It was an ambush – a rope taut across the bridle track at fetlock height. Dobbe, catching it first, went crashing down in a lethal thrash of hooves. Miles glimpsed it too late to draw rein. All he could do was spur Traveller across the ditch alongside the road to avoid the harm. A branch grazed his temple, but his horse staggered as a dozen masked rogues rose whooping from the undergrowth to drag him from the saddle. It took effort to roll free but he managed to cause havoc with his dagger, sending one of the ruffians to his Maker, but there must have been a half dozen still coming at him like hunting dogs while the others scrambled up to attack his men. Swords and pikes forced him back into the gully. Ditchwater lapped his toes, mud sucked at his heels, and grasping weeds tentacled his spurs. Before he could draw his sword, a net of thick rope fell across his shoulders. Half-blinded, he gave a roar of fury, thrashing out as they hauled him to the road. A fist drove into his belly and he staggered, bent double.

‘Mind his valuables!’ bawled someone

‘Aye and have a care to his face, remember,’ cautioned someone.

‘The Devil’s been there before us by the look of him.’ A cruel hand grabbed his hair and jerked his head back. ‘There’s more holes in this ’ere face than a coney warren, and no mending neither.’

A vicious blow caught him beneath the jaw and the world disappeared.

By the time his wits recovered, Miles’s head was slapping against a horse’s sweating flank like a loose stirrup and there was a rag stuffed in his mouth. When they yanked away the musty hood covering his face, it was the glittering windows of Bramley, reflecting the dying sun, that mocked him. The chimneys with smoky tendrils might have been the sulphurous oozing caves of Satan’s demesne, and Sir Dudley, laughing fiendishly at him from the doorway, could have been the Lord of Wickedness himself. In the stables, Miles was hauled from the horse, the gag yanked out, but before he could demand news of his men, a bucket of water slapped him straight in the face and he was locked into a small whitewashed room.

Icy water rivulets ran down beneath his camlet shirt as Miles slammed his hands against the door, calling down curses and yelling until he was hoarse and could shout no more, then he subsided against the wall and sank to the floor, his bruised body shuddering, his arms making a shaky St Andrew’s cross against his chest. A candle flickering upon a narrow table lured him to struggle to his feet and stretch out frozen fingers to its timid warmth. Beside the table legs sat a ewer and napkins, and lying across a small bench were dry clothes. He ignored both. Mud clung to his ripped hose and his doublet was soaking and filthy but he would be damned if he would cooperate, and then he shivered.

Someone was rasping open the doorbolt. Miles swung round, his hand going instinctively for his missing dagger. A curtain of grizzled hair valanced his visitor’s bald dome, settling in hanks across massive shoulders and framing a florid face that hinted at a surfeit of feasting – the giant he had glimpsed in the village. Flabby lips grinned amiably down at him. ‘I am Sir Hubert Amory.’ Of the siege at Nancy! Miles stayed unimpressed. ‘Ha!’ the colossus exclaimed, withdrawing his hands from behind his back to wave a wine jug and two goblets. ‘Thought you might have a thirst on you, young man.’ He swaggered unsteadily over to the bench, set the jug on the table, pushed the clothing to one side, and plonked himself down as if he was about to carouse in a tavern. ‘Not ready then?’ he asked, filling the goblets with a generous hand.

‘Ready? For what? And where are my men, damn you?’

Before Miles could grab him by the lapels, the old man whipped out his dagger with a surprising swiftness for a drunkard. ‘Style here not to your taste? I should hate to see you brought low by the cold, my boy. Nigh killed his grace the king last winter.’ Miles dazedly watched the tip of the rondel run adroitly beneath an already clean nail. ‘It is like this, Sir Miles, you can wash and dress yourself in clean raiment or we shall do it the faster way – empty a few more pails of water over you until you sniffle yourself into compliance. Or is your lordship waiting for servants to help you? That can be done too. They are a bit rough, but they will peel you mother naked quicker than a dog can piss.’

‘Get out!’

‘No, my boy, I am sitting right here until you decide which way it is going to be.’

