‘His grace is asking for you, sir.’ Heloise let her breath out as a young henchman interrupted them. With an officious nod, as if he had merely been speaking with her out of duty, Rushden paced off to the great chamber and she was left with a boyish knight whose exuberant grin through straw-coloured hair reminded her of Ned’s puppy. A possible ally?

‘Sir Richard de la Bere.’ He introduced himself with a flourish and pulled a waggish face at the tapestry. ‘Poor old Actaeon.’

Heloise cocked her head to one side. ‘No, pity the unfortunate goddess.’

‘Why?’ He hailed the pander and ordered a cup of perry for her.

‘Why, Sir Richard? Because Diana must stay chaste now. She has cut off her nose to spite her face, for Master Actaeon is a handsome lover and she has spurned him.’

He laughed. ‘I say, that’s a refreshing philosophy, Lady Haute.’ With a kindly arm, he led her to the fire. ‘Good health, my lady! How was your journey here?’

She was telling him about Hoel’s foibles when the duke came down into the hall with Rushden at his side. The pair of them strode off purposefully out into the bailey like two dogs off on a night scavenge. It was tempting to linger with de la Bere, but somehow the conversation had turned to hunting – clearly his passion – and the servants were pointedly snuffing out the candles so Heloise pleaded weariness. Her new friend – in mid-breath of tracking a hart through Stockley Wood – looked disappointed that she did not wish to hear of his final triumph, but let her go.

Compared to Middleham, Brecknock’s stairs and passages were meanly lit and Heloise took care climbing the spiralling stone steps to the next floor and cautiously contemplated the evil passageway. The night before, a rat had raced ahead of her. She was reminding herself to always carry a taper when a gloved hand swooped across her mouth and a relentless arm dragged her struggling into a small hidden chamber behind the arras.

‘Hold still, damn you!’ her legal owner snarled as she jabbed her elbow fiercely into his chest. Physical fear subsided into healthy annoyance, but her heart was still galloping like a horse stung by a gadfly, and her skirts were so intimately entangled with a stool that she was forced to cease trying to kick Rushden’s shins and hang onto his sleeves instead. He let her go with an oath. A flint rasped and the room about them flickered into detail as he lit a single candle set in a wall cresset. They were in a small, panelled chamber off the chapel; Heloise caught a glimpse of the shrouded altar before her captor locked that entrance and dropped the key into the fringed purse on his belt. Then he set the bar across the door he had just hauled her through and surveyed her with the satisfied expression of a dragon that had returned to a cave to gloat over its hoard.

‘When I mentioned we needed to talk,’ muttered Heloise, tugging her bodice straight, ‘I did not anticipate it would be such a struggle.’ With her headdress like a dislodged chimneypot and hair tumbling down over her right ear, any attempt to look grave and earnest would not wash. ‘Are you expecting me to kneel and confess to horsetheft and extortion?’ She indicated the prie-dieu, the only other furnishing in the room, save for the toppled stool and a crucifix on the wall.

‘Now that would be a wonder,’ Rushden answered, leaning back against the door and correcting his rolled-brim hat so that its pearl ornamentation was once more at the front. ‘You have only a few moments to state your case before my patience wears through. I advise you not to be wasteful.’

‘Is this tête à tête not unwise, sir?’ She righted the stool and picked up the prayer book, smoothing its bruised pages regretfully before she fastened the clasps back together. ‘It takes but a few moments to conceive a child. I should have thought you would have engineered a peacock tail of eyes to witness our argument and keep our conversation chaste.’

That ruffled his tail feathers no end. ‘I am waiting, Mistress Ballaster.’

‘Well,’ she replaced the book on its oblique shelf, marvelling that her weariness had so swiftly abated. ‘In a nutshell,’ she steepled her fingers, ‘I have been banished from Bramley and now have neither income nor prospects outside these walls, thanks to you and my father.’ Pacing to and fro like a lioness in the king’s menagerie, she added, ‘and I would be the last person to deny Dionysia her chance to find a worthy husband so when—’

‘The point of this,’ he interrupted tersely, slapping his hand on the top of the prie-dieu.

‘The point is that my father sent me here against my will, and before I knew it I was installed as Ned’s keeper complete with keys and napkins.’

‘Just like that?’

‘More or less.’ She sat down upon the stool. ‘Sir William Knyvett would have bussed me heartily he was so pleased to see me.’

‘I can believe it.’ A priest might have granted her absolution by now but Rushden was hardly likely to send her out with a benediction and a few Hail Marys. ‘You still have not told me how you dispensed with Lady Haute.’

‘Well, it was marvellously fortunate. The poor lady wrote to say she was indisposed with the measles in … hmm … Ashford, yes, Ashford in Kent and dear Sir Thomas Limerick sent me up my … well, her … unopened letter.’ She peeped up cautiously. He was looking surprisingly mild-mannered, but that was a sunny day that would not last long. ‘You really must appreciate, sir, that had I explained who I really was, it would have made things extremely difficult.’

‘For me?’ he offered sarcastically. ‘You were so unselfish, thinking of my sensitivity in such matters.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed helpfully. ‘I realise that this is putting you—’

‘I seem to remember before we last parted in such, shall we say, inconvenient circumstances, that I hinted to you that I never wanted to set eyes on you again.’

‘And here we are.’ Her dimpled grin was only skin deep.

He was smiling too, his laugh a politeness, ‘And here we are.’ He straightened up from the prie-dieu and his expression changed so rapidly that Heloise sprang up from the stool and stepped back, her heart thumping.

‘So what are we going to do about this?’ he asked, advancing with dragon-like purpose.

She shrugged helplessly as she read the desire in his eyes to incinerate her. ‘Nothing, sir?’

