Marriage Under Siege (35 page)

'Yes. Brampton Percy finally
fell to the cannon. As we knew it must—' Mansell's face was stern and set,
imprinted with grey weariness '—but without further bloodshed. Your family in
the village are safe, Mistress, although their house is in much need of
repair.' He smiled, a mere flexing of the lips, in recognition of her
anxieties, but could not hide the strain and exhaustion of the past week. He
looked, Mistress Morgan thought, as if he had not slept for days. Or eaten more
than a snatched meal.

'Come in, my lord. Come in.
You need to rest. And eat. And to have ridden in such weather. We shall take
care of everything now.' And what he would say and do when he knew of her
ladyship's escapade, heaven only knew! She opened the door into the parlour
where a fire offered a welcoming glow.

'Yes. Thank you, Mistress
Morgan. Shortly. Would you be so good as to inform Lady Mansell that I have
arrived.' He was reluctant to admit to the sharp disappointment that Honoria
had not already heard his arrival and come to greet him. Or to the nagging pain
of loss that had plagued him since their separation.

A quick glance passed
between Foxton and Mistress Morgan. There was no help to be received from that
quarter, she realised, and so plunged in.

'Her ladyship is not here,
my lord.' Mansell did not immediately notice the hesitancy in his housekeeper's
reply.

'Visiting the
Hoptons
, is she? Then I must perforce await her return. If
you would send—'

'No, my lord. Her lady
ship... she is not in Ludlow.'

'Not...? Where is she?' He
froze, suddenly alert, the weariness draining from him as he scented danger. It
was impossible to ignore the cold mist of dread that settled round his heart
and stole his breath. 'Surely she arrived safely from Brampton Percy. I would
have known if she—'

'Of course, my lord.' Mistress
Morgan tried to soothe. 'Her ladyship arrived, as did we all. And she is well.
But she left again. This morning.'

'When? Where?' He
transfixed the increasingly nervous housekeeper with a fierce stare that left
her stammering and uncertain with nerves.

'This...this morning, my
lord. Quite early. She and Mistress Hopton.'

'Where did she go?' He
remained quite still, his breathing shallow, barely disturbing the droplets of
rain which still clung to his coat.

'To Leintwardine Manor, my
lord. There was some problem there that required her presence. Something to do
with the Governor of Hereford, I believe. I expect they will have arrived by
now, as you did not pass them on the road. Unless the storms have caused them
difficulties,, of course...' She lapsed into silence before the icy control
that now visibly shimmered round him.

'Leintwardine? But...surely
Coningsby has possession of it? That was one nugget of information that Henry
Lingen was pleased to pass on. When he condescended to allow us free passage.'
The glint of Mansell's teeth indicated no humour in the situation. 'What the
hell is she doing, going to Leintwardine, into Coningsby's clutches? And in
this damnable weather!' He turned to his steward, demanding an answer that
Foxton was unable to give, his snarl a mixture of fear and sheer exasperation.
As if his absent wife had deliberately chosen this most inauspicious of
travelling weather for her ill-conceived venture.

And then his terrible fear
struck home again. A lightning bolt, which caused the blood to pound in his
head, a knife to tear at his guts. Why would Honoria decide to visit the
Governor of Hereford?
There can only be one reason
, a
nasty little voice insinuated itself in his head.
Think about it.

No. He shook his head, as
if to dislodge the outrageous thought. He could not believe such a thing of
her. Any suspicions were totally without foundation. He would trust her with
his life. Had he not done so? Throughout the siege? Had she not proved her
loyalty—to him and to his cause—again and again? Even if he had misunderstood
her motives, that was his problem, not hers. And had he not come to believe
that there was more than mere respect and tolerance in her feelings towards
him? Had she not lain in his arms, finally responding without fear to his
love-making, giving her body to him with such sweetness, in openness and trust?
He had even thought that perhaps she loved him a little and that their union
would become one of far more value than mere convenience and political
pragmatism.

But Coningsby! The
self-doubt and disgust bloomed within him, a heavy weight in his chest. God
help him—perhaps he had allowed himself to be manipulated by a deep and clever
woman, of whom he still knew so little. A bitter laugh shook him. After all,
how long had they actually spent in each other's company since their hasty marriage?
Perhaps he was simply a gullible fool, taken in by what appeared to be fragile
vulnerability, overlaid by courage and strength, effectively disguising devious
and scheming treachery. The pain of such a realisation was greater than he ever
could have imagined, almost greater than he could bear.