Miles furiously began unlooping the buttons of his ruined doublet. ‘I do not know what game your master is—’

‘Friend, lad. Sir Dudley is a friend and I owe him the favour to have you nice and clean with no more trouble. Nearly fought you at Potters Field, it seems, but I drank too much. Castilian soap there, lad, in the dish and a jar of some sweet smelling stink for you to swill over yourself if you’ve a mind to it. Where was I? Oh aye, poor little Heloise. I would never have got myself drunk as a lord if I had realised what would happen. Doing this for her. She really takes this family honour rather hard. But it is not the clothes that make the man – nor woman either. Values, my boy. Values!’

‘If that is the case,’ muttered Miles, untethering his sodden hose before he shed the rest of his garments. ‘I wonder you keep company with the likes of Ballaster.’

‘Go back a long way, we do. He paid my debts and gave me a roof over my head again. I was drunk in the gutter every nig—’

‘Spare me the minutiae!’

‘When did you have the small pocks, lad?’ the older man asked as if it were a mutually agreeable topic.

‘Two years ago.’ Miles muttered sullenly, towelling himself dry. His ruined face was not a subject that he discussed with anyone, let alone this old bibbler. He had come to terms with his appearance; what others made of him was their affair. With an oath, he pulled on the fine lawn shirt and Holland drawers, then sat down scowling to negotiate the woollen hose. One leg was scarlet, the other blue, a fashion he detested.

‘That’s what I mean, my boy.’ The dagger waved in the air to emphasis the meaning. ‘You are the same man beneath the skin, whether scarred or no. Pretty, were you?’

‘God keep me, would you just—’ Miles buried his foul language in a gulp of surprisingly good wine before he slid his arms into the gypon.

The old man chuckled and lapsed into silence, watching him like a gaoler as he tied his points fore and back and stood to secure the rest of the laces. The unpleasant daffodilly doublet, which Ballaster had provided, barely fastened across Miles’s breast but the velvet was of good quality. The popel trim, castbotons and satin panels were overdone. The sleeves could have been somewhat longer, but feeling more civilised, he tugged down the gathered shirt cuffs and knotted the laces of the embroidered Rennes collar. Still cold, he was glad of the cote. Its split sleeves hung to knee level in a froth of summer squirrel fur.

‘Satisfied?’

‘Oh, very splendid. You could pass for a servant at the court of Il Magnifico himself or even for a lord at Eltham. Try the hat.’

Miles snatched up the ruby velvet cap. A brooch weighted the liripipe that hung down the side to chin level.

His audience rose and opened the door. ‘Looks like the fairies have been.’ He held up Miles’s riding boots. The clean leather reflected the candlelight; the spurs had been removed.

Their owner pulled them on and felt restored; now he might have some chance of escape. ‘What is this foolery?’ He gestured to the abundance of satin song birds festooning his breast. ‘Am I to be released from a flampayne pie to sing to Ballaster’s daughters?’

‘Never thought of that,’ chuckled the old man, scratching his neck. He still kept his dagger in his other hand. ‘He is ready, my lads!’ he announced to whoever waited beyond the door. A horn was sounded in the yard.

Ready for what?

Was it Hell or Elysium that awaited him, he wondered, as the doors of the great hall were thrust open before him? Viol and shawms burbled unheeded in a corner; the dark red floor tiles shone with a patina that told of recent cleansing, and the pleasing smell of charring pinecones was laced with the delicious aroma of suckling pig, which wafted from the kitchen passageway to pluck at Miles’s appetite. Above his head, a wooden chandelier, large as a cartwheel, sent candlelight capering over the high-beamed ceiling and dancing upon the long, mullioned windows. Decorating the great fireplace mantle and embarrassing all the shields, which neatly surmounted crossed swords at intervals along the whitewashed walls, were the cursed Ballaster arms – no doubt newly acquired at great expense – three industrious-looking bees. Miles glared. They should have been rampant with their stings out.

On three sides of the hall, the tables were draped in white cloths and set for feasting. The servants, still arranging salvers and carving knives upon the sideboards, cast covert glances at their master’s prisoner, who was beginning to have some sympathy with a Christmas goose smelling the heat of the oven. A door briefly opened to the solar above the wooden balustrade, loosing the sounds of female laughter, and the waft of steamy air hinted at baths seductive with rose and lavender. Miles, resplendent in clothes he had not chosen, began to perspire in his finery.