‘Nothing!’ That halted him. His gaze smouldered at her nonchalance, but to her relief he paced away from her and set his hands to the bar. For a moment she thought the interview was at an end, but he was merely bracing himself as if touching the tangible solid wood might bring comfort and restore common sense.

‘I seem to recall explaining to you,’ he swung round to confront her like a lawyer arguing his case before a jury, ‘that it was essential that we never spent a night under the same roof until the annulment was granted.’ He gestured to the excess of painted stars above their head. ‘Yes?’

Heloise nodded apologetically, giving the ceiling a cursory glance. ‘But this is a rather large roof,’ she pointed out, including the entire castle in her remark. The man gave a hiss of angry breath, but she pressed on: ‘Sir, you only spoke to me at all tonight because his grace commanded you.’ Mind, he had little choice; if he avoided ‘Lady Haute’ like a plague-ridden village, some tongues might have wagged, but that observation was better stored away. Instead she continued quietly, ‘So you see, I imagine it is possible for us to avoid each other completely with almost no effort.’

His quicksilver eyes regarded her scathingly. ‘Are you such a simpleton? If you remain here, mistress, I have access to you.’

The meaning drew the blood into her cheeks and, as if to thrust the words fully into her mind, her husband coldly let his glance rise from her little pointed toes, hover in unseemly fashion upon her breasts, and halt upon her lips, which she parted unwittingly beneath such scrutiny. Something which seemed to begin beneath her ribs, like a slow vortex, was whirling downwards to her thighs. This man knew too well what lay beneath her clothing. She turned away from that insolent study before she was tempted to stare and give him brazen coin for coin.

Access, yes. Miles was tempted. This silver-haired enchantress was a hand’s grasp away, beseeching him with waif’s eyes; her body was a tantalising sheath to be broken, to be seduced into granting him admittance. It would be so easy, so satisfying to tug away the silken panel that lay across her collar and free those pert breasts for lovemaking. He felt himself hardening and swung away from her, gripping the prie-dieu as if it exuded some holiness that might assist him against her witchery. He had to be rid of her. Her presence disconcerted him, creating fractures in the wall he had erected against emotion. If he permitted it, her lies, her disguise, would be like ice freezing into the cavity of friendship betwixt him and Harry, pushing them slowly apart.

Heloise guessed he was exacting a silent revenge for the shaking administered to his careful world, and was sorry for it. Brecknock could give her safe haven for a little space if only the harbourmaster’s watchdog would let her stay. What would happen if she did step across the pace of world that lay between them to nestle against that arrogant backbone? And suppose she trailed a gentle touch across the glimmering knuckles and up his velvet sleeve to his shoulder to tangle her fingers in the black soft waves and coax Rushden’s face down to hers? Would he kiss her or curse her? No, she must risk nothing. Along that sinful path ’twixt hand and lips lay folly and Heloise knew better than to steal what could never be hers.

The man had turned his face to her, waiting. It was necessary to soothe the hackles down and slide a makeshift collar round his neck until she could work out the answers herself. Stroking fingertips up and down the back of her hand fisted against her breasts, she tried to think of an answer to placate him. It cost her but being conciliatory was far more crucial than losing her temper.

‘If need be, I shall submit to an examination when the annulment arrives.’

His reply astounded her: ‘Shall you indeed? We should both be fools to rely on that.’

‘You whoreson!’ The unladylike word was out before she could leash it and it took all her power to fight down the urge to knock the Rushden hawk nose crooked.

Seeing such temptation whorling her fists, Miles swiftly stepped back out of harm’s way. ‘Such fine manners, Mistress Ballaster.’ He let his mouth curl haughtily. The girl’s base blood showed. ‘I am merely being practical, woman, if you would bother to listen. There are other ways to lose a maidenhead besides lying with a man; riding horseback, for instance, can rip the evidence of virginity.’

Heloise’s defiance slackened. He was perfectly right, even if the indelicacy of the man in mentioning such matters shocked her.

‘So let us be clear on this, you shrew. I am ordering you to leave Brecknock by Thursday or I shall have you taken back to your father by force, make no mistake. You may ride home muzzled in a cart for aught I care.’ He did not mention Myfannwy would be arriving.

Heloise leaned wearily back against the wall. She did not want to return to the little empire ruled by her father; she was going to have to fight with every weapon she had to keep some hold over her destiny, and she could not see beyond Brecknock. ‘I think you are making rather heavy weather of this, sir.’ He looked fit to explode at such an understatement, but she continued: ‘I should like to retain my position here.’ The proclamation made her feel good and she straightened up and announced the rest of it: ‘In fact, I intend to. The duke’s son needs some affection in his life. I have seen beggars’ children given more love, so—’

Laughter in the passageway outside stifled her peroration as Miles flung up a warning hand. A young woman’s inebriated giggle and a man’s soft winning tones rippled past and ebbed beyond their hearing. When the silence again lay between them. Heloise picked up her skirts decisively. ‘Since it is not wise to be seen or discovered conversing with you, sir, especially in private, would you mind if we end this delightful audience?’ She swept to the door and stood regally for him to open it.

With an ill will, Miles hoisted the bar from its brackets, wondering why he was giving her more time. ‘We shall speak of this again. Do not think yourself out of the wild wood yet, mistress.’

Heloise ruined her triumphant departure by asking in wifely fashion: ‘Oh, did you remember to write to His Holiness?’

‘No, I might manage it in a year’s time,’ he exclaimed witheringly, his fingers still controlling the door latch. ‘Of course, Pope Sixtus and Bishop Stillington and my lord of Canterbury. Anyone I have missed out? The king? The Ottoman Emperor? Yes now, there is a thought, and the poor heathen fellow has a different wife each night, while I have difficulty dealing with the one foisted on me. Good night, madam! Forgive me if I follow you at a distance, but I wish to ensure you find your way to bedchamber unravished.’

