The Jewels of Warwick (4 page)

 

 

They approached Warwick through Westgate, one of three ancient city
gates. The imposing stone structure was topped with a crenelated
tower and huge clock. As they passed through the arched tunnel,
engulfed in darkness, the horses' hoof beats and squeak of the wagon
and coach wheels echoed off the inner walls.

 

 

They emerged on the High Street, in the midst of the bustling town.
To the left was a huge timber-framed house leaning into the street,
a wooden sign reading "Leycester's Hospital" swinging from a chain,
clanging against its post with each gust of wind. More timber-framed
houses were huddled against the hospital, their peaked roofs
pointing towards the clearing sky.

 

 

They passed through the market square, where merchants displayed
their wares on shelves under rolled-up awnings. Villagers bustled
about, grabbing and squeezing fruits and vegetables, loading their
goods into wagons. The doughy aroma of meat pies encircled them, and
Amethyst breathed deeply of the rain-washed air mingled with the
scents of fruits and spices.

 

 

Colorful bolts of satin and sarcenet hung from a shop entrance.
Ribbons fluttered through the fingers of a discerning lady. A pig
scurried across the road, followed by a parade of clucking chickens,
wings flapping and feathers splaying as their carriage trundled by.

 

 

They left the bustle of the marketplace and approached Church
Street. Saint Mary's Church was on the left, a profusion of stone
archways and graceful pinnacles. Finally they were on Castle Street,
and at the end of the curved road, she saw the top of a round tower
rising over the trees.

 

 

As they followed the curve of Castle Street, Amethyst halted the
party and jumped out of the carriage, wanting to finish the journey
on foot, alone. She rushed ahead and broke into a run. At that
moment the sun burst through the last veil of clouds.

 

 

And there it was.

 

 

It lined the riverbank, rising from its ancient mound, the stonework
blending, echoing the sun in an earthy yellow mingled with a rosy
glow. A myriad of round towers were connected by curtain walls,
inlaid with arched windows, majestically topped with crenellations.
The imposing fortress extended farther than she could see, and as
she approached, it loomed bigger still. She could discern even more
towers, walls, and barricades—when did it ever end?

 

 

She scrambled up the hill, tripping over her skirts, laughing and
whooping in a frenzy of emotion, threw her head back and gazed up at
the massive structure towering into the heavens, so imposing, so
impenetrable.

 

 

She found herself at a gatehouse built into the side of the hill, an
arched entryway flanked by two octagonal towers. The iron portcullis
had been raised, and she stepped inside. Standing upon the dirt
floor in the dark, she inhaled the dankness in the whistling wind
that softly sang of centuries past. Her tears fell and seeped into
the ground.

 

 

She stepped back outside, taking another sweeping look. Opening her
arms, she embraced the curved surface of the tower, letting the cold
stones absorb her body's welcoming warmth.

 

 

"My home, my home," she whispered, becoming one with her history.
Finally, she knew where she'd come from. Now she knew where she
belonged.

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

Marchington Manor, December, 1511

 

 

Topaz and Lady Margaret received Christmas invitations to
neighboring Kenilworth Castle from its lord, Matthew Gilford.
Feeling the need for a diversion, Topaz decided to go, while
Margaret declined, as she'd already been invited to court for the
sumptuous festivities there.

 

 

Topaz had never made Sir Gilford's acquaintance before, but imagined
him as a stilted nobleman bedecked in stuffy raiment echoing a
graying pate. However, she mused, landed nobles sired sons, virile
knights hardened and brawny from military training; educated and
eloquent, capable of engaging her in lively debate on art and
astronomy far beyond the scope of any common Warwickshire yeoman.

 

 

Her recently restored title and status might serve to find her a
worthy counterpart. She knew she'd been languishing too long,
obscuring her title when she could actually be using it to her
advantage.

 

 

She began folding lacy cloths and placing them in a travelling
trunk. Perhaps a younger Gilford would pluck one of these up 'twixt
his teeth in the triumph of a won tournament, she thought with a
smile, enjoying the image of her bestowing her favor upon a worthy
knight.

