Heloise had no more intention of riding back with Miles Rushden than mounting a broomstick. She ignored the arm he held down to her. ‘Thank you, Sir Miles, but I cannot sully your saddle. It is no distance, I should prefer to walk.’

‘Oh, I’ll swear you would.’ The gloved hand waited menacingly. ‘You will come back with me now, my lady.’ His voice, low and dangerous, offered no escape. He raised his stirruped boot to make a mounting block for her. Cursing silently that they were still an entertainment, she reluctantly set her left foot upon his and took the proffered hand. His hands, tense and fierce about her waist, settled her before him, and then he kneed his horse about. The people drew back, hushed and outwardly respectful, to let them pass. His men followed. An apprentice whooped, someone else jeered and again she heard the hiss of words she did not understand.

Biting her lip, Heloise sat as stiffly as she could, trying hard to avoid any part of her body touching his, but the reins and arms encircled her too closely for her peace of mind. The memory of that shameful night at Bramley came vividly back to her. She had imagined dealing with him in a formal manner, not in this enforced intimacy with his elbows against her breasts and his breath upon her cheek.

‘Lady Haute,’ Rushden sneered, adding in a growl for her ears only, ‘and what have you done with her? Pushed her into a river?’

‘No, she – Sweet Christ, look out!’

With an oath at his stupidity, Miles reined his steed out of the way of an alehouse pole. One of the soldiers behind them chuckled at his distraction. No, here was not the time for settlement, but later it would be a pleasure! He stoked his anger further, remembering the final humiliation of that wedding night – of fleeing barefoot across the icy ploughed fields to smite upon the priest’s door at Oakwood, shivering as he pleaded to borrow attire from the sexton so he might return to his father’s house. It was Christ’s mercy that he had not died from cold.

‘You need not be afeared,’ his armful said soothingly, as if she were sympathetic to the discord of feelings jarring him. ‘They do not know I am me.’

The obscure female explanation mollified him not at all. ‘No, by God, but I do! Believe me, when I have done with you, mistress,’ he continued through clenched teeth, ‘you will wish you had never been born.’

‘I expect you would like Traveller back.’

He was too angry to listen properly. ‘A plague on that, mistress! I want you out of my sight and out of my life!’

‘But—’

‘I will deal with you, madam!’ He spurred the horse up Castle Lane to jolt the meaning into her head.

The stupid gummy grin that the porter gave ‘Lady Haute’ as they galloped over the drawbridge was enough to turn an honest man’s stomach. With a curse, Miles drew rein beside Knyvett in the crowded courtyard and was disgusted that the stableboy who ran up to take his bridle was also wearing a smile for Mistress Ballaster, as if she had bestowed a livery on him. Had the slut bewitched every man jack of them? He dismounted to a distinct hush. Godsakes! Just when he thought he had put leagues between himself and Heloise Ballaster, here were half of Harry’s retinue gawking at the pair of them.

‘Got yourself a wetnurse, sir?’ guffawed someone.

Miles gave the man an archer’s two-finger gesture and turned to deal with his passenger. His tarnished wife had made no attempt to wriggle down. In fact, she seemed bewildered by all the wagons and packhorses being unloaded about them, and the flush across her cheeks and throat proclaimed her shame. He had little choice but to set his hands about the wench’s high waist and feign indifference as he dumped her down. His hands, however, held her longer than they should have. For an instant, she wobbled precariously like a slowing, spinning top before she rallied her wits and slithered swiftly from his clasp to take the sleepy child from Knyvett.

‘You goin’ to put Rushden to bed too, darlin’?’ chortled some wit.

Miles laughed, but inwardly he was fit to throttle his witch-wife. Not only was she a disgrace to her rank, dressed as she was, but the heartshaped face and the brat clutched to her breast bestowed a madonna-like purity that the dishonest piece did not deserve. It should have been Sioned standing there in his life with their little boy in her arms.