‘So considerate,’ purred Heloise, grateful even if it was self-interest rather than gallantry which fuelled his thoughtfulness. She waited while he robbed his purse of the chapel key and lifted the candle free.

Keeping a cautious distance like an assassin, Miles followed her. She went the wrong way twice and had to be whistled and signalled with the candle so that by the time she reached her door, he was ropable and close to suspecting her of leading him on a tour of the entire living quarters out of sheer revenge.

He plundered an aumbrey and drank a cup of muscadelle, angry that he had been drawn into the wretched girl’s conspiracy. Moths had more sense; at least they investigated a flame before it consumed them. And he was the one person in the entire household who had claimed any recognition of Lady Haute. If the real widow arrived, Harry would want to know why Miles had deceived him. And Lord Rhys ap Thomas was arriving on Thursday. Damnation upon it! Curse her! Curse everything!

His bed was occupied when he finally flung himself down on it. Dick de la Bere amiably rolled out of his way and asked whose skirts he had been lifting.

Like a dog with a bone to bury, Rushden was certainly trying to be rid of her as discreetly as possible. Next morning as Heloise was leaving the castle chapel after Mass, the porter, at great pains to make a delivery himself, handed her a letter. She tucked it briskly beneath her belt, whisked Ned back to the nursery and locked the letter into her jewellery coffer.

Thank all the saints she did. When she finally snatched a few moments’ privacy, she discovered it purported to be from Lady Haute’s husband, requesting his wife to return at once. The orange seal on the parchment was different from the previous one and rather indistinct. Yes, it was a letter from a husband. Hers! ‘Rogue!’ she muttered and tossed it on the nearest fire. She was not going to spin away when Rushden cracked his toy whip. God smite him! How long would this game endure?

And what was worse: she had been commanded to take Ned to breakfast with his sire. To hear about the sword-swallower? The duke’s interest in his son was the only glimmer on a dark horizon, for she guessed that his dear friend Rushden would be listening too, and sending vengeful promises to her across the trenchers and the Paris napery.

The duke was breakfasting at the small table in his bedchamber and Heloise, having delivered his son, was bidden to wait by the door – near enough to remove Ned if he disobeyed; far enough to be disregarded and hear nothing. She felt like a sentry as the servants came past with platters and it was embarrassing too. Ned tucked his legs around his stool leg, blew on his pottage and prattled happily. Several times the duke stared across at her, and her husband, dining with them and ill at ease with the child, glanced over his shoulder occasionally, but offered no pleasantries.

Heartily sick of studying the scarlet and gold caparisoned bed, the costly carpets, the pedestalled astrolabe and the collection of lidded golden goblets studded with gemstones, marching across the cupboard shelf, Heloise observed that his grace of Buckingham matched his bed. He was buttoned tightly into a scarlet doublet stitched with panels of yellow silk, criss-crossed with golden cord. Yet for all his flamboyant splendour, there was an elegance in his companion that was much more powerful.

Rushden’s black cote’s slit sleeves rustled with a lining of grey taffeta every time he set his cup to his lips. Heloise’s gaze was drawn immodestly to the lazy stretch of his shoulders, the way the white pleated collar of his shirt was half-hidden by glossy hair, black as midnight. You need a barber, she silently chided his proud profile, and then blanched as he suddenly tugged at a fingerful of hair and squinted sideways at it. This is definitely against the teachings of Holy Church, Heloise chided herself, or was it mere coincidence? Could the man be made to feel a tickling in his right kneecap? One of Rushden’s ringed hands slid down across the woollen hose of his left leg. Hmm, then she tried to make him sneeze without success before she sensibly gave up. It was wrong to mock the magic; the faery realm might punish her for succumbing to such frivolity.

His grace of Buckingham finished his gillysops in wine, dabbled his fingers in the proffered rosewater, and scraped his chair back, but it was Rushden who spoke to Heloise. ‘I understand you have received bad tidings from home, my Lady Haute.’ He wiped his hands on the napkin and flung it back across the page’s shoulder.

‘Oh, nothing of consequence, Sir Miles,’ she answered grandly, ‘but thank you for your concern.’

Rushden’s jaw tightened.

‘Your husband does not miss you?’ Buckingham was being helped into his cote by his servant, Pershall.

What else had the queen’s letter of recommendation told the duke, she wondered in panic. ‘Not a bit, your grace, except he fusses occasionally about matters that are easily remedied.’ She gave her real husband a quick smile and looked back at the duke. ‘I do not complain, my lord. He leaves me to manage my own affairs so long as I do not interfere with his pursuits.’

‘Elderly, is he?’

‘Somewhat older than I, your grace, and …’ she pursed her lips looking towards Rushden, ‘and his understanding is not what it was.’ A hit indeed, for Miles Rushden picked up his meat knife, fingering it lovingly.

The duke turned from the handmirror held by his servant. ‘My son has been telling me his breathlessness is almost vanquished.’

‘A few infusions, tried and true,’ Heloise answered warily.

‘Good.’ His grace did not offer a verdict on her governance. Certainly not a man to put praises in her alms dish. Observing Ned eyeing his long sleeves mischievously, he languidly felt them for protuberances, but finding none, ruffled the boy’s curls. ‘Off with you!’ Dismissed, Ned scampered back to Heloise, bowed to his father and Rushden, then tugged her swiftly out.

It was Rushden’s sleeve that had received the earthworms. He silently handed them to Heloise later and strode off before she could apologise.