 

 

After two days' journey, Topaz and her small retinue of servers
cantered down the final rutted road leading to Kenilworth. It was a
charming castle with a sandstone glow and sprawling gardens, a
striking ornament set amid the velvety pastures and sparkling lake
that lapped up against its walls.

 

 

A groom helped her dismount in the courtyard and a maid escorted her
to a set of comfortable apartments, where she unpacked and settled
in.

 

 

She dressed conservatively for that evening's meal in the great
hall. Her gown was a subdued blue devoid of ribbons or lace, and
with a higher neckline than the fashion dictated. Actually, it was
one of her mother's older gowns. She didn't want to outshine Lady
Gilford or any other ladies of the family—at least not on the very
first evening.

 

 

As she descended the staircase, her eyes swept the entry hall for
familiar faces, trying to match one to her image of Lord Gilford.
But the guests milling about and entering the castle through the
huge oaken doors were of her own age group.

 

 

She halted halfway down the steps when her eye caught the back of
the tallest head in the crowd, a crop of dark blond hair catching
the light like a cluster of glowing embers. The tall man's laughter,
resonant and confident, prevailed over the tittering and chuckling.
A growing circle enclosed him. People clamored for his attention,
the ladies especially. They threw their heads back in gaiety,
head-dresses bumping, as they gently nudged each other out of the
way in an attempt to get close to him. A bejeweled hand stroked his
sleeve and lingered at the hem of his doublet.

 

 

One of the more aggressive ladies clutched at his arm and turned him
to face her. Topaz saw that he was all in blue, from his hat of
turquoise to the moderate tones of his doublet and hose tucked into
indigo shoes. A satin undertunic peeked out, trimmed in gold.
Sapphire rings glittered on his fingers. Swirls of aquamarines
studded his doublet, glittering royally in the sunshine streaming
into the castle.

 

 

As he turned away from the bold woman trying to capture his
attention so forcefully, his gaze swept across the entry hall and
over to the staircase. His eyes met Topaz's. He looked away, but she
kept a steady gaze on him. A moment later he glanced her way again.

 

 

This time their gazes locked. Smile met smile. He excused himself
and his tall yet graceful figure glided through the growing press of
bodies, where he met her on the staircase, high above the milling
crowd.

 

 

The voices of their companions seemed to recede into the distance as
they stood together. She had the impression they had become detached
from the rest of humanity as if they'd been swept away on a cloud.

 

 

"'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my fine lady. Allow me
to introduce myself. I am your host, Matthew Gilford."

 

 

Her hand was in his immediately, being raised to his lips, before
she spoke even a word. The image of the wheezing old man withered
and died. "And I am Lady Topaz Plantagenet, of Warwick Castle."

 

 

A pair of sparkling emeralds looked into her eyes, and she couldn't
remember another word either of them said...except his very last
question before he excused himself.

 

 

"Would you be so kind as to honor me with your presence for a stroll
over the grounds after we sup, my lady?"

 

 

And she heard her voice answer yes.

 

 

While the music played and the mummers jangled and danced, Topaz
couldn't even think of eating. In fact, the sight of all the roasted
fowl, meats and steaming dishes made her stomach churn. She barely
said a word to those seated around her at the long table. She didn't
give a fig about crops, weather, or even the explorations in the New
World—not now. All she could think of, all she could stare at—were
that dark blond head, that warm smile, and that exquisite body so
magnificently dressed.

 

 

She was perched nervously on a seat in the winter parlour for quite
a while before he finally arrived. He apologized for his lateness
and she forgave him readily. Drowning in those green eyes, she heard
his calm, elegant voice speak of... she wasn't quite listening. His
voice was as smooth as the velvet of his doublet and breeches, and
he could have spoken his words backwards for all she cared. She'd
already decided that she was the future Lady Gilford.