‘Been frightening her, Rushden?’ Knyvett was running his thumb across a smudge of dried tears on the wretched creature’s cheekbone and pinching her cheek like a foolish dotard. ‘Your quarrel should be with me. I gave permission.’

Miles peeled off his gloves. ‘I leave it to your conscience, Knyvett.’

‘No incident occurred, Rushden.’

‘Not for want of trying it seems.’ He deliberately blocked Mistress Ballaster’s way, mainly because he wanted to be difficult and it seemed a temporary measure to keep the lid on his temper.

‘Where’s my puppy?’ demanded the boy petulantly, rousing his face from the girl’s bodice, and the large archer materialised like an obedient sheepdog to wind the string around the sticky fist.

‘Your pardon, sirs,’ Heloise cut in breathlessly, ‘I-I must have Lord Stafford bathed straightway.’ Preferably before his father saw him! She was desperate to escape the stares of the throng about her. Not only was Rushden clearly itching to upbraid her, but Brecknock had suddenly become unfamiliar, peopled with strangers, and she was bone weary. Ned seemed to weigh heavier with every step as she navigated the barrels and the coffers, and made for cover where the hawks who ruled this alien world could not fly at her.

‘Lady Haute!’

A new voice assailed her before she had taken a few paces. The jingle of spurred boots on the cobbles hastened. She faltered and turned.

A profusion of freckles, almost obliterating the milkwhite complexion beneath, spattered the handsome face of the youngish man who had followed her. She was aware of hair the colour of mace lapping back from a high forehead and secured at his nape with a leather string, of snowy sleeves bursting out of slashed velvet sleeves, and the expensive embroidery, the golden knots, in militant downward rows upon his doublet. Blue eyes glittered with a mercurial mischief that made the man hard to decipher.

‘Surely this cannot be my son?’ This duke did not have the calm authority of Richard of Gloucester, but his tone carried the insolent freedom of high rank. He probably expected her to be humbled by his attention but Heloise was tired of the chilling wind, the meandering rain, men, and fathers in particular. Although Miles Rushden might frighten her, she was not in awe of his betters. Living in my lord of Gloucester’s household had cured her of such inhibitions.

‘Is this my son?’ he repeated.

‘I suppose he must be,’ replied Heloise, her normal composure irritated, and blushed, realising she had just cuckolded the Duke of Buckingham’s manhood and spattered the virtue of the queen’s sister. ‘I-I mean if you are my lord of Buckingham then—’

The duke’s expression did not change; clearly he had learned not to show his emotions. He glanced over his shoulder, knowing they were observed: ‘The lady asks if I am Buckingham?’ His gaze astonishingly singled out her husband, but the rest of the Stafford retinue, paused in their unpacking, invited to observe her mortification.

Rushden briskly detached himself from his men, his whole demeanour as purposeful as a hunter. With a sinking heart, Heloise realised that the true confrontation, the humiliating unmasking she had hoped might take place in more favourable circumstances, was upon her now.

Miles stopped short, delaying his intention to proclaim his unwanted wife a calculating, mercenary baggage. What on earth was Harry making of her? Incredibly, despite the drying mud that bedaubed the wench’s hem and the honey stains bespecked with dust upon her bodice, the picky Duke of Buckingham was eyeing Mistress Ballaster with the covert cunning of a horse dealer out for a bargain.

Possessiveness unreasonably overwhelmed Miles; Heloise Ballaster was his to deal with how he pleased and he wanted neither interference nor interest shown in her until he had made up his mind how to be rid of her without the entire castle listening in.

‘Am I the duke, Miles?’

‘Yes, your grace, so please your lady mother.’

Harry turned his head at the sudden formality starching his friend’s voice. ‘How reassuring.’ With a chill smile that promised the girl further conversation, the duke turned on his heel and strode away.