Mistletoe! That was it, thought Miles, noting an incongruous tangle of greenery on a healthy tree branch, still unfurled for spring, as he rode out with his men-at-arms to Llangorse to investigate some trouble stirred up by the Vaughans. Mistress Ballaster was sinking her tendrils into him like mistletoe and looking so pearly white and pretty that every man at the castle was stripping her bare. Godsakes, the Tretower rogues were easier to deal with than the cursed wench. He tried to concentrate on the road, wishing he had Traveller back. Maybe he needed to whistle outside every byre and barn he passed. Where could she have hidden him? Perhaps he should interrogate the balding esquire who had been with her at Potters Field.

To Hell with Heloise Ballaster! If only he could forget what lay beneath the layers of skirt, the froth of veil and the strip of fur that had edged her neckline this morning. Here he was on the outskirts of Llangorse now and his mind should be on his errand, but no, last night’s temptation was still with him, reminding him he did not just have a familiarity with this particular wench, he actually owned her. That was, if he wanted to – and it was not impossible. The thought was tantalising and an incredible nuisance. Just when he was telling himself it was necessary to be honest with Harry and have the wench sent packing back to her outrageous father, a part of him that had not been overworked of late was urging him to amuse himself. You own the goods, said his sinful side, you could at least examine them further before you send them back.

It was at that point that he and his men were attacked by the Vaughans.

He should have kept his mind on his work, Miles reflected, as they later galloped back, bruised and victorious towards Bronllys. But he had a drawstring bag of dues clinking safely in his saddlebag and when Thomas Vaughan had taunted him about the new mare with foal that he had lately acquired, he had forced the cur at swordpoint against a tree out of earshot of his men.

Vaughan had needed little persuasion to tell him the rest. It seemed that an English noblewoman had rode upon Traveller into Wales, and it was common gossip in the valleys that she carried Rushden’s babe.

Maybe she should give Traveller back to Rushden as a peace offering, reflected Heloise, leaning against her bed as though it were a misericord. Dafydd was rubbing an ear against her elbow for tickling. Yes, and while she was at it, have Ned’s dog secretly burnt at the stake to trumpets followed by universal rejoicing. She sadly turned over the remains of her best leather shoes. The wicked creature had also ripped the leather thongs off one of her wooden pattens, put teeth marks across the other, demolished a garter, chewed the end of an embossed leather belt and shredded a corner of her feather bed, before being smacked soundly on the nose. With a deep breath, Heloise charged like a tourney champion into the nursery only to discover her charge’s rear end halfway out the window, and the sound of horns filling the courtyard.

‘It is my lady mother!’ exclaimed Ned, wriggling in past the window mullion with his gypon and his hose nearly parting company, ‘and there will be presents!’

The entire household spilled out across the courtyard like an upturned milkmaid’s bucket and then, according to their rank, were swept back up into lines, like counting beads, by the clucking chamberlain, Sir Nicholas Latimer. Heloise, superior to the falconers, but inferior to the treasurer, abandoned her line to reprimand Ned who, polished and sponged, was hopping up and down the steps like a well-dressed flea.

Diminished by the glory of Duke Harry and his son, Heloise felt safer, yet no less anxious. What if the duchess had met the true Lady Haute at Westminster or Windsor? One consolation, Heloise reflected, winding Ned’s sleeves tightly round her gloves so he could not bounce, was that if she were unmasked, Miles Rushden would face a few unwelcome questions as to why he had pretended to recognise her. Where was Rushden? She was curious to know which row of bowing heads he had slid onto for he did not seem to hold any actual office other than friend and confidant. She glanced around her, but the man was absent. Perhaps he was looking for his horse or harassing some poor villeins for taxes they could not afford.

Catherine Woodville, youngest sister of the bewitchingly beautiful Queen of England, was twenty-six years old and rather disappointing as she stepped down with her little daughters from her chariot. Her forehead was fashionably plucked so it was impossible to see if she had the same family ash-blonde hair that was supposed to have stolen King Edward’s heart. Judging by her russet travelling gown, it seemed as though the duchess cared little for fashion or else the duke was mean with her allowance. Maybe she had merely given up competing with her gorgeous sister – Heloise knew the feeling.

Not only sumpters laden with panniers clopped into the bailey, but cart after cart wobbled in. An astonishing collection of long-haired, aging men or cramped youths crawled out with stiff limbs from beneath the wagon awnings, clutching rebecs, hurdy-gurdies and all manner of instruments. Elderly men or young castratos! The duchess was a careful lady, thought Heloise, observing that Duke Harry was viewing them with exasperation. They regrouped and began to play as her grace hoisted her skirts to her anklebones and fastidiously sidestepped the puddles.

My lord of Buckingham stood, hands on hips, with Ned now loose beside him. Far from greeting his wife with any affection, his grace exclaimed, ‘God help us, you have not bought another hobby horse,’ as a brightly painted toy (this time with a gilt mane) was unstrapped and presented by a servant on bended knee to Ned.

The child took his manners from his father and his face puckered into sulkiness. ‘Where are my stilts? You promised me STILTS!’

With a tight smile, Heloise marched up behind the child, plucked his hat down over his eyes. ‘Bow and kiss your mother’s hand! NOW!’

Ned shoved his hat up, rolled his eyes upwards at Heloise in his best demon imitation, but he gracefully presented his mother with a charcoal drawing – of the castle, the sun, a flower and a very vicious-looking portcullis. The duchess took it as she might a posy from a village child and drifted along the rows of officers, hoped Lady Haute had not found Brecknock too cold, and took herself straight to her bedchamber with a megrim.

Anxious to convince the duchess that she was competent, Heloise had her lies queued up, but neither she nor Ned was given an audience. Thwarted but not yet acquitted, she took her grace’s lack of interest as a rebuttal.

‘I am not impressed,’ she muttered to Bess, who shrugged unsurprised.

