man.”

              Peter did not possess the confidence to meet William’s cold stare. “I run the castle on a day to day basis. If you want anything at anytime, my Liege, then just let me know.”

              “My father told me that you could be relied upon.”

              “Then Baron Bertrand was a man of good judgment.”

              “That may be so. But I reserve the right to make my own judgment.”

~

Walking up the damp and drafty spiral staircase William grumbled to his chamberlain who followed closely behind. “I’ve been on this land less than a week, and I’m already missing Normandy.” He shoved open the wooden door and stepped out onto the battlements of his castle. “It kills me to think that I’ll have to spend my days here...” Letting out a desperate sigh, William stared at the rain sodden and tumbledown settlement. “...in fucking England” The small town was dissected by a dark snaking river. Both halves of the settlement were joined by a stone small humpback bridge. “Such luck has made me believe that not just my father, but God himself must hate me.”

“Cheer up, my Liege.”

“Peter, it’s cold.  It stinks. And it never bloody stops raining. Don’t even get me started on the people... they’re as ugly as sin.”

“My Liege, I’m English.”

“And a good example of what I am on about.” William turned to look out at the dreary thatched houses. He shook his head while his nose caught the scent of manure. “Stinks, the whole place stinks of pig shit.”

“But my liege, at least it’s quiet. These people will not cause you any problems.”

“I’m not sure, living in such squalor might make them desperate... and desperate men do desperate things.”

Peter’s face lit up. “Well maybe you could engineer a town in your own image? Make it a more comfortable place to live. If the people prosper then your tax revenue will increase.”

“Certainly something to think about.”

“Excellent. I would suggest starting with a place of worship, one worthy of God’s name. Closer to God, the townsfolk would be less likely to sin or stray.”

“I was thinking less chapel, more fully equipped tournament field.” William gazed over the rampart. He shook his head while he watched a group of peasants arguing over the result of a pig chase. “People who think catching greased up pigs is a sport... Well, they obviously need to be cultured. I’m going to introduce sword fighting, archery and jousting.”

“My Liege, Pig chasing is a popular pastime.”

“The only reason I can think of for men chasing pigs, is that it’s less pig-like than the average local woman.”

~

The wind blew through the grand banquet hall where William and Peter sat at the long oak table. A pack of fox hounds slept on a bed of straw in front of the open fire. William twirled his dagger on its stabbing point while Peter scrutinized the court’s papers. Despite the fierce fire burning on the stone hearth, William felt a chill deep within his bones. He groaned as he stood from his chair. “Peter.”

“My Liege?”

“Why is it so God damn cold in here?”

“It’s England, my Liege.”

William walked towards the arrow slit window where an icy wind billowed like an arctic gust. “How come there’re no tapestries on these windows? Only a fool would leave them wide open like the legs of a whore.”

“William... I’m sure your father mentioned last year’s plague.”

“He did.”

“Well, it wiped out most of the skilled workers while the rest ran, never to return.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I’ve been searching the local guilds but found no weavers... None of note anyway. We need a mason and a carpenter too. I fear the castle will never be fully completed.”

William glanced around at large stone walls and huge oak rafters. “Well, I need some colour as well as warmth. This constant greyness is crushing me. If I’m not under a grey sky, I’m looking at four grey fucking walls.”

“My Liege, Spring is only four months away.”

“Four..? Four..?”  William’s foot twitched as he thought about kicking a dog. “Four fucking months?”

“Well summer doesn’t arrive until the last week in March at the earliest.”

“Get me some tapestries. Immediately.”

Peter let his quill rest in the pot of ink “My Liege...” He watched William shift the dogs with his boots so he could warm his hands near the licking flames of the open fire. “The best tapestries come from the continent. They’re expensive to import.”

“The English must have something to keep them warm... Well apart from getting drunk then beating their spouses.”

“We’re not all raving alcoholics, my Liege.”

William turned to face Peter. “Get me my cloak and inform the stable boy to ready my horse.”

“Where are you heading?”

“Shopping.”

“The continent?”

“No.” William cracked his knuckles as if readying to punch Peter’s clueless face. “I’m starting to think my father employed the village idiot.”

“But I thought you would rather die than mix with the peasant folk?”

“I’m bored and depressed. Seeing people worse off than myself... well, I’m hoping it may raise my spirits.”

~

Dressed in a wolf skin cloak, William rode his stallion through the dreary village. The buildings were tightly packed and mostly made from wattle and daub. Despite confident that no villager would dare attack him, William’s hand was never far from the handle of his sword.

Crossing the stone bridge onto the far bank William notice the once busy streets had emptied. The inhabitants kept out his way, running down dark narrow side streets as if they were rats. Mothers herded their children back into their simple houses while shopkeepers hid behind their stalls. Only roaming goats, pigs and chickens populated the filthy streets.

William saw something he wasn’t expecting. Disbelieving, he wiped his hand across his face. But his eyes hadn’t deceived him.  “My God she is beautiful.” He smiled at the woman who shied away, then shouted, “My lady!” But the woman ran through an open door into a ramshackle workshop.