Heloise let out a quiet breath, and because the bailey was still a mess of people, managed to look her powerful enemy in the face. Tired and chastened, her courage was vanishing as the truth sank into her weary mind. Miles Rushden had been no braggart at Bramley; he was indeed the Duke of Buckingham’s trusted friend and henchman. Ned came to her rescue. He rearranged himself around her, demanding attention, and a flicker of irrational pain, dislike even, showed briefly in Rushden’s face.

‘You shall be called to answer for your actions later, madam,’ he told her coldly and jerked his right hand in dismissal. Well, women could emulate such hauteur too and with a curt nod, she hoicked the child higher and marched away. It was then that the puppy, still ribboned to Ned’s wrist, decided to demolish her dignity by depositing a steaming coil upon the cobbles. Rushden, thank the saints, had already reached the steps to the great hall and did not see.

Guffaws of masculine laughter burst from the soldiers close by. Another time Heloise would have shrugged cheerfully; instead, she hastened towards the nearest bolthole. It turned out embarrassingly to be the entrance to the garrison guardroom and a couple of soldiers caught gossiping in the passageway gaped at her, their expressions turning swiftly predatory, but old Brian had tactfully followed her in. Chuckling, he once more lifted the child from her arms and escorted her towards her quarters as if she were the one who needed a nursemaid.

Bess, bless her, had a fire warming the nursery and a small cauldron of hot water steaming over the glowing coals. The door to Heloise’s bedchamber had been kindly propped open, so that too was cosy. How wonderful to surrender Ned into Bess’s capable hands. Fragile and thankful to be alone, Heloise crept onto her bed and wept softly into her pillow. Sleep must have claimed her briefly for she dreamed of a large man fishing and laughing while the clouds above gathered into a seething miasma, before a tiny hand shook her shoulder.

‘Mistress Bess has left an ewer for you. I’ve had my bath.’ The child closed the door.

Slowly she bestirred herself, unleashed her hair from the coif and lifted the ewer to the floor, chiding herself for letting the water cool.

‘Why is your hair silver?’ Ned interrupted, returning at an inopportune moment.

Dripping with soapwort, Heloise parted the silver strands and surveyed the crinkled, bath-pink child crouched opposite the basin. It was hard to converse intelligently, kneeling with your forehead upside down in a basin. He repeated his question in case she had water in her ears.

Heloise sighed, wrung her hair, and wrapped a flannel cloth about her head.

‘Yes, Ned, silver and different from yours and Bess’s. Have you noticed people are afraid of anything that is different?’

‘Like my father because he is a duke? Or Benet because his eyes are crossed?’

‘Exactly. And because my hair turned this hue when I was a girl, people fear I am of the elfish folk.’

‘I should like to have a dewines or one of the tylwyth teg for my governess.’ His puckered smile was beseeching.

‘No,’ Heloise shook her head. She could not tell him of the visions, unasked for, frightening.

‘Oooh, could you be a changeling and not know it? I wish I had been one, then I could do mischief at night, turn the milk sour and frighten people.’ He touched her damp hair. ‘It feels the same as mine.’

She kissed her fingertips and transferred the kiss to his little nose. ‘Can we keep this a secret, sweet heart? I do not like people to know, only those I love.’

‘And do you love me? I am not afraid of your hair.’

‘I am right glad of that, and yes I believe I do love you, my little lord.’

Tiny arms slid about her neck, stroking her wet hair back behind her ears. ‘Thank you for taking me to the town. Shall you get beaten?’

‘No, not any more,’ she said firmly. ‘Now shall we take supper in the nursery?’

His reluctant governess was halfway through coaxing buttered leek into him while she unfolded the tale of the Loathly Lady and Sir Gawaine, when Bess knocked to inform her that they were both to attend the duke before supper. To be carpeted, no doubt. Heloise felt sympathy for defenceless rabbits and wondered which might prove her greatest enemy now, the fox-haired duke or his heartless shadow.