The duchess finally sent for her after dinner. As Heloise followed Ned across the carpets and the furs to make her curtsey to the background chords of shawms and flutes, she felt like a lacewing having its wings pulled off; the noble ladies of the bedchamber were busy estimating the worth of her clothing.

With testimonials fresh in her ears from Sir William, Duchess Catherine was amiable to Heloise. While they picked over Ned’s brief history in obligatory fashion, the little knave quarrelled with his siblings, and had to be removed by Bess. The duchess did not blame Heloise for his rudeness. Perhaps it was the way he always behaved to get any attention from his mother. It was only when an aging Welsh harpist was summoned in to play, that Heloise was able to stand back, thankful that the interrogation was over.

No, not quite. It was now time to become acquainted with Ned’s little sisters, admire his baby brother, suffer the nurse’s condemnatory stare, and nod to the other children’s nursemaids. When she finally retired to the edge of the chamber with her persona intact, she was considerably relieved. The saints must be feeling generous. Neither Duchess Catherine nor any of her female entourage claimed to have met the worthy Eleanor Haute before.

‘Are you at all musical, Lady Haute?’ The duchess called out to her, with more enthusiasm than when they had discussed the nursery minutiae.

‘Yes, your grace.’

Ned, who had been allowed back in, tried to clamber up her skirts, pleading with her to sing her grasshopper song. Music was clearly a means to please her mistress further and acquire a well-placed ally, so Heloise modestly sat down on the stool in front of the duchess’s cream leather toes and sang a love song.

Outside, Miles, now washed and groomed to kiss hands, hesitated to interrupt whoever was singing so exquisitely. Duchess ‘Cat’ had found yet another voice and a new palm to press coins into. That would please Harry like a burr in a saddlecloth. But the singer was a woman, not a castrato. Miles frowned and leaned back against the stone wall. The music slid beneath the door, invading his hard-edged heart and the sweet, crystal voice gouged at his soul.

‘Miles?’ De la Bere’s large paw was shaking his shoulder. ‘Music caught at your gut, man?’

Watery grins were not one of his best accomplishments. ‘It is no matter, Dick. A little sadness. It will pass.’

‘Look to the future with Myfannwy, eh? You will have another child before long.’

‘Yes.’ The weary fingers that rubbed across his chin touched again the damage they had wrought in penance.

‘Let us go in then. The song is over.’

But nothing was over, for it was a familiar slender young woman who sat on the stool at the duchess’s feet, not with her skirts spread in a violet leaf but in complete self-abeyance, white hands neat upon her lap and her knees close together like a dreamy child lost to the world. As the applause surrounded Heloise Ballaster, he watched awareness flicker back into the hazel eyes. Then she saw him and rose, ashamed. He had intruded on part of the deception.

‘Sir Miles, we do not often see you here.’ The song had animated Duchess Cat as always. ‘The music drew you?’

‘Yes, the music.’ He denied himself the temptation to look at Heloise, suppressed the raw pain the song had roused in him, the yearning, the sense of loss. Was there no end to Mistress Ballaster’s accomplishments? She would be even harder to be rid of if Cat become her buckler and she had won other hearts. Miles looked in disgust at the dotardly adoration wreathing the blowsy face of the old Welsh minstrel. No, she must go! In a few days, she had shaken his steady world. He dared not give her longer.

‘Was it the figs at supper, Sir Miles?’ the millstone about his neck asked sweetly some time later. The others in the room were safely distracted by the new psaltery that the duchess had bought in Hereford.

‘Your pardon, Lady Haute?’ An iron bar would have looked friendlier.

‘Why, you seem quite out of sorts, Sir Miles.’ Heloise was speaking to her toes.

‘I have no need to talk to you, madam,’ he muttered, raising his hand as if he staunched a cough. She was hard put not to laugh. Next he would only be communicating by sliding coded letters penned with onion juice into her palm.

A blast of hand-organ and pipes together permitted him to retaliate. ‘You know how I manage to keep my sanity, madam?’ He was staring straight ahead now trying to pretend they were not speaking together but he no longer sounded ill-tempered. ‘By thinking of ways of bringing about your demise. Strangling is at the top of my list.’

‘Well, you shall have to do it in the common gaze, sir,’ she cooed, ‘since we are never to be alone.’

‘That ruling, my dear Lady Haute, is only to avoid ravishment not murder.’

‘Ah, but theoretically you could do one, then the other or even—’ His exasperated frown shamed her into silence.

‘Are you ever quiet, Mistress Ballaster?’ Miles observed witheringly, deciding it would be absolute heaven to throw her across his knee. ‘I assure you, murdering you slowly will give me all the satisfaction I require.’

He glanced sideways, but the lady had lapsed into pensive silence. ‘By the by,’ he announced with pleasure. ‘I forgot to tell you the bargaining is over. I have Traveller back.’

It was a small revenge, but forcing the duke and duchess to watch Ned and Sir Thomas Limerick’s grandson perform a tiny interlude in Latin in the solar before supper was giving Heloise no end of satisfaction. She had insisted that all the parents endure the spectacle. While Ned’s tutor and Bess organised the chaos behind the settle where the tiny, excited performers were crouching, ready with handsacks stitched with eyes and mouths, she ushered in the reluctant audience.

‘You speak Latin, Lady Haute?’ Rushden, ever shadowing the duke, greeted her a few moments later as she stood near the door with Sir William.

‘Eheu! Worse than my French, but better than my Greek. Do not go, sir. Please watch.’ She meant it kindly.

‘No, such things pain me.’

‘You may be a father one day.’

She expected him to toss a jest for her to catch, but his adamance had a pained edge to it. ‘They are beginning. Excuse me.’

