The Innocent (16 page)

The prayers were quickly over and the congregation rose as the newly betrothed couple linked hands and followed Mathew and his wife out of the chapel. Then came the household, which left in order of precedence, none daring to say a word until they had hurried safely away from the family part of the house.

Aveline’s hand was cold, Piers’s was warm, but he dropped hers as soon as they walked out of the chapel, and the look he gave her made Aveline’s stomach lurch. He stalked off to his room, leaving her standing alone in the great receiving hall, the household streaming past casting sly looks in her direction.

Coming out of the chapel at the tail of the crowd, Anne saw the distress beneath the pride. The frozen look on Aveline’s face spoke clearly of the humiliation she felt, and yet there was a certain forlorn magnificence in her refusal to turn and walk away from all the mocking glances. She held her head up and returned each glance, her face flushed, back rigid with defiance.

Anne hurried over and, sketching a slight but definite curtsy, carefully picked up part of the skirt at the back of Aveline’s dress, managing to hold it out in such a way as to suggest a train. Lady Margaret observed Anne’s kindness and approved it.

“Aveline, Master Mathew and I would like you to join us in the solar. There is much to discuss. Anne will attend you.” Margaret’s voice was a rope thrown to the drowning. But Aveline had enough instinctive dignity to bow gracefully to her future mother-in-law, before her erstwhile employers led her toward the stairs to the solar, Anne holding out the “train” of her dress as if it were a coronation gown.

Distant thunder rumbled as they walked. It would be a cold, wild night.

Chapter Ten

A month had passed and Blessing House was again in an early stir. Aveline and Piers’s marriage would take place this morning, and after the ceremony, held by custom at the door of the chapel, Father Bartolph would sing a Mass, then there would be feasting for the household and guests.

After the betrothal, Anne and Aveline had been given a tiny chamber all to themselves in the thickness of the tower wall—Anne now slept on a palliasse at the foot of Aveline’s new wooden bedstead—and each night for twenty-nine nights, Aveline had lain, half waking, half sleeping, on the first feather mattress of her life under a fine woolen rug lined with catskins. The unaccustomed luxury had made little difference to Aveline’s dreams, though. Often Anne was woken by Aveline crying in her sleep, the older girl always refusing to talk about her fears in the morning.

In the last few days, Aveline’s retching had finally stopped but she’d lost so much weight her hipbones stood out painfully and her knees and elbows were sharp though, as yet, only the slightest roundness to her belly hinted at the pregnancy. Anne had, unbidden, prepared against the inevitable by letting out the seams of Aveline’s few house dresses, and the one good dress of copper-colored wool that Aveline now wore every day to the chapel services.

Anne knew, too, of the humiliations the last few weeks had brought to Aveline—the source of the many bitter tears shed by the older girl in the privacy of their tiny room, though she did her best to hide them from Anne.

Mathew Cuttifer had sought out Aveline’s father to speak about a marriage settlement; he’d been willing to attend the wedding but, being a poor man, knight or not, he was truly unable to do anything financially for his illegitimate daughter. After only token negotiations between the men, a settlement of sorts, which Mathew largely financed, had been drawn up. In real terms, Aveline brought nothing to this marriage, not even an honorable name, and so it was a poor, one-sided agreement. However, in the event of Piers’s death she would be given a modest living, just as if she had brought a dowry to the family table. Lady Margaret had even provided the gown in which Aveline would be married today—

heavy, scarlet velvet trimmed with miniver around the neck—and with Anne’s capable help, it had been cleverly altered to fit her now spare body; another humiliation.

It was time to face this day.

Anne set the brass ewer full of hot water down on Aveline’s small wooden coffer—another donation from the Cuttifers—as she gently woke the bride-to-be.

Aveline saw that she was hiding something nervously behind her back. “What is it, girl? What do you conceal?” Aveline could hear the false note in her voice. It would take some practice to sound as if she were truly the mistress.

“Mistress…Aveline—I’ve brought you these. For joy today.” Tentatively, Anne held out a bunch of snowdrops, their fresh green smell spreading through the small space around them.

Aveline sighed, and closed her eyes, tears burning behind the lids; it was time for peace between them

—soon she would need friends. “I thank you. A kindly thought.”

It sounded gruff but she was sincere and that was enough for Anne.