The lavender damask overgown was elegant but not subversive, Heloise hoped, as she tugged the matching cap down over her coiled braids and made the wire framework that propped her veil comfortable about her ears. Angling the silver mirror back from her, she decided that the gown’s sloping collar, with the respectably high inset of silk across her breasts, surely did not bespeak wantonness nor ambitions above her station. If she could only survive the talons tonight. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and set out for dangerous open meadows.

An astonishing change had taken place. Now that the duke’s retinue had returned, the great hall was almost as grand as Middleham’s. All the candles and cressets were alive with light, logs were burning in the main hearth, tapestries and painted arras hung upon the walls, and a long white cloth, its folds stylishly pleated about a pace apart, covered the board that sat across the dais. A golden salt in the shape of a mermaid presided over the silver platters set before the chair of estate. The long trestles for persons of less estate were already covered with cloths and, as was usual in great lords’ households, messes of bread, each sufficient to serve four, were set at intervals. The delicious smell of roasting meats laced air perfumed with pine.

The hall usher was placing the knights and men-at-arms, but there was not a gentlewoman to be seen.

‘Lady Haute?’ The duke’s chamberlain, Sir Nicholas Latimer, introduced himself. ‘From now on you are to be seated there.’ He pointed his wand of office to a place not far below the dais. ‘But his grace will speak with you in the great chamber first.’

Interested faces watched as she was conducted through the hall and up the steps to the door behind the dais. She had hoped she would be scarcely recognisable as the emburdened nursemaid, but one of the esquires giggled and said ‘woof’ and a knight gave her a wink and a friendly, canine ‘grrr’.

She should have had her hackles raised. His grace of Buckingham, with his leather-slippered heels resting carelessly upon a small table, had already chastened a weeping Bess and was primed like a crossbow to shoot bolts into his next victim’s self-esteem as well. The younger woman drooped before him like a penitent, tearful-eyed and hands piously clasped. Sir William was there too, standing akimbo at the casement, his back huffily turned and thumbs a-twiddle. Had his grace been berating him too, or was it the well-stacked fire that had heightened the older man’s colour?

‘Lady Haute.’ The tone was mocking. Ringed fingers directed Bess to step aside and make room for the new prisoner. If this had been Middleham, his grace of Gloucester would have taken Heloise’s hand courteously; this duke remained seated. She curtsied; it was one of her best and wasted since he did not acknowledge it.

‘You are younger than we expected.’

‘I have sufficient grey hairs, so please your grace.’

Buckingham’s expression remained inscrutable at her impertinence and he rose irritably and paced to the hearth, fingers slapping against knuckles behind his back. There was a sense of player about him, Heloise realised, and wondered how long he expected her to quiver in servile trepidation before he turned to deliver a coup de grâce. ‘I believe, however, that I have established a satisfactory understanding with your son, my lord,’ she informed his back in her most cheerful manner.

‘Satisfactory understanding,’ he echoed scathingly, swinging round to face her. Heloise waited for the blast and it came with excellent timing. ‘Taking my son where there is risk of infection.’ He let that sink in and continued in chilling tones: ‘Wasting good money on trinkets and some pesty cur when our castle is overrun with a plague of puppies already.’

‘That may be true, my lord,’ she countered, ‘but Lord Stafford did not wheeze a single time at the market and Bess has bathed the little dog most diligently and combed out all its fleas. Has Ned spoken with you yet? He was most anxious to tell you about the sword swallower.’

A swift sideways glance came at her; Sir William sucked in his cheeks and displayed a sudden artistic interest in the gilded ribs of the ceiling.

‘Sword swallower!’ Buckingham folded his arms, intending no doubt to stare her down. ‘Would you by any chance be telling me my business?’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Investing in another curtsey, Heloise raised candid eyes to discover that he was not looking at her.

‘What do you say, Miles? Shackle the lady in our best dungeon with a score of Brecknock’s largest rats?’