Sir William, having overheard the exchange, managed a warning afterwards. ‘Think you should know something, Lady Haute,’ he muttered, pulling at his long ear lobe. ‘Rushden lost his wife and only son to the pestilence. Boy would have been Ned’s age, had he lived.’

So that was why he avoided Ned. ‘Sweet Jesu, forgive me.’ She crossed herself. ‘And was he with them when …?’

‘Ah, there’s the rub, my lady. He was ill himself with the variola when the news was brought to him. Caught it travelling back from here and was abed at Newport for a week. The tidings made him crazed.’

So Rushden did have a heart beneath his armour, Heloise, moved to pity, thought sadly as she stole past a sleeping Bess and snoring Benet to check on Ned and found him dreaming happily, thumb in mouth, a cloth donkey cuddled beneath his arm.

Dropping a kiss upon Ned’s cheek, she thought of the other child, whose death had been announced at some indifferent inn in Newport. How cruel for his poor father – she imagined Rushden lying in a simple chamber, his face scarlet, beaded with the vesiculae like evil droplets of sweat. Had a servant brought him a letter or spoken the tidings? Some instinct made her open her coffer and take out the ring that her father had snatched from Rushden for her nuptials.

Dear God! Her head began to spin. No! she screamed, sinking to her knees, her palms pressed to her eyes, but the vision came: a younger Rushden with the tears trickling down his poor crusted face, in rage tearing the letter again and again and again and hurling it into the fire. Spare me! No more! she protested, stumbling back to the nursery, but the unseen power forced her mind to watch as Rushden sank to his knees, and with a bestial howl of fury dragged his nails down, down across the blisters.

The fire was almost dead in the hearth when Heloise finally uncovered her face and raised it to the crucifix on the wall. Shakily she rose to her feet, smudging the tears away and tried to busy herself, stoking the embers. Her hands trembled as she shredded the herbs to make an infusion for Ned’s breakfast. She should leave Brecknock, put an end to the lies – go from Miles Rushden in peace!

‘My lady.’ Heloise nearly dropped the pan in the fire.

The old harpist, Emrys, was standing in the doorway, enjoying the fact that his sudden appearance startled her. ‘Your voice, arglwyddes, was given as a blessing,’ he declared, stepping in unbidden, making no apology for finding her with a wrap over her underkirtle and her hair plaited for bed. Before she could stop him, the man set his harp down and prowled straight through into Ned’s bedchamber. She followed anxiously, but he merely cast a glance over the child and the other two sleepers, his creped smile soft and ambivalent.

A finger on his lips, he drew her back into the nursery, closed the inner door and perched himself on the three-legged stool beside the hearth. Then without a by-your-leave, he began to tell her in a voice, beautiful and undulating, of his beloved Welsh music, of the broth of the cauldron of the goddess Ceridwen whence came the powers of Taliesin, and his people’s dreaming. So entranced was Heloise by the legends that an hour passed swifter than clouds across the moon’s face, before the old musician took up his harp and played for her.

Emrys’s singing voice was cracked with age like ancient glaze, but once it must have been strong and a delight to man and maid. He began to teach her, speaking slowly in his own tongue, then singing the phrases and bidding her repeat them. It was impossible to remember the Welsh at first but he coaxed each verse from her over and over again and then he sang with her, and Heloise wove a descant over and beneath his melody.

‘Arianlais, there’s nice it is,’ he said finally, his eyes misty in the light of the sputtering candle stub. ‘Indeed it is a pity you are not Welsh and a male child, for indeed I could make a bard of you. The great Taliesin himself would have written gladly for such a voice as yours.’ He rose. ‘The hour is late, see, but can you come to the town tomorrow even? You shall hear such music.’

‘The town, Master Emrys! I fear permission would not be granted.’

Wiry thick eyebrows came together in a frown. ‘There are other ways to leave this place. Say you will come, arglwyddes. We have a visitor coming to the town, one who wears the mantle of the wondrous bard, Dafydd ap Gwilym, and a wreath of oak leaves upon his brow. Lewis Glyn Cothi, my lady!’

Clearly she was supposed to be impressed. ‘But is the great Lewis not coming to the castle?’ she countered tactfully. ‘I am sure her grace would be pleased to hear him.’

‘Ah, no, Lewis will not play for the English, not since the men of Chester gave his hide a drumming. Not forgiven them, he has. Though mayhap he will come when the Lady Myfannwy weds, for he is supposed to keep a reckoning of lineage and play at such feasts.’

‘Myfannwy?’

‘Aye, Rhys ap Thomas’s ward.’ Another name that was supposed to strike her with awe. ‘Our noble Rhys is coming to discuss her dowry arrangements. But, tomorrow night, bach. Surely you can leave these swaggering English bullies and the child for a few hours? The nursemaid can mind him. Why not, a little adventure, see? Oh come, arianwallt, and sing what I have taught you tonight.’

‘What was it?’ she asked with good-natured suspicion. ‘A lament?’

‘Of course, for a land that is flattened beneath the heel of the saeson.’

‘Saeson?’

‘It is our word for Englishmen.’

‘Englishmen! Of course! That is what the people were muttering when the soldiers came to fetch me from the town.’

‘We will have you speaking Welsh in no time.’ He pinched her cheek with an old man’s mischief. ‘Come and hear our fine music. You shall be safe from fumblings, I promise you. I shall not quit your side nor leave you to be plucked by sweaty lads, though they would make a fine woman of you.’ And what was that supposed to mean?

‘I cannot afford to anger his grace.’ But it was tempting to leave the castle again.

‘Nor shall you. We honour such gifts as yours in Wales, arglwyddes.’ The crinkled gaze dwelt on the silver fibres scarfing her shoulders. ‘Ask the tylwyth teg and send me your answer.’

Heloise stared at him in utter delight and felt the soft tendrils probing at her thoughts.