'I don't believe this! I
cannot!' Breathing deeply, he tried to keep a firm hold on his temper, which
now threatened to overwhelm him, to obliterate the initial despair at his
wife's betrayal, to flash and burn. It took a moment. He kept his tone calm and
steady, but his dark brows locked in a thick bar and his hands clenched into
fists on the material of the cloak that he took back from Mistress Morgan. 'Did
her ladyship go alone—or did she take any protection with her?'

'Robins to drive the wagon.
And Tom. It is an easy journey during the day, my lord.'

The soothing tone did
nothing to release the tension in Mansell's whole body, or the anguish in his
heart. If anything, the information increased his anger—and his fear. His face
set in uncompromising lines, deeply engraved around his mouth, his eyes now
glacial, hiding all trace of the ravages that threatened to slice his heart to
pieces. It did nothing to reassure Mistress Morgan, who reluctantly released once
more the hat and gloves to his demand. In the face of such rigidly controlled
power she dare not resist.

'Leintwardine. And
Coningsby.' The words were barely audible in the silent room. He swung the
cloak once more round his shoulders, oblivious to the discomfort as the clammy
folds clung to his legs.

'My lord. Where are you
going? Indeed, it is too late—'

'I am going to
Leintwardine, it would seem. Would you be so good as to send a message to
Hopton House to inform them of the whereabouts of their daughter. And reassure
them that I will see her safely returned.' He turned to Foxton. 'If you would
inform Captain Davies of my whereabouts on his arrival. Tell him to wait here.
I should be back tomorrow.' He had no desire to have an interested audience,
particularly not a member of his family, for his confrontation with his wife,
when her duplicity and his naivety would be revealed for all to see.

He turned to the door, to
retrace his steps to the stables, to follow his errant lady, torn between a
desire to beat her soundly for her cruel and irresponsible behaviour, and a
heady desire to pull her into his arms and never let her go.

'Well!' Mistress Morgan
remained standing in the hall, arms folded, more than a little taken aback by
the eruption of stark emotion and the abrupt departure.

'Perhaps you might have
broken the news a little more gently,' Foxton suggested as he prepared to send
the desired message to Hopton House.

'I don't see that it would
have made any difference.' The housekeeper pursed her lips in denial. 'No
matter how I said it—she's gone and he's worried. And rightly so. He's no idea
what might await him at Leintwardine.'

'Very true.' Foxton sighed.
'Or exactly why Lady Mansell felt the need to go there in the first place.' He
opened the door, then halted, head bent a little. 'And I hope, for his and her
ladyship's sake, that his temper has settled before he gets there!'

Chapter Fourteen

The lowering clouds
gathered in the west throughout the morning and approached at rapid speed,
threatening rain. The wind had picked up with violent gusts to set the horses'
manes and tails swirling, but the riders pressed on. The wolfhounds kept pace,
fur flat and matted with mud, but with the elegant stamina of their kind.

'Do you think we shall make
it to Leintwardine before it rains?' Mary drew alongside Honoria, struggling to
keep abreast.

'No.' The lady gritted her
teeth against the promise of a drenching. Spots were already pattering in the
puddles and on her hood. 'But it is quicker to go on than return.'

The pair of heavy horses
pulling the well-laden wagon continued their dour plod, so the riders tucked in
behind, out of the wind as much as possible, heads down.

The downpour finally caught
them in open country, without the benefit of shelter from either building or
trees and with still some miles to go. They hunched their shoulders, pulling up
collars and hoods, and set to tolerate the streams of water that found every
opening and soon soaked them to the skin.

'No troops or robbers
around tonight,' Mary shouted her observation against the wind.

'Everyone else has the
sense to be indoors before a fire. I am sorry, Mary. We could have chosen a
better time. If you succumb to a fever and die on my doorstep, your mother will
definitely consign me to the Devil.'

'Not a chance. I have a
remarkable constitution. Another hour and we should be there.'

They lapsed into silence,
turning their thoughts inward to their reception at Leintwardine.

The day had drawn early to
its close and now the heavy darkness of storm clouds began to engulf them. The
horses responded gallantly, but stumbled and slithered through the mud, unable
to avoid the huge puddles that were forming on already waterlogged ground.
There was no point in conversation, even if the wind did not rip away their
words. The travellers simply encouraged their mounts to put one weary foot in
front of the other. The wolfhounds stayed close.

But the wagon was quickly
becoming more of a problem. It lurched, sliding, its heavy and ungainly weight
more and more unmanageable with the deteriorating road surface. Finally, the
inevitable—with loud and useless curses from the driver, the vehicle slid
sideways until two wheels became lodged in the overflowing ditch, the whole
wagon leaning at a precarious angle.

'It's no good, m'lady.' The
driver hung on to the reins and his seat. Tom scrambled up with the agility of
youth and jumped to the ground with a splash to grasp the harness. Too tired to
do otherwise, the horses tossed their heads, but stood their ground. 'Nothing
we can do here
t'night
, other than release the horses
and take 'em on.'