Her husband left the doorway and stepped past her skirts. The smooth cut of his unembellished grey doublet made Buckingham’s hectic brocade and glittery buttons fulsome. ‘Oh yes,’ he answered dryly, ‘as many as will make her merry,’ and half-seated himself upon the table, one of his splendid hanging sleeves almost touching her knees.

‘Rats have feelings too, your grace,’ answered Heloise recklessly, and stood up unbidden. ‘Do you need to punish them as well?’

But the duke’s amusement had been merely stubble-deep. ‘Dear God, my lady, are you seriously expecting me to surrender my son into your seditious keeping? You will have him wishing to be a silly ploughman.’

Heloise shook her head, ‘I did consider ploughing might keep him occupied for half an hour but no, I do not think that is a good notion, so please you.’

‘Ploughing,’ echoed his grace ambiguously, exchanging looks with Rushden. Sucking in his cheeks, he turned to face the fire again, leaving Heloise confused as to whether she was being indulged, condemned or merely laughed at. It also left her almost nose to nose with her enigmatic husband.

Why had he not denounced her? Was it because he feared for Traveller or did he believe she would tell the duke about their marriage? She raised an eyebrow at him as much as to say, if you are going to set a noose about my neck, make haste, but Miles Rushden was not studying her like a highway brigand waiting to commit an assault. There was confusion behind his cold grey eyes as if he were trying to make sense of her, to find evidence of the slattern. He had not seen her dressed like a lady before – but then she remembered her wedding gown and blushed. His chin rose in triumph as if he had drawn blood and she stepped back abruptly, sensing not just his lazy enmity. Her eyes cursed him, but the musk he wore pricked her senses as he drew his gaze slowly up from her feet, sliding over the damask like a hand finding a path upwards, touching but not touching. She was waiting as the shadow reached her lips, and her body stirred unforgivably at the game he was playing to insult her.

The duke turned, fingers rubbing across his well-shaven chin. ‘You are pardoned this time, Lady Haute. Obviously Sir William and the nursemaid here did not make my orders clear.’

Bess hung her head and Heloise reached out, drawing her close, but Buckingham was unimpressed by the show of female unity. ‘Miles, in God’s name, find some means to imprint it on these silly creatures’ brains that certain measures have to be observed for the safety of us all. Let us be very clear on one thing, my lady governess. You are not to take my son from the castle without my authority. Mine or Sir Miles’s.’ His ringed hand clapped Rushden’s pouched shoulder. ‘Do you understand me, madam! You put my son at considerable risk taking him into Brecknock. Is that not right, Knyvett?’

The older man coughed, nodding at the verbal jab. ‘Aye, not wise of me to permit it. Plaguey Welsh!’

Did it not depend on how the Welsh were treated?

‘I assure your grace the English and Welsh stallkeepers seemed very happy to do business with us and …’ Heloise faltered, as the duke’s cynical gaze told her what a mirror did not – that any young woman of reasonable looks could gain attention.

‘How long have you been at Brecknock, Lady Haute?’ Rushden took his turn at scything her self-confidence.

Her chin lifted. ‘A week.’

He unfolded his arms and moved round to flank the duke. ‘Then, of course, you are omniscient on Welsh affairs, my lady. Our pardon for trying to correct you.’

Her telltale skin flamed crimson in the uncomfortable silence, but then Bess’s stomach noisily pleaded hunger and the duke wearily gestured them out. ‘Take your places in the hall, mesdames. I find you amusing, Lady Haute, but learn to accept advice.’

Rushden followed Heloise out onto the dais with an indifferent face, but his words were aimed to irritate. ‘How many children have you had, my lady? Six, is it not?’

Heloise swallowed and nearly clouted him. Six! Did he actually know Lady Haute? Yet if the real lady had been wed at sixteen and had birthed a babe a year then … She glanced sideways at him as she reached the edge of the dais; he was baiting her.

