Marriage Under Siege (37 page)

He knew it, and intended to
enjoy the victory as well as the method of achieving it. His smile grew. 'Well.
My lord Mansell. And Lady Mansell.' His voice was as thin as his frame but with
the bite of malice. He bowed with unruffled composure. It might have been a
polite, social gathering, all grave and elegant formality, if not for the
blatant show of force that surrounded them and hemmed them in. 'How fortunate
for me. I have to say that I was not pleased to hear of your release from the
aftermath of the siege, my lord. Lingen lacks backbone, I fear. But you have
fallen into my hands after all.'

Mansell's arms had dropped
away from Honoria, but otherwise he remained unmoving. A rapid survey of the
strength of the troops had made it clear that retaliation was not an option for
a man who valued his life. Coningsby would doubtless relish an excuse for
relieving him of it if he resisted. His control, therefore, was superb.

'Sir.' He returned the bow
with equal grace and hooded eyes. But the challenge was there, the resistance.
'You have no authority to force your way into this house, Coningsby. It is a
wilful trespass on my property. I would know the meaning of it.'

'I have every authority.'
Coningsby's smile grew yet wider, a glint of teeth. 'You waged war against His
Majesty. Treason, I would suggest. Your culpability is shameless and beyond
question.' He slanted a glance towards his troops. 'Take him—without too much
damage, if it is possible. If not...' He shrugged and took a step back.

Mansell forgot caution in a
blaze of fury at the turn of fate and the arrogance of his opponent. He drew
his sword, a harsh rasp of metal and flash of steel, an action that did nothing
to lessen the tension in the small room. Sweeping the blade before him with a
masterful turn of the wrist, he held the force at bay.

'Come, now.' The Governor
knew that his desire for revenge would not be thwarted. 'You are outnumbered,
my lord, and will quickly be overpowered by my men. Would you shed blood
unnecessarily—and perhaps your own—before your wife? She might even be injured,
if conflict developed. You are, without doubt, my prisoner, my lord.'

Mansell slowly lowered the
point of his sword inch by inch, until it rested against the polished boards.
'Ah, yes. My wife.' He turned his head, to look at Honoria, who had not moved
throughout the whole scene, her limbs frozen in horror at this terrible
outcome. 'It would not do to endanger the life of my wife, would it? As
precious as she is to me.' His eyes held the bleak, unfriendly quality of a
winter sea in northern latitudes. She could not read them.

'Francis—'

He lifted his free hand.
'No, my lady.' He cut her off with a savage gesture. 'I do not think we need to
discuss this matter in such illustrious company. Besides, what is there to say
between us? The Governor's presence here is—how shall I put it?—most
enlightening.'

'It seems to me that there
is much to say.' Her eyes held his, a silent plea.

Which he determinedly
ignored, struggling to reject the sharp pain in his heart. What possible place
did love have in such a scene of harsh betrayal? 'No, my dear. I have been a
fool, have I not?' Against his intentions, his lips twisted in bitter
contempt—of her and of himself. 'I had persuaded myself on my journey here that
you could not possibly betray me, berated myself again and again for so cruelly
misjudging you.'

'I never could.'

'The evidence is all around
me.' He swept his sword once more in a glittering circle of light. 'What do you
get from this unpleasant bargaining? This manor? But it is yours anyway.' He
shrugged, the casual gesture superbly controlled, a calculated insult, his flat
stare a condemnation. 'Well, I doubt that you would tell me the truth in the
circumstances. Your loyalty to your King must be extreme. I wish you well of
it.'

Suddenly he lifted his
sword arm high, but when Coningsby's soldiers would have made a move towards
him, he turned the weapon downwards to thrust its sharp blade into the oak
floor by his feet. There the sword remained, quivering, shimmering with the
force of the gesture, still glinting as the facets and honed edges caught the
light. A physical barrier between himself and Honoria. He could not have said
or done anything more calculated to hurt than that flamboyant rejection of her
father's sword, her gift to him on her wedding day.

Then, without a further
glance in her direction, he turned his back on her and walked to Coningsby.
'You are quite correct, sir. There is no room for violence here. As you see, I
have no sword. I am at your service.'

The only sound in the room
was Honoria's intake of breath, the only movement her outstretched hands.

'Of course, my lord.'
Coningsby inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'Bind his hands.'

'Francis...' Honoria could
do nothing but watch as her lord's hands were bound roughly behind him. As he
was escorted from the room, the soldiers falling in around him.

Francis did not look back.

Honoria's first impulse was
to follow, to beg for her lord's release, but Coningsby's hand closed over her
wrist, bringing her to a halt in the doorway.

'Let me go!'

'I think not, my lady. The
deed is done.'

She wrenched her hand away
as if the touch burned into her skin. Alone in the room, Coningsby continued to
survey his companion with something akin to admiration in his narrow features.
'A neat little plan, Lady Mansell. It
was
yours, I presume? A mythical attack of the plague to drive me back to
Hereford?'

'Yes. It was mine.' She
forced a smile to her cold lips. She would not show him the depth of her hurt,
would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he had been instrumental
in tearing her world apart. Pride came to her rescue. 'And it was amazingly
successful, was it not? You believed every word and you left.'

'Indeed.' He could not
refute it. 'I am tempted to take you into confinement as well, my lady, for the
inconvenience you have caused me. How fortunate that the inhabitants of Wigmore
Priory should have been able to give me some accurate facts—and even more
fortunate that the storm should have forced me to take shelter there. Otherwise
I would have missed this invaluable and touching reunion between yourself and
your lord.'

'I will not apologise. The
manor is mine, sir.'

'Your husband is a traitor,
my lady.'

'That, I believe, is
irrelevant to the legality of the case.'