‘Rushden, welcome.’ Striding from a chamber at the tower end of the hall, Sir Dudley glittered fulsomely, every sumptuary law defiled; the jewelled buttons on the old rooster’s mustard demi-gown would have bought two destriers. And if Ballaster was so rich, why did he need Bramley except to prate that he owned a castle? He could have built himself one in fashionable brick as the king’s chamberlain, Lord Hastings, had done at Kirby Muxloe. ‘It is an honour for us to entertain a man so high in the esteem of the noble Duke of Buckingham.’ Sarcasm sauced the courtesy.

Entertain? And what was he supposed to do in return? His belly growling with hunger, Miles ignored the proffered hand but took the goblet that was brought to him. His host tapped his own full winecup gently against it. Miles smiled, drank it to the dregs and hurled it at the nearest Ballaster arms. It deposited a small dribble of Bordeaux upon the shield, fell with a clang and disappeared between the table legs.

‘You have an excellent aim. We shall feast soon,’ exclaimed Sir Dudley. The grin beneath the beaked hat stretched with inexplicable affability considering his guest’s ill manners, ‘but weightier matters first. This way, Sir Miles.’

There was little choice but to be shown into what appeared to be a counting room. Several manor rolls were propped in a corner as if they had been quickly tidied off the table to make room for the contract pinioned down upon the baize cloth.

‘You will sign this, please, Sir Miles.’ A command not a request. ‘It gives you Bramley as my daughter’s dower.’

Dear God, his misgivings were right. They did not want to geld him; they wanted to marry him. Christ Almighty, he could not let this upstart destroy his future, wreck the alliance with Rhys ap Thomas. Incredulous that he – the Duke of Buckingham’s right hand – should find himself in such a predicament, Miles squared his shoulders and stared down patronisingly at his captor. ‘You jest, man.’

Sir Hubert and several others of the Ballaster affinity had crowded into the chamber behind him. Miles stared at them as if they were creatures from a nightmare. Could he have fallen from his horse and cracked his skull? Christ help him, he must get out of here. He had his life’s plans already drawn. ‘I am not marrying into your accursed family,’ he asserted loudly. ‘Bear witness, all of you!’

‘Did a mouse squeak?’ guffawed a servant at the back.

Since Sir Dudley was bantam-sized, Miles made full use of his superior height to menace him. ‘Do your worst, little man,’ he sneered and swung round to address them all. ‘It is against the laws of England to force any man or woman of constant character to marry against their will. Primus, I am already betrothed,’ – an exaggeration, but never mind – ‘secundus, any marriage made at swordpoint can be annulled in a church court, tertius, no banns have been called on three successive Sundays or holy days, quartus, there has to be a willing bride and—’

‘Firstly,’ interrupted Ballaster, ‘I prefer to use English when I am talking business. Firstly, if you had been here you would have heard the banns being called on three consecutive days, albeit they were not Sundays, but it was before sufficient witnesses; secondly, the bride will be here at any instant; thirdly, any marriage that is consummated is valid and this one will be; fourthly—’

Dear God, was there a full moon or were his brains addled? Would he wake up sane and happy in an inn bed? Surely they could not make this valid?

‘Marry one of your breeding?’ Miles scoffed. ‘I should like to be assured of a bride who is likely to bear me sons, not daughters.’ Within an instant he grabbed Sir Dudley, wrenching his arm behind his back, and drew the man’s jewelled dagger. The sharp steel edge pressed dangerously against the aging skin. ‘Release my men and bring them here!’ he snarled at the old giant.

‘So nice in manners,’ smiled his host, holding very still. ‘Sir Hubert, my dear fellow, pray tell our men to slit the throats of this lordling’s men and convey the bodies in a cart to the highway.’

Sir Hubert hesitated as he reached the threshold. ‘Pity. They seem fine fellows and loyal withal.’ It was not a bluff. A half score of men stood between Miles and the door. Escape was futile. With an oath, Miles flung his prisoner at the human barricade and hurled himself after him but his blade went flying. Strong arms viciously thrust him back before Sir Dudley, and a goose-feather quill was pushed between his reluctant fingers.