‘Enough babes to know that Lord Stafford needs both love and an understanding of when his behaviour is unacceptable,’ she retorted, sweeping ahead. ‘But I am sure you at least try to set him a good example, sir,’ she added witheringly. ‘Come, Bess!’

Supper – especially as she loathed eels – was a torment. In respect for their returned master, the servants Heloise had become acquainted with no longer jested as they served. Bess was clearly awed by her superior’s courage in answering the lords of the castle in their own coinage. The younger woman made a noble effort with gossip, running her memory along the faces who sat opposite as if they were a row of rosary beads. Heloise tried to give a semblance of being entertained but a few covert glances at the dais told her that her forward demeanour was being discussed by the men who sat there. Under their scrutiny, she ate very little and spoke even less.

At least her husband had not given her disguise away yet; she was sure of that. Thrice she discovered him watching her, and swiftly looked away, her breath catching. It irked her to be so dependent on his concealing her true identity, but she must win more time. It was not just her own security that she feared to lose; Ned would feel himself betrayed if she ran away and she wanted the duke to see the new cheerfulness in his son.

After Buckingham rose from the board, the hall slowly emptied. Instead of Rushden following the duke, he came down to where the women sat.

‘Attend me, mesdames,’ he ordered officiously and strode off down the hall, expecting them to follow.

‘That man is trouble with an illuminated “T”,’ muttered Heloise, snagging her gown on the edge of the bench as she rose. ‘Is he aught but a knightly page boy to the duke?’

Checking to ensure no one else had heard, Bess giggled at her outrageous disrespect but sobered swiftly, fingers working to unsnare the fabric. ‘Pray do not be crossing swords with him, my lady, and we’d best not tarry. He is the duke’s sword arm. Y Cysgod, the Welsh call him.’

‘E Shisgod? And what does that mean?’

‘The Shadow, my lady, and he is to be feared.’

The bailey, dusky in the twilight, was hazardous; the grooms had not finished shovelling the yard clean and it was necessary for Heloise and Bess to choose their path with care for the windows of the hall, lit from behind, gleamed magically but offered little illumination. Rushden was waiting, arms folded, his whole stance impatient and imperious. Beside him stood a servant with a flaming torch held at arm’s length so that no sparks would fall upon their clothing.

‘Dear me, Sir Miles, are we to have a tour of the dungeons to sober our silly heads?’

‘A ducking stool might be more appropriate. Over here, if you please, mesdames.’ He indicated an empty two-wheeled cart, and frowned as a cat, black as coal save for the splash of white down his muzzle and shirt front, sprang up to mew for attention between the wooden banisters. ‘What do you see, madam?’

It was not easy to notice anything in the flickering light. Heloise picked up Dafydd and arranged him purring against her shoulder as she examined the shafts. ‘What are we looking for, sir?’

‘Deliberate damage.’

Heloise stooped and instinctively ran her fingers over the nearest wooden spoke. She heard his hiss of breath as she fingered the saw cut but, fearing it might reinforce his suspicion of her sorcery, she deliberately explored the other spokes before she returned to the damage. ‘Here.’

‘Aye, that is the Welsh for you. God knows how far it would have got before it tipped its load. There is more.’ He dismissed the torchbearer and led them into the lower floor of a tower, some sort of harness store. A pair of servants, dicing by a brazier, sprang up to salute him, rapidly pocketing the die. Rushden ignored them and they thankfully slunk back out of sight.

‘See this.’ The duke’s friend grabbed a handful of leather girth straps set aside for repair and carried them into the light of the horn lantern.

‘All hacked through,’ whispered Bess. ‘By Our Lady, sir, I had no notion.’

‘It is only eight years since the last rising. So, you can see how well they love us, Bess. Now do you understand why Lord Stafford must not be put at risk?’