'You think so? I will take
it upon myself to ensure that all of the Brampton properties are confiscated to
the Crown. And I have no doubts of my success.' Honoria dropped her eyes. His
pleasure at the prospect was too ugly to contemplate. 'I will leave you here
tonight, madam,' he continued with smooth assurance. 'Make the most of your
possession. I doubt you will have the pleasure of it for much longer.'

He turned to go.

'Where will you take him?'
Her voice, well in command, stayed him.

'To Hereford.' The glance
turned on her was bright with victory. 'Where his fate will be decided. You
allied yourself with the wrong man in this marriage, my lady. You would have
done better to return to London if it was your wish to remarry. Or perhaps
chosen one of the Royalist gentlemen of the county.'

'I think not.' Honoria's
eyes blazed with contemptuous disgust. 'My marriage to Lord Mansell was the
finest thing I have ever done in my life. I will never regret it.'

'Forgive me, my lady. I
doubt, on recent evidence, that your husband agrees with you. I do not think I
will disabuse him of that belief. A sense of betrayal is a bitter draught,
poisoning to the system, which will add to his discomfort as my prisoner as he
lingers long in confinement.' He bowed low. 'I hope that you will still
consider your marriage of an advantage when the King returns in power to his
own.'

He waited for the beat of a
heart, but received no response. 'Goodnight, my lady. Never doubt I will take
good care of your husband.'

As an afterthought, he
stepped forward to grasp the hilt of the sword and with one swift turn of his
wrist, release it from the boards. He smoothed his fingers over the blade with
deep satisfaction and his sneer was well marked as he closed the door quietly
behind him.

Honoria sank to the nearest
chair behind her, her legs suddenly weak, her senses numb in total disbelief at
the events of the past half- hour. Her brain refused to obey her command to
think, her senses encased in ice. All she could see was Francis, wrists bound,
deliberately humiliated but dignity intact, eyes flat and shuttered when he
looked at her for the last time. What malign power had decided that she and her
lord would never be allowed to heal their differences, would never be given the
chance of happiness, would never be permitted to spend more than a few
uninterrupted hours together in peace and tranquillity, without having to
explain and justify, to beg forgiveness for perceived sins?

Had he indeed said that he
loved her? Perhaps she had been mistaken after all. But his lips had confirmed
it when they had touched her, whisper-soft for that fleeting moment before all
her hopes and dreams had been shattered. He had enclosed her within the shelter
of his arms, held her as if he would never in this life release her, with
promise of such passion, such delights in the fierce glow of his eyes.

But what did he think now?
What could he possibly think with the evidence, as he had so bitterly
intimated, stacked disastrously against her? There seemed to be little point in
trying to interpret the emotions behind his words and actions now, given the
hideous scene in this very room. She had once more put him into a situation
where his pride and dignity could be compromised. Even if her intentions had
been of the best, she had brought him to Leintwardine and thrown him,
unprotected and powerless, into the hands of Fitzwilliam Coningsby. Her
loyalties had been an issue since the day of their marriage. And now he was a
prisoner because she had come to reclaim her manor.

She leaned back, eyes
closed, devastated by the turn of events.

Where Mary found her when
she returned to the room, carrying a tray with bread, cheese and a flagon of
hot spiced wine. She put the tray on the table, cast one look at Honoria and
began to hunt up cups and platters in the court cupboard.

Honoria did not move, nor
did she register Mary's presence, although the tight clasp of her hands on the
carved arms showed clearly that she was not asleep. Mary waited and then
decided to take the initiative.

'You must eat. You are
exhausted. Francis would tell you the same if he were here.'

Honoria opened her eyes,
but made no other move. 'Francis would in all probability add poison to my mug
if he were here. 'Oh God, Mary! What have I done?'

'You have done nothing.
Nothing to reproach yourself with. It was an excellent plan, and would have
undoubtedly worked if not for this wretched weather. Blame the outcome on our
precious Governor. It will make you feel much better.'

Honoria sat up slowly, as
if every movement took utter concentration, and then moved to sit at the
table, to take the goblet of mulled wine that Mary poured for her. The scent
was warm and enticing. She drank a little, wrapping her hands round the bowl
for comfort, but ignoring the food.

'Francis is a prisoner.'
Her voice sounded thin and hopeless, even to her own ears. 'What will become of
him?'

She could not weep. Would
not. Her whole body seemed to be frozen, all feeling and reaction suspended in
ice crystals. Even speaking was an effort.

'Drink.' Mary nudged her
hand. 'And then we will plan.'

Honoria did so,
automatically. And indeed, the pungent spices and the fierce bite of hot wine
with honey went a little way to thawing the lump in her chest. Her mind began
to work again. She rubbed her hands over her stiff face, a quick pressure of
hands over eyes and cheeks, as if it would restore her ability to see and think
and assess.

She continued to ignore the
bread and cheese but picked up one of the sweetmeats from the little silver
dish before her.

'Better?'

'Yes.' She finished off the
nuts and honey, licking her fingers, and Mary nodded with satisfaction.

'So. What can we do?'

Honoria's answer was once
more calm and lucid, her spirit restored. Mary allowed herself a little smile.
'They will have taken him to Hereford. To the castle, for certain. And perhaps
then on to London if they can find an escort. I do not fear for his life. He is
too wealthy, too important to kill. To be held for ransom for his other
estates, perhaps. That is the most likely outcome. And I expect that he will be
treated well with reasonable accommodation.'

'But they could keep him
prisoner for the duration of the war, I suppose.' Mary drank her own wine.

'And there is no telling
how long it will last.'

They were silent, each
finding little comfort in the prospect.

Then. 'I have one card to
play.' Honoria sat up and spread her fingers on the table.