‘Shall I tell you where to put this?’ bawled Miles, breaking free and flinging it skiddling across the parchment.

‘Young man, I am offering you what your lord father covets. It will end the feud between us.’

‘No,’ snarled Miles, finding it hard to think in a straight line with the heat and the wine befuddling him. Eyes watched him on all sides with unconcealed menace.

‘Oh, this grows tedious,’ muttered his host. ‘Let him sign it in the morning. The perche en foile will be overdone and the sauces cold if we delay much longer. Bring him to the chapel.’

Chapel! Miles grabbed the candlestick and set fire to the contract.

The retainers seized his cuffs and ankles. It took all their strength to force him sideways like a mattress and get his kicking limbs beyond the doorway before they could carry him, spread-eagled like a traitor about to be drawn and quartered, out into the courtyard. He was set down clumsily on his feet before the priest decorating the chapel doorstep. They had to hold him upright now, his mind was reeling so.

‘Where is the bride?’ roared Sir Dudley. ‘The wench will be feasting on dried bread if she delays much longer.’

The tasteless merriment of tabors broke upon the night air; the musicians danced their way out across the torchlit yard, followed by the beautiful daughter garlanded in flowers. For an instant the man in Miles was not displeased. Was this his bride? The girl stopped before him with a fulsome curtsey, blonde hair floating in a golden cloud. No! This mare would have to be kept in a costly stable and exercised in blinkers on a short rein. The wench gave him a dazzling smile and stepped aside.

An angry, defiant Heloise Ballaster stood behind her, flanked by two little girls bearing silken flowers. Pale and straight as a lily, the centres of her eyes were large, dark and wild like a night creature’s. They were going to handfast him to a sorceress.

‘No!’ exclaimed Miles, turning in a hedge of steel, his mind seething like one of her beehives. ‘God’s mercy, no!’

‘Come on, Heloise!’ bawled Ballaster and hauled her forward.

The girl was rigid and a trace of tears still glinted on one cheek. For an instant, pity clouded Miles’s thoughts and his gaze lingered on lips he had not yet tasted and slid to her graceful neck and the shimmer of breasts where a samite bodice sewn with pearls tantalised him to unclothe her with his imagining.

She was putting a spell on him again. Why was her hair not loosened like her sister’s, like a bride’s, to proclaim her virginity? Why was it cauled in a jewelled net with the garland of gold leaf blossom lapping her forehead?

Miles struggled to keep his sanity. ‘I am … am … not playing the cuckold, Ballaster. You cannot foist some other’s by-blow onto me.’

The words jabbed her. The girl lifted her face; her eyes were wide with shame and she backed away horrified into a wall of servants.

Ballaster grabbed her by the wrist and thrust her towards Miles. ‘Accuse me of what you will, young man, but not that. It is you who have amends to make. You think this marriage forced upon you? It is done to make good your betrayal of my daughter’s honour. You took her maidenhead at Potters Field, and then three days ago you had the insolence to come and ravish her in my orchard.’

‘No!’ thundered Miles, but he faced a peacock’s tail of accusing faces. ‘On what evidence?’

It had been merely an instant that he had been alone with her in the hovel and Godsakes, she had been clothed in steel. As for the orchard? He frowned, his right hand trying to find his aching temple, turning his head with effort to outstare the hazel gaze that fixed him now, remembering the soft body that fell upon his, the hum of the bees. Could he have –

‘There were witnesses, Sir Miles.’

‘Aye,’ came a chorus of some half-dozen voices. ‘An’ there was grass stains and blood upon her skirts.’

‘No, no.’ Miles rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘This … this is utter … fab-fabrication. M-Mistress, have you no voice?’ The girl wretchedly glanced towards her father, but the face she turned on Miles was like Our Lady’s – fair, compassionate and silent. Only her eyes compelled him, willing him. To what?

He dragged his gaze away to reason with the onlookers. ‘How much is he paying you for such lies?’ Swaying, he swung round on his captor. ‘Will you kick these poor wretches from your door if they do not dance to your piping? Is there no one here who is not venal?’ His voice grew louder in desperation as he turned to the chapel door. ‘Chaplain, upon your immortal soul, I beg you, bring out the Gospels and I shall swear I never ravished her. Lady! Tell them for the love of God!’