A mutual concern. Heloise nodded gravely, meeting his stern perusal. No doubt he had been expecting some feckless answer, for his expression lightened for an instant, and Heloise remembered their confrontation in the orchard with a sense of loss. If only her father had not intervened, they might have become friends instead of enemies. Dionysia had dismissed Miles Rushden as pockmarked; something that Heloise had hardly noticed. Goodness, in the poor light now, the scatter of scars hardly showed at all. She saw instead the strength of purpose in that jawline.

Rushden’s fingers slid meaningfully along the strap, raising his voice so that the men might hear. ‘If it is someone from the castle, the consequences …’ There was definitely something attractive about men who enjoyed power, maybe it was that edge of danger in challenging such a man’s intelligence and authority. ‘Lady Haute, are you listening?’ Rushden’s supercilious look had been replaced by an anxious scowl as if he feared she were going to announce some dire revelation like she had at Bramley.

‘Yes, indeed, sir. But why would anyone bother to wreak such mischief?’ she asked, as he tossed the leather girths back on the pile. ‘It is not as though Welshmen will ever gain their independence now and I cannot see as how they are hard done by.’

‘The prophecy of Myrddin. Merlin, in our tongue.’

‘Merlin? King Arthur’s Merlin?’

‘Certes, my lady. The Welsh believe greener grass grows apace in Brittany. Some Welshmen see Tudor as a second Arthur who will lead them to a golden age.’

‘Tudor, you mean Henry Tudor?’ Heloise owned to amazement. The descendant of the bastard line of Lancaster! Surely it was unthinkable. ‘But Tudor is a child still.’

‘Not any more. He is only a year or so younger than his grace our duke,’ Rushden allowed his words to sink in then added, ‘and Ned, mesdames, is of Plantagenet stock. After the king’s kinsmen, he has a claim to the throne and must be protected.’

‘Well, no harm came of today, sir,’ muttered Bess. ‘Lady Haute had two of the archers with her. Your pardon, but I must needs say, sir, that since my lady’s coming, Lord Stafford has been as good tempered as a dog with a bowl of bones to gnaw.’

‘So long as the bones are not poisoned, Bess,’ Rushden answered sternly, and held open the door for them to leave.

Heloise lingered. ‘I promise you, Sir Miles, I shall guard Lord Stafford as though … as though he were my own son.’

The wall cresset flared momentarily and betrayed a sudden sensitivity in Rushden’s face as though her words had pained him, and then the pewter gaze turned quicksilver. ‘Perhaps I speak out of turn, but should you not be home in Kent providing your lord with sons, madam, or have you given him an heir and a second son besides?’

‘I trust I am here with my husband’s blessing, Sir Miles, but, in truth,’ she continued with a sigh, including Bess in the conversation, ‘I wish most heartily that I might speak with my husband this very instant, and tell him how it is with me.’

‘Sometimes we cannot have what we should like.’ His double meaning might have gone unmarked but, as Bess looked back at her with compassion, Miles Rushden indulged himself by bestowing upon Heloise a summer gaze that spoke of a shared bedchamber and a licensed view of her nakedness.

How dared he! She was no wanton harlot! Why would he not let her speak with him and explain? Or did he plan to keep her in torment like a caged wild bird? She must have trembled with anger and shame for the younger woman’s arm came about her. ‘There now, my lady.’

‘I am well enow, Bess.’ Her heart frantic, she leaned back against one of the upright beams and saw now that she had Rushden anxious. Did he fear she was having another premonition? Within his sleeves, the man had his fingers crossed against her, but his eyes were also on her belly as if he feared she had come to Brecknock to foist a by-blow upon him. Surely he did not suspect that she had taken a lover since their unhappy wedding night? It was definitely time she sorted matters out with him.

‘I thank you for your time in explaining the need for vigilance, sir. Come, Bess.’

Miles tarried longer, admonishing the diceplayers, but when he strode out into the bailey, Mistress Ballaster was still there. ‘Pray go on to the nursery without me,’ she was saying, ‘and make sure Ned is abed, not tormenting poor old Benet.’ Bess unfortunately did not dally.