Honoria strained to catch
his words. 'I don't like to leave it here, Master Robins. Not with all the
supplies.'

'Not much choice, m'lady,
with respect.' He wiped the water from his face with his sleeve, to little
purpose. 'Too wet to get a purchase in this mud. We'll likely smash a wheel—not
that we could lift it. Best thing we can do is take the horses on to the Manor
and come back tomorrow.'

'I suppose you are right.'
She drew in a deep breath. 'Of course you are! Very well...'

She lifted her head,
suddenly alert and watchful, as the splash of hooves made itself heard over the
roar of wind and rain. Wagon or riders, the beasts were not travelling fast.
But there was an air of purpose about the progress.

'Let me have your pistol,
Master Robins.'

Honoria took it, held it
firmly, trying to control her wet fingers and her rapidly thudding heartbeat,
keeping the firearm under the shelter of her cloak, for what good it would do.
But she would not give in to robbers or troops, not when she was so close to
her Manor.

They waited as the sounds
of labouring horses drew nearer.

'Don't say a word.' Honoria
leaned to shout in Mary's ear. 'We are simply benighted travellers. Helpless
women, demanding of compassion and respect in our distress. And pray that they
will listen! If needs be, we will be Royalist sympathisers. We may not be able
to light, but, in an emergency, we can lie.'

The cloud and curtain of
rain continued to blot out any sight of the approaching horsemen. The wait
seemed so much longer than the minutes it lasted. Until three figures, well
wrapped against the elements, loomed from the swirl of mud and water.

They came to a halt beside
the wagon. The leader loosed the collar of his cloak and swept off his hat.

There was no need for the
travellers to lie.

Honoria's heart beat once,
heavily, then settled into a steadier rhythm. She should have known. It was
impossible to see his face, to detect any expression, but she recognised him
instantly. The breadth of his shoulders, the indolent grace with which he sat
his horse, the wing of his dark hair as it curled wetly on to his collar. She
had no idea how he had escaped from Brampton Percy, or traced her to overtake
her on the road, but it did not matter. A deluge of love filled her breast,
choking her so that she was unable to speak, only marvel that he was alive and
had come to her. Surely he must sense it, even through the violence of the
storm.

And yet, once again she
found herself facing her husband in the dark, pistol in hand, aimed not very
effectively at his heart. Mansell eyed it with unmistakable jaundice in the set
of his body, then reached out and took it from her, dropping it into his
pocket. For a long moment he simply sat motionless and looked at her. She had
no idea what went through his mind as he sat in the torrential flood, but she
had the distinct impression that it was far from pleasant. Unease began to
displace the initial surge of relief and joy. Lifting her hand in greeting, she
would have touched his arm, but he reined back sharply, away from her. What he
would have done next, she could not guess, but a sharp bark of greeting from
Setanta, enthusiasm not dampened, broke the moment and he turned away.

Mansell wasted no further
time in conversation or greeting. 'Leave it, Master Robins.
Unharness
the horses, then you and Tom ride them back to Ludlow—or the first farmhouse we
come across where we can beg shelter for the night. We can do no more in this.
Give them some help here.' He waved his two men-at-arms towards the stricken
wagon.

For a moment, Honoria was
speechless.

'Can you ride, my lady?'
His voice was coldly formal.

'Of course.' She frowned in
the dark. 'But I will not go to Ludlow. I intend to go on to Leintwardine.'

'Coningsby is at
Leintwardine.' What other could he say? That if she knocked on his door she
would be turned away? Taken captive? But, as the thought had snapped and
worried at his heels for the whole of that dire journey, perhaps she would not
be turned away. Perhaps she would be welcomed, her requests given due
consideration. He hardly heard her reply, and could not follow it when it
caught his attention.

'He is not there. He has
left.'

'Lingen says that he has
taken possession, appropriated my property in the King's name. Why should he
leave now?'

'But he has.'

'You are wrong. We must go
back to Ludlow.'

'No!'

'You have no choice! You
will return with me.'

'I will not!'

'It's true, my lord.' Tom
ventured to put in a word to halt the angry exchange that threatened to
continue, regardless of the violence of nature around them or the interested
listeners. 'The Governor had packed up his belongings to return to Hereford two
days ago—and sent on his horses. I saw it. He will have surely left by now.'

Mansell reined in the
disbelief and frustration that lapped at the edge of control and focused on the
lad and his words. 'Left?'

'Aye, my lord. Indeed, I
saw him.'