‘Never run away, arglwyddes, see, else you will never find your heart’s desire.’

‘Sir.’ Miles swung round and found it was Ned’s nursemaid, risen early, curtseying to him. Bess drew herself up gravely, tossing back her nutbrown braids. ‘I am not one to blab, sir, but I think you should know that Master Emrys came and played for my Lady Haute late last even. I heard him ask her to visit the town.’

‘Did he now? And what did she answer him?’

‘Neither aye nor nay. One of the Vaughans’ ruffians is to be hanged today at East Gate, is he not?’

‘Aye, for sheep stealing,’ he answered sombrely. ‘Emrys has no love for the Vaughans, but if he pesters Lady Haute again, bring me word, and, Bess, it would be in your interest,’ his fingers tapped his belt purse, ‘to keep an even closer eye on my lady – for her own good, of course. Let me know anything out of the ordinary.’

Yes, a quiet word to the sentries and the porter might be advisable. It was about time he quietly plucked out this thorn in his flesh. When Lady Eleanor Haute left the castle, it would be for ever. He would personally winch the drawbridge down and kiss her good riddance.

‘What the—’ He looked down. A black and white mouser was rubbing against his boot cuffs. The hair upon the nape of Miles’s neck prickled as the creature purred and arched.

‘Oh, that is my Lady Haute’s cat. He must have followed me down. Come, Dafydd.’

Miles ran a finger around his lawn collar as if it were choking him. Could Heloise know they had been talking about her? Two white antennae rose either side of the feline’s brow. Miles stepped back abruptly, and, inconvenienced, the cat stared up at him unsmiling. All cats looked so, but the moment Bess had taken the beast away, Miles untangled his small cross from the lacing of his shirt and muttered a paternoster.

Heloise shook the outer door of the nursery that morning. She was expected at Mass. Had Benet thought her gone already, and turned the key? The duke and duchess would be displeased if she were not attending Ned. Was this a trick of Rushden’s to discredit her? Might there be accusations that she feared to enter God’s house? Rustling her skirts in annoyance, she paced to and fro and then she quickly unclipped the veil wire from her ears. Detaching part of the gauze so it would not be damaged, she squeezed the wire together and slid it into the lock. It took an eternity of jiggling and a variety of attempts before the tongue drew back and she was free.

The entire household, save for the guards on the towers, were already in Sir Nicholas’s chapel as she tiptoed in rosy-faced, her butterfly veiling less than perfect. Whenever the congregation rose or knelt, she zig-zagged her way between the throng to Ned. Her thoughts were on anything but God.

‘Where were you?’ Ned asked in a whisper that could have raised an entire graveyard.

‘Hush!’

Rushden glanced behind him and for an instant looked as startled as a disturbed thief.

The chaplain announced he was calling the banns for the third time of the marriage between Sir Miles Rushden and Lady Myfannwy. ‘And if there be any reason why this man and woman should not be wed, let him give forth his arguments.’

Oh Jesu! As Heloise took a deep breath, the woman next to Rushden screamed and a large spring toad, no doubt hired at great expense, scattered the front rank of notables. The chaplain’s Latin accelerated as the servants set up a hue and cry, and the poor cleric looked extremely relieved to bless and dismiss the pack of them, including the toad.

‘Did I ever say life at Brecknock was tedious,’ muttered the duke. ‘Lady Haute, remove Lord Stafford and have Benet use the rod on him.’

‘No! No! It wasn’t me!’ bawled Ned.

‘Of course it was not,’ exclaimed Heloise, anxious that he should avoid a breathless fit, ‘and I should like to know who locked me in.’ Her glance flickered across Miles Rushden’s face as she looked about her challengingly, but all save her husband had already found Ned guilty on that as well.

His help came unexpected though exceedingly suspect. ‘I believe we should trust the word of a future duke, my lord.’

His grace’s eyebrows rose, as if he was surprised by his friend’s sudden championing of the child. ‘If it was not Lord Stafford …’ With an iron stare, the duke examined the faces of the other children including his daughters. ‘I expect the culprit to make a full confession and apology to the chaplain, and if anyone else makes a mockery of God’s house, the punishment will be severe.’ If he was expecting his duchess to endorse that sentiment, he was disappointed. ‘Come, madam!’

With an acquiescent glance from her grace, Heloise crouched down and coaxed Ned from his mother’s skirts. With tenderness, she trickled a friendly finger down his scarlet face and poked the tickly spot beneath his arm before she rose and declared: ‘This morning we are going to learn about approaching difficult beasts. Sir Miles! Perhaps, sir, you would grant Lord Stafford a few moments of your time.’

Rushden, delayed from disappearing in the duke’s wake, could not have looked more surprised if she had metamorphosed into a crocodilus. His answer was curt: ‘Talk to the marshall, madam.’

‘Oh, do go along, Sir Miles,’ Duchess Catherine said irritably and, ignoring her waiting lord, swept off to the nearest stairs.

With Ned’s hand in hers, Heloise nodded to Bess and waited for Rushden to escort them. Marry Myfannwy! Of all the secretive, lying whoresons! And he was looking as sinful as a satyr after an orgy – or so she guessed, having little knowledge of such things.

‘I wish you to take us to Traveller, sir,’ she declared briskly.

‘Do you now!’ Rushden’s lips were a tight pleat of annoyance. ‘Or we can go toad-hunting if you prefer.’ The viper was marrying!

‘Ohhh, please,’ exclaimed Ned.

Traveller whinnied a welcome and looked undecided as to where to bestow an affectionate snuffle. Perhaps for sentimental reasons, he chose his master first, with a watchful eye on the witchgirl’s purse. Perfidious beast!