Miles scowled. Now what did Mistress Ballaster have in mind? A promise in some out-of-sight corner? Weeping or seduction? At least a grovel?

He called out, ‘Lady Haute, I thank you for your assistance tonight. Good night to you.’ With a desperate longing for a score of torches and an audience of hundreds, he kept a healthy distance between them, gave his sorceress a curt nod and headed for the steps of the great hall.

She hurried after him. ‘Sir! I have a further matter to raise with you.’ Yes, he knew what that was.

On the bottom foot of the steps where there was more traffic, he half-turned, his dark frown warning her to stay away from him. ‘There is nothing to be raised, I assure you, madam.’ Colour suffused her cheeks at his insult, but she stood her ground.

‘We have to talk. You must understand … Please. I want to explain.’

‘Enough, madam!’

Heloise sped after him, overtaking him on the top step. ‘Sir, you can at least—’

Her husband did not turn until he had reached the great hall where they might be observed; only then did he pause. Heloise let go the fistfuls of her gown, smoothed the damask and her temper.

‘Will you give me a hearing at long last?’ she asked him, smiling as if they were sharing amiable banter.

His mouth curved slightly, but his eyes were hard as lodesterres. ‘Admire the tapestry, madam.’

‘Oh.’ His meaning caught, she gazed up at Diana changing Actaeon into a stag. Sensible goddess!

‘Now suppose you tell me how much money you intend to extort from me.’

‘Are you worth so much?’ She stared pointedly at the bee harvesting the forget-me-nots and then lifted her gaze to the oak tree where a nightingale perched, the symbol of cheerful, industrious womanhood. ‘I would like to remain as Lord Stafford’s governess.’

‘You, a nightingale! Keep looking at the tapestry! Godsakes, so that is it. Inveigle yourself into everyone’s good graces and then expose me as a heartless cur.’

‘That is a monstrous suggestion.’ She turned from him, as if about to flounce away, then changed her mind, and swept back to his elbow, her fingers daintily masking her lips as she said through her teeth, glaring at the crouching Actaeon. ‘I do not blame the Welsh for wreaking what petty havoc they can.’

That drew blood. He was conscious of them being watched. ‘I remind you, madam, if you cannot manage to obey our rules, you had best … leave immediately!’ He saw her right hand clench, but she was too wise to make a spectacle of the pair of them. The fingers straightened. ‘That is sensible,’ he added in a calming voice, treating her like he would Traveller. ‘Keep your anger sheathed.’

Had she been glaring at him, he might have sprouted antlers too. ‘Do not patronise me, you hellspawn, or I shall tell the world this instant you are my husband.’

‘You truly want that?’ he scoffed, with a sweep of arm as if he were explaining the symbolism of the squirrel in the hazel bush behind Actaeon. ‘Surely you want to be free of me? Look at the tassels!’

She stooped to study the decoration that dangled along the lower border. ‘Of course I do.’ That was said with bushels of feeling as she straightened. ‘Diana had sense!’ she muttered. ‘Perhaps I should put horns on your head.’

He fingered a woolly thistle. ‘Dearest, darling Heloise,’ he began, his tone nice as poisoned honey, ‘if you are here to ensure that Holy Church never severs us, I will make your life with me so delightful that you will wish yourself beset by all the plagues of Egypt – simultaneously! Now buzz away. We have been standing here long enough.’

Heloise bit her lip and managed to staunch her temper, convinced that she still held the upper hand. Surely he would have unmasked her otherwise. He wanted his freedom and she was sure he wanted his horse. ‘And Traveller? I have looked after him for you, and saved him from being sold. Give me fair hearing and you shall have him back.’

He feigned indifference, but she wondered if he had sent his groom to search every stable in Brecknock.

Miles did not tell her he would whistle outside every stall and byre from Brecknock to Hereford if need be to find his beloved horse. ‘Lady, I have already replaced him and I shall certainly replace you.’