 

 

Topaz found out all about him in the next few days, over the
tournaments, card and dice games, and dancing, asking casually of
the other guests. He was of good stock. His father, Sir John, had
died fighting at Bosworth, the battle that had brought Henry the
Seventh to the throne. He was well-landed and educated, as she saw
from a peek into his reading room. Throughout the entire twelve-day
celebration he was flattered and fawned over by every female in the
shire, and took it all in good humor, without taking advantage.

 

 

Topaz, never the one to compete on a level footing with others,
decided on a more subtle and clever approach. Instead of joining his
throng of admirers, she acted aloof and disinterested; the exact
opposite of all the other twittering wenches.

 

 

It worked, much to her delight. She clearly piqued his interest, for
he asked to meet her again...and again.

 

 

He invited her back to Kenilworth, and she returned a second and
then third time. Now she was sure she would be Lady Gilford, and if
she had it her way, she would be so by the end of Lent.

 

 

 

"Tell me more about Topaz of Warwick. Who is she and where did she
come from?" he asked one night as they sat before the fire in his
solar.

 

 

She'd just finished asking him more about the chapters of his life,
learning of his love for hunting, ancient Rome, and his assortment
of allergies.

 

 

Do I tell him the truth now or let him keep wondering? she asked
herself. No, better tell the truth. Spin a yarn and it'll backfire
somehow, with these talebearers lapping up the juices of gossip
like thirsty hounds. Besides that, she needed someone to talk to,
to share her pain. Who better than her future husband?

 

 

"I know the Earls of Warwick go back several centuries."

 

 

"To 1088, to be exact," she replied proudly. "The Earldom was
created by King William the Second. My father Edward was the son of
the Duke of Clarence. My grandfather's brother, King Edward, had my
grandfather executed on trumped up charges and drowned in a cask of
wine when he was twenty-nine years old and my father was but three."

 

 

"Why—what did your grandfather do that his own brother would have
him executed?"

 

 

"He tried to take the throne a few times."

 

 

Matthew said dryly, "Ah. Well, that explains it."

 

 

"My father never got to know his father. He was almost the same age
I was when Taffy Harry killed my father."

 

 

Her voice dripped bitterness and resentment, and Matthew refilled
her wine goblet in order to ease the pain these memories were
evoking.

 

 

"My father, the last of the Plantagenet line, was born in Warwick
Castle. King Richard knighted him along with his own son Edward.
When Edward died, he named my father heir. When Harry Tudor killed
King Richard at Bosworth and seized the crown, my father was named
dejure
King of England, as he was the nearest in succession. So he was a
threat to Tudor, being the rightful heir—by bloodline and all else."

 

 

"So that is why Tudor imprisoned your father for the rest of his
life?" Matthew guessed.

 

 

She nodded slowly. "When my father was eight years old, Taffy Harry
clapped him in Sheriff Hutton Castle, then had him brought to the
Tower. He met my mother in the Tower when she went there to visit
her father, the Earl of Ashford, who was awaiting execution."

 

 

"For what?"

 

 

She shrugged one shoulder. "He had fought on King Richard's side at
Bosworth."

 

 

"So what happened to your mother?"

 

 

"When Ashford had his land stripped from him, my mother was shipped
off to live with an aunt. She had nothing. My father had Warwick
Castle taken away and it reverted back to the crown. He and my
mother fell in love and got permission to marry. She took up
residence with him there in the Bell Tower and became a court
musician and singing minstrel."

 

 

"So you were born and bred in the Tower?" he asked in surprise,
shuddering at the horror of it all.

 

 

"Aye. A virtual prisoner. My only happy childhood memory was of the
splendid Royal Menagerie they had there in the Lion Tower. They had
monkeys, and elephants, and zebras, and giraffes, and huge
tortoises, colorful birds, and all kinds of exotic animals from
Africa. The guards would let me go there almost every day, and I
would stand and stare at the animals, fascinated with their
behavior, their ways of communicating with one another, their
rituals. I named some of them and the guards let me feed them.