Shyly, they smiled at each other, almost for the first time, and Anne dropped a brief, graceful curtsy as she held out the red dress that had been hanging all night on the peg beside the door. The dress that meant that as of today, everything would change.

Anne watched the girl who was about to become Piers’s wife get out of the bed. Though stick-thin, she was still beautiful, and there was something else: a proud grace that was touching. Her arms were frail enough for a strong man to snap but her head sat high and strong on a long neck, and the blood-colored velvet flattered the white skin and the brilliant dark eyes. She looked magnificent and as finely aristocratic as any court lady.

As all brides did, Aveline wore her hair loose, down to her waist. Anne brushed and brushed it—

Margaret had lent her her precious horse-bristle brush. And then, because Aveline’s face was so pale, Anne crushed geranium flowers and rubbed them into her cheekbones and her mouth. Color in the blank whiteness.

Passively, Aveline allowed Anne to finish preparing her for her marriage, and she hardly registered the image the girl showed her in the burnished silver mirror that was Margaret’s valuable wedding gift.

Blurred oval face, dark eyes, stark red mouth—the lustrous velvet showing off the tops of her white breasts with their tracing of blue veins, nursing veins.

Aveline shivered violently. Nausea hit her and she sat down, head between her knees, as saliva dripped from her mouth into a linen cloth Anne pressed into her hand. The moment passed. Aveline’s breathing quieted. Gently, Anne offered a hand to help her up. Time to go down and face Piers—face all of them.

Downstairs, the household and its chief guests were crammed into the chapel, waiting for the bride to appear. Expectancy and envy were dominant emotions, but there was a bit of excitement too, almost as good as the Christmas revels.

Margaret waited in her stall near the altar. She could see her stepson standing at the chapel doorway, and when he caught her eye, he smiled—or rather sneered—and made her a great bow, sweeping the velvet cap off his head just as his father, leading Aveline by the hand, came up behind him followed by Anne bearing the train of the bride’s red gown.

Piers swiveled and managed to convert the bow into another obeisance—this time apparently to his bride—and as he rose, a brilliant smile transformed his face; for all the world, he looked the lovestruck groom.

Mathew took Aveline’s hand and placed it in that of his son as Father Bartolph approached to speak the words of the service at the door of the chapel. Despite the intrigue surrounding this marriage—or perhaps because of it—the congregation sighed with pleasure. Jassy was even inclined to sniffle—after all, everyone loved weddings, no matter how ill-advised this one seemed.

It was a brief service and Piers spoke the responses clearly on behalf of himself and his bride, accepting Aveline as his wife, swearing lifelong fidelity, and even managing to sound sincere.

Anne shivered as she looked at the graceful couple, the bride with her head modestly bent, beside her the handsome groom arrayed like some great noble.

She found herself praying to Saint Anne, the mother of the Virgin, asking her to protect Aveline and bless the child to be, when suddenly she heard a voice, barely a breath, chanting, “Aine, Aine, Aine…”

Quickly, she looked around for the source of the sound but there was only the priest’s voice, pronouncing the final blessing. She shook her head, but again she heard it. “Aine, Aine, Aine…” Many voices now, and flames, and screams of joy; red drunken faces, wild eyes, and sharp white teeth in the darkness. She was back at the Beltane fires…that was when she’d last heard them, heard them chanting Aine’s name.

Anne closed her eyes, squeezed them shut, but she could not escape the sound, and when she forced them open again, she saw the figure of a tall, strong woman behind Aveline, staring fixedly at Piers.

She was wrapped in a homespun cloak, pinned back on one shoulder with a dragon brooch, the animal biting its tail in a circle, rubies for eyes. Her naked arms were covered in thick gold bands, while around her neck was a torque, again of solid gold. And she was holding an ancient sword. Anne blinked in shock, and when she looked again, the woman was gone. Fearfully, she looked around her, but the other members of the congregation were concentrating on the priest, or greedily whispering to each other about the bride being so pale, the groom so handsome…

Could she have seen the mother goddess—and, if she had, why was she afraid? Was it not a good omen? And then she remembered. Aine had two forms—the mother was one, but the other was the destroyer. Why had she come here now, to this Christian marriage?