Heloise shook, her bare shoulders turning to gooseflesh in the freezing air. She stood dazed and weak, as if her father’s fingers, iron around her flesh, were all that held her upright. She had been threatened with the rod and, despite Dionysia’s attempt to smuggle her food, had received no sustenance save watery ale and a little bread for three whole days. The wine, which she had foolishly accepted before coming down the stairs, was dousing her common sense. But it was her future that was being decided. She defiantly tugged her hand free.

Was this so very wrong? Would this stranger make a worse master than her cunning father who was winding him in like a hooked fish, drawing him to land inch by inch? Oh, he was fine and lordly, her bridegroom, the borrowed splendour glinting in the torchlight. Better living than dead upon the road, but she saw the dried blood beading the graze upon his brow and felt the breath of destiny. She knew the full fury in Miles Rushden and that it would spill over, scalding her.

‘Lady, tell them!’

The kindly shadows hid the dints in Rushden’s face and she glimpsed how handsome he had been – the high-boned cheeks and lordly, angular features declared an illustrious Norman ancestry. Too good for her, despite her mother’s noble blood. No, this was not the match she had envisaged for herself – a miserable marriage made within a circle of bared steel.

‘I c-cannot marry Sir Miles, Father, a-against his will.’

‘Lady.’ Her bridegroom’s voice was a purr of thanks, the anger briefly scabbarded.

Her father only laughed. ‘See how he plays my daughter like a lute.’

Heloise closed her eyes, her spirit screaming with disgust. She wanted to flee from the despot who had sired her, and seize whatever rope of escape was flung to her. But not this way! Not by spoiling this young man’s future. This was folly! Yoke herself to an enemy, one who already despised her for her merchant blood, a man who would use the good lordship of the Duke of Buckingham to annul the marriage instantly? No! For where would that leave her? Neither maid nor wife, her honour questionable, her name a scandal. Oh, she should not have detained this stranger in the orchard, she should have conducted him to her father’s presence and spoken to him in seemly wise before witnesses.

Her eyes snapped open as fingers, compelling and powerful, curled about hers. ‘Lady, now you must swear to the chaplain that I never defiled you!’ Miles Rushden drew her so close, he could have easily kissed her mouth. ‘Swear it!’ As if he felt her trembling in his grasp, his voice gentled, ‘Dear God, mistress, the bees would have stung me to death if I had laid one finger on you.’ They were almost breast to breast. The charm was momentary, dangerous, and Heloise, not yet loved and tried in the tournaments of the solar and bedchamber, experienced the unexpected, unreasonable stirring of sensuality.

‘How can you do this?’ she exclaimed to her father, shaking herself free from the brief mental enslavement, but the man still held her and she felt the burning pressure of his fingertips and the strength of the mind behind the eyes that compelled her gaze. She could not help but look up at him again. Moistening her lips nervously, she sought out the courage she needed. Stand up for yourself, Margery Huddleston had warned her.

‘Be at ease, Sir Miles. I will not have you!’

‘Thank you.’ Satisfied, he let her go instantly.

‘Heloise!’ Her father grabbed her. How many years of tyranny were within that one breath? Roped by their hands, bowed down by fate, Heloise tried to pull free from both and run, but she was threatened with disinheritance and Dudley Ballaster’s threats were shafts that always found their mark.

Miles knew he had lost. He read the despair in her eyes. The little knight, for all her bravery the other day, was frightened of her father.

‘I-I want her examined.’ He folded his arms haughtily, but inside he had never felt so helpless in his life. ‘It will prove she is a maid.’ It was his final bid, a last coin of reason to be tossed upon the table.

The girl gasped, trying to free herself, but her father’s smile was nasty. ‘As you wish, Sir Miles. Examine her yourself.’

‘No,’ exclaimed the wench, blanching even paler with fury and outrage. ‘I shall not permit—’

‘Be quiet, girl, can you not see our guest is worried that we may close the door on the pair of you and accuse him afresh? Well, lad, our repast grows cold but if—’

Heloise Ballaster with a quick twist of wrist broke free, her breathing fast. ‘Chaplain, I beg you—’ She flung herself on her knees on the step before the priest, her palms in supplication.