‘Now perhaps …’ Miles’s demon lady turned, with steel beneath her purring tone, ‘perhaps you could encourage Ned to feed him.’ With an experienced hand, she scooped a handful of oats from a sack and held it out. Oh, wounded, was she? What was this? Another trial by ordeal? ‘It might help to lift him, sir.’ The word was icy.

Miles took a deep breath. ‘No.’ He wanted to run.

It was the child that broke the impasse, stealing the last few paces from Bess to wind the knight’s hanging sleeve about his hand. ‘Sir,’ he said, with new-found humbleness, ‘I should like to try.’

For the first time since his son’s death, Miles felt small hands upon his shoulders. It should be Phillip in his arms. Phillip should have lived. Tears threatened to choke him. He swung the boy abruptly towards the wall so that Mistress Ballaster could not see his hurt, but the child had. Ned was straining back to read his face. ‘Sir, was it you who set the toad loose?’ The winter cold between them was thawing fast.

Miles made himself look at the little boy. ‘Yes,’ he whispered, adjusting his grip.

‘Why?’

‘Because … because Brecknock can be dreary. Now do not blab on me to Lady Haute and … and come and meet Traveller. He will not hurt you. Trust me.’ A small arm anchored itself around his neck as he took a pace nearer to the stallion’s stall. ‘See, Bess and Lady Haute are not afraid, Ned. Lady Haute is not afraid of anything.’

‘Not even toads, human ones!’ muttered his wife with feeling.

‘Will you let a woman best you?’ whispered Miles. ‘Come on, Ned.’

Did she have to stand there like his governess while he tried to talk courage into Harry’s child? Must she beam so sunnily at the grooms and stable hands?

Now he had to endure the entire stable adding its pennyworth of thought and winking at the women out of turn. Thankfully the child finally managed a quick pat of Traveller’s chest and jerked back. At least the stallion had behaved responsibly, as if the horse understood the small human’s fear. Perhaps the witch would let him go now or did she intend to create a scene that would keep the gossips busy?

‘I pray you take Lord Stafford to feed the old dun liard or one of the gentler sumpters, Martin,’ she was ordering her groom. ‘Go with them, Bess.’

So Mistress Ballaster intended to snatch a few words about his other wedding? Well, if she misbehaved, he would have to put a swift end to the conversation. Strangle her now while no one was looking.

Heloise, surprised that Rushden was content to stroll very slowly along with her behind the others, was more than eager to set loose the quarrel between them. ‘How in God’s name can you marry?’ she asked through clenched teeth.

‘Ah, so this is why we are idling among the wisps and the brushes.’ He idly flicked a dormant broomstick. ‘How did you manage to get out?’

So this cur had locked her in. It was tempting to belabour him with the broom head; instead she sucked in her cheeks and glared at his knee-length hanging sleeves. ‘Have you other familiars in there? Cockroaches, lice?’

The grey eyes narrowed but his tone was pleasant. ‘No more than usual.’ He clicked his tongue at his spare horse as they passed. ‘Children teach us so much.’ Then his gaze pinioned her. ‘I would not have let Ned carry the blame, believe me.’

‘And if his grace had not listened?’

‘I know my quarry, lady. It is what I am good at.’ They were close enough to where Ned was being lectured by the marshall. Close enough and apart enough to talk privily. ‘Perhaps I should explain that this marriage with Rhys ap Thomas’s ward is part of a latticework of alliances to augment the duke’s power in Wales.’ How very condescending of him to enlighten her.

‘Oh, I see.’ Heloise resisted the temptation to fold her arms and glower.

‘Do you? I hope so. The match is of importance to his grace. He will not welcome meddling.’ The knife point was beneath the words.

A merest shrug showed her indifference. ‘By all means go and beget heirs with Lady Myfannwy – eventually.’ That brought his head up – defiantly. Still trying to disarm him, she added, ‘I still cannot see how you marrying will help the duke.’

‘By marrying this heiress, I acquire further lands in Wales and since I am his retainer, I am sworn to support him as my overlord.’

‘He wants Wales?’

‘No, he needs Wales.’ Miles looked about him for some means to teach her and with a cautious glance to make sure the others were occupied, uncovered a sack of sawdust as if he were demonstrating the quality. ‘Look, here is England, see!’ He crouched and drew an outline. ‘King Edward and the Woodvilles have much strength in the south. The royal chamberlain, Lord Hastings, holds the Midlands and the king’s brother, Gloucester, dominates the north.’

The lady leaned down close to his shoulder, holding her veil back. ‘And my lord of Buckingham seeks to control Wales for himself?’ The perfume she wore wove like a comfortable leash around his neck.

‘No,’ Miles answered carefully, ‘in the king’s name, of course.’ God willing the Yorkist ranks might one day fall asunder. He erred in looking up to ensure she understood the lesson. Her moist lips were but a sweet breath away and for an instant there was no defiance in her expression, but a grave thoughtfulness as though she were Our Lady considering a felon’s prayer. The blasphemy shook him, together with the absurd fact that he had never noticed her pretty eyes were not silver framed but dark-lashed. He straightened up and stood staring down at her, every sense aware how fragile she was, how easily broken.

He dared not offer his hand to help her rise but words he had in plenty. ‘Lady, the animosity between you and me is not a personal issue. I have no wish to see you destitute, believe me, but I am high in the duke’s favour and I do not wish to jeopardise my future.’

‘Nor I mine,’ she answered stubbornly, rising again to her feet.

‘Then as you value your safety, hold your peace and do not reveal what happened at Bramley. I am marrying Myfannwy.’

‘And … and if this Rhys asks you to set a day for your wed ding, what is left for me – a free ride to England on your horse?’

No,’ he answered and surprised both of them. ‘I cannot make you my wife but I could easily make you my mistress.’