Chapter Eleven

The wedding feast had begun well. Mathew used the celebration, once again, to impress court connections with his success, though Westminster was daily becoming a more and more frightening place, as the young king played with mighty forces he could barely control.

As the Christmas Court grew closer, Warwick’s affinity was growing, his retainers massing in the capital purposefully intimidating the citizens, stealing their goods and assaulting their daughters, unchecked by their master. However, in the last week, Edward, supported by his youngest brother, the Duke of Gloucester, and many of the Wydevilles, had begun to exert his strength by summarily arresting three of Warwick’s more troublesome lieutenants, beheading the one who could be called a gentleman and hanging the other two at Tyburn. This was a stark message to the man who had placed Edward on the throne: be warned—the king would no longer tolerate lawlessness in his own capital and no one was immune to punishment. Warwick was said to be incandescent with rage and had withdrawn temporarily from court to his own lands in the north—by kind permission of the king, reluctantly sought and freely given.

Clearly, the time was close when sides would be chosen, but for now the wedding of the son of Mathew Cuttifer was an important moment in the life of the city. There was no shortage of friends, rivals, and courtiers happy to celebrate the event; they were all curious to meet the baseborn bride and covertly sneer at the extraordinary choice Master Mathew had seemingly allowed his son to make. To be seen at Blessing House, to wish the couple happy, was a diversion from the fear gathering outside—and a feast such as this was the best place to swap recent news and gossip.

As the daylong celebration began, the young couple greeted their guests at the entrance to the hall; there was the usual harvest of crude jokes, bountiful food, and pitchers of good, strong sweet wine—all that was expected of a marriage feast. Margaret and Mathew had talked long on this matter and she had advised him that this wedding should be feted as if Piers were marrying one of the greatest heiresses in the kingdom—it would be their signal to the world that they accepted Aveline as a valued addition to their house. Plainly it was God’s pleasure that it should be so, for the winter day had dawned brilliant, though cold.

However, even though Blessing House was thronged with courtiers, Mathew, Margaret, and Piers were all aware that many of their principal invited guests had not appeared. Court hangers-on there were in plenty, but many of the greatest lords, Edward’s closest companions, were missing. At a time like this, they clustered around the king or withdrew to their own lands to await events, and to sweat on the most advantageous time to show their hands.

The king, too, had graciously, but very recently, declined the invitation, though he had sent handsome gifts to the new couple. For the bride, four English ells of sky-blue figured damask embroidered with gold thread. The groom had been sent a handsome Spanish leather saddle and bridle, worked with silver and bronze ornaments. There was also a set of gossamer-fine linen sheets from the Levant for their bed.

More than kingly, thought Mathew, but he’d have been happier with the presence of their giver. With all the uncertainty of the hostility between Warwick and Edward, the courtiers were buying less of Mathew’s most expensive goods and that was bad for the overall balance of his very costly trade with the Mediterranean seaports. Perhaps he would be able to tell the way the wind was shifting when he went, personally, to thank the king for his generosity to the new couple. He looked across at his new daughter-in-law, a handsome girl; perhaps she should accompany him—and Piers, too, if he could be persuaded to practice the manners so expensively acquired from the numberless tutors he’d been provided with as a boy. Thanks in person to the king always meant more, and might get him more as well.

Among all the noise and heat, the shouted congratulations, the hearty kisses, Anne saw that Aveline was feeling very alone. Her father had said he would attend the wedding to give his daughter away but in the end hadn’t come. From gossip, Anne had heard he was too poor to buy the fine clothes that such a feast demanded, and his legitimate children were too proud to honor the bastard half sister who’d somehow managed to make a better marriage than any of them.

Anne ached for Aveline. There was no one here to wish her happiness who really meant it, and she saw that Aveline’s hands had strayed to cover her belly, as if to protect her unborn child from all the unkindness of the brittle world surrounding her now. Yet Aveline never allowed the calm joyful expression on her face to waver and Anne found that touchingly courageous. For she, too, could see the many sideways looks cast at Aveline’s waist and hear the sly comments on how blooming the bride was looking on her wedding day. She felt offended on Aveline’s behalf and longed to stand behind her in support, but now that the feast had begun Anne was rapidly too busy to think about much other than not spilling the wine she was pouring for the bride and bridegroom’s guests.