Climbing from his horse, William winced as his leather shoes squelched in the churned mud.  Guiding his horse, he slipped and slid across the road until he made it to this wooden building in which the woman had disappeared into. Peering through the open window he raised a pleased smile. Inside the dimly lit room a thick-set woman dressed in a shawl sat at a bench, weaving a pair of trousers. But his eyes looked beyond the woman, focusing on the long tapestry which hung from a vertical loom. “Excuse me.”  The woman appeared frozen in shock. She then climbed from the bench and curtsied in silence. He asked, “Is this your workshop?” A nervous elderly woman pointed to the room towards the back.

“Beatrice is the head weaver, my Liege.”

“Then I want to see Beatrice.”

A pretty face peaked around the wooden door frame. Quietly as a harvest mouse, she spoke, “I’m Beatrice.”

William recognised it as the woman he had seen on the street. He then walked to the entrance and stepped into the workshop.  The young woman cautiously entered into the room and quickly curtsied. He dryly smiled. “You’re too young to be the proprietor.”

“It was my parents’ business. But the plague snatched them. I’m in sole charge now.”

“Not your husband?”

Beatrice shook her head while focusing on her mud covered shoes. “The plague also took Herbert, my husband. We had been married only six weeks.”

“My sympathy, madam.”

“I’m not the only one who lost, my Liege. Everyone has been touched by the plague.”

“Indeed, I hear these lands were ravaged by the plague. My chamberlain told me it wiped out half the village.” William felt awkward as he didn’t know what else to say. “Well, your luck is about to change.”

“My Liege?”

William stepped up to vertical loom causing the women to disperse like timid street dogs.  His eyes lapped up the elegant floral pattern which were warmly coloured with reds and ambers. Lightly brushing his fingers along fabric, he nodded with satisfaction. “Fine work, I may be interested. But who could possibly afford such work in these impoverished lands?”

“We mainly produce simple garments for the villages. But every so often the Abbey will order a tapestry or two.”

“How come you have kept your skills from me? I could easily view this treason?”

“Forgive me, but I have not. Your chamberlain turned me away.”

“Peter!” William thumped his clenched fist against the wooden wall “That useless shit wouldn’t know talent if I beat him to death with it.” Flexing his aching fingers, he shook his head while walking towards the door. “Girls... consider yourself employed.” He glanced over his shoulder to Beatrice. “Report to the guardhouse at sunrise... you have a castle to decorate.”

“Really?”

“I’m a Norman... I don’t have a sense of humour. Now, I’m off to beat seven shades of brown out of my useless chamberlain. Good day to you.”

Once William had left the workshop remained in silence for a few moments. Beatrice listened to the hooves of the Baron’s horse until they all but disappeared. She then screamed, “What the hell just happened?” Still screaming, she grabbed hold of her faithful weaver. “Matilda... was I dreaming? Tell me I wasn’t.”

“No, he was here. I witnessed him, dressed in his fine clothes and smelling of rose water.”

“What are we going to do? I mean... he asked us to decorate his castle, did he not?”

“I’ve never been spoken to by a Norman before.”

Beatrice sat on the bench seat, open-mouthed. “He spoke in English, and he’s ravishingly handsome too... Baron Bertrand was as ugly as a corpse. But this William, he’s something else.”

“Beatrice, don’t get carried away. His ancestors slaughtered ours and took all their land. He and his kind now tax us up to our eyeballs, keeping us locked in poverty. He is no better than any other Norman.”

“I’m not stupid, Matilda.” Beatrice stretched out her legs, scraping her clogs across the wooden floorboards. She placed her hands on her cloth covered knees and stared at Matilda. “But did he, or did he not just offer us business? Lots of business.”

“He did that indeed. But you know as well as I do... never trust a Norman. Not even a dead one.”

~

The smell of raw sewage made Peter cover his face with his arm while descending the steps into the torch-lit bowels of the stone keep. In the flickering light he saw William holding a shovel while standing next to a large bucket. “My Liege, why did you choose such a terrible place to meet?” He then felt like vomiting as William handed him the shovel covered in excrement.

“The cesspit needs emptying.”

“My Liege, the castle employs a gong farmer to empty the cesspit.”

“Well, it’s either I beat the shit out of you or clean up everybody else’s. What is it to be?”

“Why do you choose to use such angry words with me?”

“Beatrice Buxton, the town weaver. She came to sell her fine tapestries.” William held a bag of rose petals to his face as he opened the door to the cavernous pit. “But you turned her away. Why?”

“I love her. But she broke my heart and married another man.”

“Her husband is dead... and yet you’re still bitter?” William glared at Peter. “You had me freezing my bollocks off, just because yours are so bitter?”

“I asked her since his death. But she still refuses me.”

“But, Peter, her refusal of you has nothing to do about the woman being cruel. Nor is it to do with her still loving her husband.”

“Then what is it, my Liege?”

William motioned with his head, signalling for a forlorn Peter to enter the pit. “It’s about you being as ugly as sin. Now, Peter the gong farmer, you have a cesspit to empty.”

~

Towards the East the sun had barely melted over the horizon while to the West a distant winter storm brewed.  Beatrice and Matilda found themselves caught in the middle while they waited outside the guardhouse.  The studded oak door finally clunked as it opened. Immediately Matilda pinched her nose as a familiar face peeped around the door. “My God... Peter... you stink worse than usual.”

“Good day to you both, Matilda, and the Big tits Beatrice.”