Marriage Under Siege (25 page)

By common accord they moved
to wait in silence beneath the wall beside the postern gate. The shadows hugged
them close and rain dripped steadily. The minutes lengthened. Nerves stretched
to nigh breaking point, and Honoria hugged her cloak around her with frozen
fingers, feeling water seep into her shoes. Shivers shook her from head to
foot.

Then the postern began to
open silently—someone had done a good job on the hinges, Honoria noted
inconsequentially—followed by some scuffling movement beyond. The door swung
open a mere foot or two. Enough to allow a man to slip through without drawing
attention. As presumably her gamekeeper had delivered his pheasants and news
the previous night. But now...were they friend or foe?

Her heart was beating so
loudly in her ears that it seemed that all around her would be aware of it. Her
sergeant silently drew his sword. Foxton, she realized, had a pistol in his
hand. They were as nervous as she.

A man came through the
gate—and the tension dissolved. She recognised one of her garrison. And then
another. Followed by two faces who triggered no memory but who had clearly been
accepted as friends. No Royalist here.

Relief. Honoria felt
light-headed with it. It flooded her mind. But her heart sank, even though she
silently admonished herself for her lapse into ridiculous flights of fancy. It
would have been too much to hope for, after all. If Francis were at liberty,
why put his head in a noose and return to his besieged castle? It would defy
logic and Francis was not a man to do so.

And then... She pressed a
hand to her mouth to muffle the cry that threatened to escape her cold lips.
For there, pushing through the low doorway, was Francis. Heavily cloaked. Hat
pulled low to guard against moonlight on pale skin.

Her lord was safe and had
returned to her.

Chapter Ten

If Lord Mansell was
surprised to see the small welcoming party, huddled in the darkness and
streaming rain inside the postern gate, he showed no sign. Against all the odds
he had managed to slip through the besieging force and into the castle,
alerting no one, attracting no attention. His lips curled in derision at the
slackness of the sentries. And as for the officers—he had seen no sign on his
stealthy progress through the tents and horse lines. Presumably Vavasour did
not anticipate anyone actually wishing to get
into
Brampton Percy. But now that he was back, he must look to its defence. So the
postern door was carefully and quietly closed, locked and barred, one of the
garrison posted beside it. Then he was free to turn to see Honoria standing in
the light from the lantern that Drew held high.

'Honoria.' He strode
forward, impatience and energy radiating from him, to take her wrist in a firm
clasp. 'What are you doing out here in all this? It is no place for you. You
must be soaked to the skin.'

'I was waiting for you, it
seems.' He was merely a dark shape in his all-enveloping cloak, but she caught
the glimmer of the lantern in his eyes, noted the stern set of his mouth. She
felt the grip of his hard fingers—more urgent than perhaps he realised—digging
into her flesh through her sleeve. He was safe and he had returned. Honoria
worked hard to keep her voice light and even, to control the unexpected swirl
of intense disappointment that flooded her veins, warring with her shattering
relief at his safe return. So much for her hopes of some personal
acknowledgement, some recognition of their parting words at Wigmore, she thought
cynically. She might have been one of the men-at-arms for all the notice he
took. 'We thought the Royalists might be planning some sort of offensive, and
so came to discover what it might be,' she informed him, successfully bland.
'We saw the signal from your lantern.'

'I am grateful. I had no
fancy to become a Royalist prisoner on my own doorstep. Are you well?'

At last!

'Yes. Is Captain Priam
safe?'

'He is, but remains at
Wigmore. I expect him in a few days. Foxton—I am damned glad to see you.'

'Yes, my lord. We have been
concerned.'

'I sent word. One of
Priam's men. Did he not get through?'

'No, my lord. No word.'

'I hoped he would slip past
the guards before they dug in for the siege.'

'No, my lord. He may be a
prisoner in the Royalist camp.'

'Or defected in the face of
a superior force.' Mansell turned towards his silent wife. 'Forgive me,
Honoria. I would not have had you exist in ignorance of our safety at Wigmore
for so long. Not after Leintwardine.'

She nodded in recognition
of his concern as he raised his hand to touch her cheek in a gentle caress,
effectively lifting some of the pain from her heart.

'Then let us get in out of
this rain.'