'So. I cannot pretend to
understand this—but rather than sit in this infernal flood, we will do as you
wish, my lady. You can save your explanation until we arrive at Leintwardine.
There is nothing to be gained from sitting here in the middle of the road. If I
might suggest it, my men will escort you and Mistress Hopton. I will follow
with Robins and the wagon animals. Take the dogs with you, if you will.'

His tone was polite.
Clipped. Careful. Beneath it Honoria sensed she knew not what emotion, as much
a torrent as the one that swirled and broke around their feet.

'Have a care when you
arrive.' His instructions were for the armed escort. 'In case Coningsby has not
bolted back to his lair.'

Honoria sighed and turned
her weary horse's head towards Leintwardine Manor with its promise of warmth
and food, mentally rehearsing her excuses for when her lord joined her.

*
             
*
             
*

Later, as Mansell followed
more slowly with Master Robins, Tom and the heavy horses, he took the time to
reassemble his scattered thoughts before he need speak with her again. Seeing
her there, wet, dishevelled, plastered with mud, but undaunted with pistol in
hand, prepared to defend herself against whatever threat materialised, he had
been staggered by the wave of possessive lust and desire that rioted through
his veins. Ridiculously potent, it had stunned him with its intensity. And
combined with it, running through it like golden threads woven into the finest
silk, was admiration for her courage. And—and yes, damn it to hell—an
overwhelming surge of love and tenderness towards her. For a moment he had
forgotten the hurt of her treachery, wanting nothing more than to hold and to
protect her. And even now, he was forced to admit, her betrayal seemed in
doubt, nothing more than the product of the strains and tensions of the
previous weeks on his tired mind. If her information was correct, and Coningsby
had indeed left Leintwardine, then her motive for going there had not been to
cast in her lot with the Royalists and sell him to the enemy. A small flame of
warmth and hope began to heat in his cold gut, to spread its fingers with
comfort and healing.

But, he reminded himself,
on a cold blast of cynicism, as the rain discovered an insidious path between
coat and shirt, he still did not know the truth. Or why she had disobeyed him
and taken this questionable and foolhardy journey to Leintwardine Manor from
the comfort and relative safety of Ludlow.

'You are frowning at me.'

'By God, I am, madam! Are
you surprised?'

Mansell had arrived at
Leintwardine Manor within a very short time of Honoria. Fitzwilliam Coningsby
had gone, the Steward informed him, relief showing in his broad features.
Finally taken his servants and the last of his belongings only that morning.
And then he showed Mansell into the panelled room where his wife stood,
waiting, beside the fire. She had removed her cloak, but little else despite
the discomfort of wet clothes and shoes. Mary, sensing the taut atmosphere and
the difficult interview to come, had offered to oversee the provision of bed
linen and food. And then, she admitted to herself with innate honesty, beat a
rapid and cowardly retreat.

So Honoria continued to
wait alone, tension stripping her nerves to the raw. She was not surprised at
the brusque curtness with which her lord opened the door and entered the room,
closing the latch with a firm click behind him. Or the set of his jaw, the
frowning line between his brows. There was little point, she quickly realised, in
enquiring after his health or the outcome of the siege. Where Captain Priam
might be. Or why he had not been taken prisoner by a probably jubilant Henry
Lingen and even now sent
en route
to incarceration in
Hereford Castle.

She spoke the first words
in her mind as he entered the room. And appreciated, by his immediate response,
that her reading of his mood was precise to a point. 'And you are shouting!'

'I have not even begun to
shout, lady! I am just working up to it. But, believe me—'

She saw him almost
physically rein in his temper, firming his lips against further recriminations,
before he could say more than was wise. His garments were sodden, filthy, well
worn and shabby from the lengthy siege. Her gaze travelled over hollowed
cheeks, disordered hair, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the weary but turbulent
emotion in them. And the fury. She wanted nothing in life, she realised, so
much as to go to him, to take him in her arms and give him comfort. To reassure
him of her love and her joy that he was safe. And she dare not.

'I don't see why you should
need to raise your voice.'

'In Heaven's name, lady,
think about it.' Good intentions escaped like doves from a dovecote at the shot
from a gun. He stripped off his cloak for the second time that day and allowed
himself the luxury of flinging it in the vicinity of the nearby chair. He
ignored it when it fell to the floor, keeping his stare fixed firmly on
Honoria. 'I told you to go to Ludlow. I hoped you would be safe there, knew you
would, to give me some peace of mind whilst I was detained at Brampton Percy.
And I arrive this afternoon to discover from Mistress Morgan that you have gone
to Leintwardine, with no protection to escort you and with no logical reason
for taking such action that I can see. And presumably knowing that Coningsby
had taken the Manor as his own property and moved his own people in.'