‘My son,’ the chaplain asked Miles, ‘were you alone in the woodcutter’s hut with this young woman?’

‘Yes, but … only for an instant.’

‘Pah, more than that,’ said someone.

‘And were you or were you not alone in the orchard with Mistress Heloise, sir?’

‘’Ad ’er on the snow, ’e did,’ chirped in another unwelcome voice.

‘Yes, but again—’

‘Again, indeed. My son, I sincerely advise you to do the right deed by the young woman you have carnally known, especially as her father is agreeable to the match and has offered you the disputed manors for her dowry. Let us proceed.’

‘What did you tell your father? That I raped you among the beeskeps?’ Rushden’s lip was drawn back in a snarl. ‘What did it take? A small cut and a few drops of blood upon your petticoat?’

Heloise struggled to rise, but her father had her by the shoulder. ‘Stay where you are, daughter!’

‘Kneel down, my son.’ Miles folded his arms and stood there, his chin raised. ‘Kneel, lad!’ A well-aimed boot slammed into the back of his knees and he found himself on his hands and knees, wincing in pain. A gloved hand grabbed him by the hair and hauled him into a kneeling position.

‘Good lad,’ whispered Sir Dudley and a dagger pricked the skin beneath his chin.

The chaplain swiftly read out the question, but Miles kept silent.

‘There are plenty more ways to make you say the right words,’ whispered his determined father-in-law. ‘We could slice your horse’s fetlocks and make sure your servants go shriven to Heaven before morning. Satan got your tongue, lad? Say it!’

The words were pricked out of him. A huge roar of laughter buffeted him and Sir Dudley let him go. The chaplain quickly demanded the bride’s answer.

‘Agree to this, mistress,’ Miles threatened the shivering girl beside him, ‘and you shall think yourself wedded with Lucifer himself.’

‘Do you think me a fool,’ she ground out, her breath uneven.

The priest, becoming annoyed and peevish, repeated the words for the bride a third time. The crowd held their breath.

Heloise stared stubbornly ahead, but someone gave her soles a hefty kick and as she jolted forward, her lips parted to protest, a voice said swiftly, ‘Ego te vole habere—’ A cheer went up. Dionysia had her fingers across her lips as she leaned down to adjust her sister’s dress. ‘You will thank me later,’ she whispered.

Her reluctant bridegroom was struggling to rise in fury but her father set a firm hand upon his shoulder.

‘Repeat that,’ said the chaplain, nodding to Heloise, his eyes darting behind her warningly at Dionysia. Heloise’s head jerked up. If Didie spoke the promise, did it mean that Rushden would be married to her?

‘Heloise,’ warned her father, his voice heavy with threat.

‘Heloise, please,’ whispered Dionysia.

Her mind was whirling rapidly. There must be no question which sister this man had married. No legal wranglings. Dionysia’s future must be safeguarded. With such beauty, her sister could marry a wealthy, powerful Yorkist lord.

Heloise’s voice was clear and unfaltering when she finally obeyed.

‘I will have thee, Miles, as my husband for the rest of my life and do hereby plight my troth …’

The man beside her cursed. ‘You shall regret this. Upon my soul, you will!’ His wrist was grabbed ungently and his hand was guided forcibly to place a ring on her fourth finger.

‘It shall be annulled, never fear,’ she whipped back. ‘I have as little pleasure in this as you.’

They were pushed into the chapel for one of the fastest Masses Miles had ever heard. This household was not only corrupt, it was almost godless.

‘Bring on the bride ale!’ exclaimed Sir Hubert, as they hauled across to the hall. Some optimistic fool flung a green garland about Miles’s neck. He ripped it away.

Heloise, who had once attended a wedding at Middleham where the bridegroom had tenderly kissed the bride through a garland, felt deprived of all earthly joy. A troth cup was brought to her new lord. The wine must be welcome to his ebbing spirits though not the manner of it. Rushden raised it mockingly to salute her.

‘To your perdition, sweeting!’ he said, and dashed its contents in her face.