They turned towards the
lights in the castle. Mansell immediately fell into step with Sergeant Drew,
all business, mind focused on the threat outside their walls, intent on nothing
but discovering the progress of the siege. Honoria, bringing up the rear with
her Steward, listened with half an ear, her mind working furiously over a
number of unsettling thoughts, when she fully appreciated the trend of her
husband's questioning.

'Any problems, Sergeant?
Have we suffered any major damage yet?'

'No, my lord. All is
secure.'

'And supplies?'

'Enough to outlast this
force, I reckon.'

Mansell nodded, satisfied
with Sergeant Drew's assessment. 'Have you thought of using the old cannon in
the outer courtyard? How many are there?—three or four, I think?'

'Four, my lord. But, no, we
have not fired them. We feared the result. It must be many years since they
were last used. They could split with the pressure and cause more damage to us
than to Lord Vavasour's rabble.'

'They could—but we will try
them anyway. A few warning shots might discourage Vavasour from sitting too
close. Have you led out any attacks against them?'

'No, my lord.'

'Then we will discuss the
possibilities of a countermove tomorrow. The troops seem lax, their discipline
weak. Come and see me...'

Honoria sighed. Her lord
had indeed returned.

Honoria waylaid Foxton
before he could disappear in the direction of the kitchens. 'My lord will need
food and ale when he has rid himself of his wet garments, Master Foxton.'

Francis had disappeared
immediately to his room with only a pause to give the slavishly wriggling
Setanta a quick pat. Which was more than he had seen fit to bestow on her!
Honoria winced at the petty direction of her thoughts. But she would have
liked... She sighed and concentrated her attention on what Foxton was saying.

'Of course, my lady. I will
arrange everything.' She seemed more pale and drawn than ever, he decided. Her
skin, stretched tightly over her cheekbones, gave her an air of fragility. At
that moment he thought that in her distress, whatever the cause, she looked
very beautiful. 'Perhaps you should go and rest, my lady. Your lord is home now
and can take the burden from your shoulders.'

Yes. She supposed that she
could. It would be very easy to let Francis take on the cloak of authority. And
the responsibility for their resistance to Vavasour. Indeed, she knew her
lord's temperament too well to believe that he would listen to her if she tried
to persuade him otherwise.

'I need to speak with you,
Master Foxton. Privately.'

'My lady?'

'Come in here...' She
pushed back the door to a small empty anteroom. Closing the door firmly, she
remained with her back to it, arms at her sides, surveying her Steward. He
stood before her, eyes intent and watchful. Could she trust him? What choice
did she have? 'Master Foxton... What if...?'

He waited with growing
concern as she clearly marshalled her thoughts.

Honoria found that they
rushed and jostled in her brain. She closed her eyes, prayed for calm, then
opened them and fixed Foxton with a firm gaze, having finally made up her mind.
So she committed herself, the words spilling out, eyes wide with apprehension,
as if she were truly speaking treason.

'Would it not be better if
the Royalists did not discover news of my lord's return?'

'My lady, I do not
understand—'

'If they do not know,' she
interrupted with unusual irritation, 'they might indeed continue their
withdrawal. And leave us in peace.'

'True, but—'

'But if they know that he
has returned—and they see him leading an effective defence against them... If
he starts an
offensive
against them with cannon
and sorties...what would happen then? They might throw their whole force
against the castle. There will be no sense of chivalry towards a weak female to
deter them, to persuade them to offer free passage to the inhabitants if the
castle falls. I have terrible misgivings about it.' She clasped her hands before
her, then loosed them again as doubts crept into her mind.

'What are you saying,
mistress?' Foxton's reply was little more than a whisper, as if he feared being
overheard in such a conversation.

She pressed her fingers
against her mouth, to keep back the incriminating words, but the plan had
snapped into her brain, clear and sharp edged. Dare she do it? Of course she
dare if it would save lives. If it would keep Francis safe. He would not
appreciate it, but she would face his wrath when the danger had passed.

'I am saying that my lord
Mansell should not lead the defence of the castle.'

'I understand what you say,
my lady, but I do not think my lord is one who would comply with your scheme.'

'Of course he would not. He
has too much pride and sense of honour. The defence of Brampton Percy is his
duty and he has returned to do just that. But what if we
prevented
him from organising the defence?' She waited
for her Steward's horrified reaction. She was not to be disappointed.

'Prevent?
My
lord would never agree—'

'I speak not of agreement,
Master Foxton.' Her calm, decided tones brought him up short. She had thought
it all through—and he was being asked to put his hand to something so
outrageous...

He shook his head at the
prospect. 'In Heaven's name, what are you thinking, my lady?'

'That we lock him in a
room. For two days at the most—to give the Royalist army the chance to
withdraw. As soon as sufficient numbers have gone, we release him.'

And there will be hell to pay!

Foxton was stunned. Struck
dumb. Would she really carry out this incredible scheme? He now knew enough
about his mistress to realise that she was perfectly capable of doing so. And
he knew what was coming next.

'Will you help me, Master
Foxton? Will you help me to protect the castle and all its inhabitants? And my
lord?'

'I dare not, my lady.'

'If my lord leads an
attack, they will retaliate. They will continue the siege until we are all
destroyed, and they will raze the castle to the ground.'

It was a powerful argument.
'But how would we do it?' Was he going mad even contemplating it?

'It is quite simple. I will
explain all—but it must be done quickly. I need an ally here, Master Foxton.'

He hesitated for a long
moment. They made a dramatic tableau, facing each other in the dark room lit by
a single candle, the tension between them as sharp as a knife edge. Mistress
and servant, but at this moment equally united in a desperate intent.

'If you will not, I must
act on my own. But act I will.' Honoria was the one to break the silence.

'My lord will doubtless
inflict some terrible punishment on me for this.' Foxton resigned himself to
instant dismissal at the very least. 'But, yes, I will.'

'Thank you, Foxton.' She
grasped his hands in heartfelt gratitude. 'I think it will not be for long. And
the blame will be mine, I assure you. I promise that you will not suffer.'

He looked down at the hands
enclosing his. So small and slender. So capable and determined when they needed
to be. He would never have guessed it when she had stepped through the door as
the new bride of Lord Edward Brampton. He cleared his throat nervously. 'Where
do you suggest we...er...incarcerate his lordship?'

'We will use the old
chapel. It is secure enough. The door is stout and will lock. It will be cold
with its stone walls, but that cannot be helped—he will not die of cold. We
will lure him down there with some tale of dire need.' She felt hysteria rise
in her throat at the enormity of her plan. 'With the thickness of the walls it
is also, to some extent, soundproof. We tell anyone in the castle who has an
interest that my lord is ill—with a slight fever after his escape from
Wigmore—and so he keeps to his bed. Can you play the part, Master Foxton?'

'God help me, mistress, if
you can do it, who am I to turn away. And God help us when his lordship is
finally released!'

'I will pray,' she
responded bleakly, the smile that touched her lips momentarily showing no
humour. Then she buried her private thoughts and fears under the immediate need
to set the trap for her unsuspecting husband.

The plan worked to
perfection. The simplicity of it took Honoria's breath away. And the personal
repercussions terrified her.

Hastily clad in dry
raiment, intent on a detailed interrogation of Foxton as to how matters stood
with regard to the increased inhabitants of the castle, Lord Mansell was
requested by his faithful Steward to accompany him to the old chapel where, it
seemed, some of the original stonework was under stress. Severe cracks had
appeared in one wall and there had been some dislodgement of one of the supporting
arches. Perhaps it would need to be shored up with wooden beams until their
mason was allowed access again. It was the oldest part of the castle, of
course—these things happened. Foxton remembered a similar problem in the under-drawing
in the early years of Lord Edward's ownership.

If his Steward failed to
meet his eye during this explanation on their way to the chapel, Mansell failed
to notice as he contemplated one more problem to be tackled. If Foxton's
bearing ;was a touch more rigid than normal, his lordship attributed it to
simple tiredness. And if his wife had not found the time or opportunity to
follow him to his room to enquire after his well-being, and the circumstances
at Wigmore, well, she probably was beset by a hundred and one duties that had
demands on her time. And yet...

Mansell strode into the
chapel, thinking that this was a task he could well do without, particularly at
this time of night when all he wanted was a hot meal, a tankard of ale and
oblivion for a few hours in a comfortable bed.

'Now, Foxton, where is the
problem...?'