Wolf Bride (35 page)

She took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You have not drunk your wine,’ he commented, and leant across to pour more into her cup. ‘Though these are difficult times, they will soon be over. Your generosity towards these criminals does you credit, Eloise, but you must be careful. Simply because you yourself are innocent, it does not follow that others are equally unblemished.’

She managed a stiff smile. ‘Of course, you are right.’ She picked up her cup and drank a little wine, eyeing him over the rim as he stretched out his legs to the low fire burning in the hearth.

How long had he known that they were being watched? Was it only in this room or also in their bedchamber that they had to be careful? Her skin crawled at the thought of some sweaty-palmed spy watching them in bed together, then writing up a detailed report of their lovemaking for the king.

She could only hope their bedchamber at least was safe from those who watched. Wolf had lied to the king to keep her out of his arms, declaring her cold and unyielding to bed. Any act or conversation which might suggest the opposite would be highly dangerous, and put his life in jeopardy. So he would hardly have made love to her with such passion and abandon if he knew the king would hear of it.

Whenever they were alone here, she had longed to ask him about Margerie. Her jealousy was an itch in her blood. Yet she had fought it, afraid of disturbing the fragile equilibrium which had settled about them since his fight with Simon and the intense lovemaking that had followed that horror.

Now she was glad she had not asked. For everything they said or did in this place must be weighed very carefully, in case it was reported back to the king.

Besides, even if she could ask him such a question privately, what if Wolf confessed that he was indeed still in love with Margerie? The two had been betrothed once, long ago, and she knew how powerful his feelings must have been. And Margerie had spurned him, not the other way around. She had run off with her secret lover and married him.

Having seen how even the suggestion of betrayal could shatter Wolf’s famous self-control, the discipline that made him such a great soldier and commander, it was hard not to wonder how he had dealt with Margerie’s loss.

Not well, she thought drily, then lowered her gaze when Wolf looked up and caught her staring.

‘Should I ask what you’re thinking, my lady?’ he drawled, his voice very cool, though she heard a sliver of doubt behind the easy arrogance. ‘Or would it be better not to know?’

Thankfully Eloise did not need to fumble for an answer to that, as a commotion at the door made them both turn their heads.

Wolf stood at once, his body tensed for action, reaching for the dagger he had used to bone the trout. He wiped the blade clean on the napkin, his face tense. ‘Who’s there?’

The door opened and Hugh Beaufort stood in the doorway, swaying a little, his chin dark with stubble, his doublet and hose dusty from the road. Behind him stood a slender boy, booted, cloaked and hooded, his young face concealed in shadow – but with a tell-tale lock of fair hair tumbling down one shoulder.

‘Susannah!’ Eloise exclaimed, relief surging through her at the sight of these two weary figures, and jumped up to embrace her sister. ‘I never thought to see you again.’

Her sister threw back her hood, a chastened look on her face. Her cheeks had more colour than she remembered, but Eloise put that down to having ridden so far in the warm spring sunshine. She clasped Eloise’s hands, not quite meeting her gaze.

‘Forgive me,’ was all she seemed able to say, stumbling over even those few words. ‘Forgive me, Eloise.’

‘So you found her in the end,’ Wolf murmured, watching Eloise and Susannah with a curious expression on his face. He shook Hugh Beaufort’s hand, then clapped the young man heartily on the back. ‘Well done, sir.’

‘I thank you, my lord.’

‘You look half-dead, man. Here, we had more food served than we needed.’ Wolf stepped aside, gesturing them both to sit down. ‘Will you not eat?’

Without any ceremony, still wearing her cloak, Susannah sat down and eagerly scooped up the last of the trout, eating as though she had not been fed for days.

Eloise helped her sister off with her cloak, bearing it away to have the dust beaten off. ‘Mary!’ she called, and her maid appeared, looking astonished but deeply pleased to see Susannah safe and at the table. ‘Fetch more wine.’

‘And food,’ Susannah managed indistinctly, her mouth full. ‘More sauce. Manchet bread. Sweetmeats.’

To Eloise’s surprise, Hugh refused to sit at table, telling Wolf instead how he had come upon Susannah some fifty miles north of London, sleeping rough in a wood. He kept his face politely averted as Susannah ate, but something about his wary stance made Eloise suspect this was not merely good manners.

She wondered if the two young people had argued on the long road to London. Hardly surprising, Eloise thought, hurriedly concealing her smile. Susannah was a wilful, headstrong girl, and she had been discovered in her crime as a runaway. Perhaps even scolded by Hugh for having caused so much trouble and heartache. Indeed, it would be a miracle if they had not argued.

‘You took your time returning,’ Wolf said lightly, but it was a question.

‘My lord, you must forgive my tardiness.’ Hugh looked awkwardly at Susannah, who said nothing but continued to eat. He hesitated, an odd tightness in his voice. ‘I had some difficulty persuading Mistress Tyrell to accompany me back to court.’

Wolf frowned. ‘But was it not her intention to journey to court in the first place?’

‘But not with him,’ Susannah said clearly, without looking at Hugh, then returned to her repast.

Mary bustled in with a full flagon of wine, a kitchen servant following close behind with a basket of warm bread, a jug of sauce and a bowl of sweetmeats.

‘Oh yes, please,’ Susannah murmured, and held out a cup. ‘I have not eaten for two days straight.’

Eloise was surprised, and glanced across at Hugh Beaufort. ‘Surely you took your ease at roadside inns? Tell me you did not simply ride for court without stopping once you had found my sister?’

‘We stopped every night.’ There was a hard colour in Hugh’s face now; he seemed almost angry, his voice sharper. ‘But your sister refused to eat in my company, and since I refused to leave her alone until we reached London, she took no sustenance at mealtimes.’

Suppressing a burst of laughter, Eloise bit her lip. ‘I see,’ she managed unsteadily.

‘And why should a lady eat at the same table as her abductor, pray?’ Susannah stared at Hugh fiercely, and was rewarded by a stormy glare in return. A tiny spot of red burnt in each cheek as she lifted her chin. ‘I shall certainly take care never to be alone in your company again.’

‘Nor I in yours, madam,’ Hugh Beaufort seethed at her, his face taut. His fists were clenched by his sides as though he longed to shake some sense into the girl, his knuckles white with strain. Eloise cleared her throat, and Hugh abruptly seemed to recollect where he was. He drew breath, turning to make his bow to Eloise. ‘Forgive my poor manners, Lady Wolf. It was not my intention to raise my voice in the company of ladies. I . . . I have not slept overmuch these past few days.’

It seemed Susannah had met her match in Hugh Beaufort. They had been friendly enough in Yorkshire, spending time in each other’s company, and Eloise suspected it was to see Hugh again that Susannah had run away from home in such a drastic manner. Yet clearly something had happened between them on the road to change Susannah’s mind.

Perhaps her sister had not found it as easy to twist Hugh Beaufort around her finger as she had once innocently supposed. Whatever the truth of it, she was now aloof and he incensed. A happy pairing indeed.

She caught Wolf’s eye, and he smiled drily.

‘Come, Hugh,’ he said, thrusting his dagger back into his belt. ‘You are in dire need of a wash and fresh clothing. Let us walk to your chamber together, and you can tell me everything that has passed while you have been away.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Hugh agreed, still very much on his dignity. On the threshold he paused, then turned back, bowing first to Eloise and then Susannah. ‘Lady Wolf,’ he murmured in farewell; then his eyes sought her sister’s at last. ‘Mistress Tyrell.’

Susannah said nothing, her head stubbornly bent.

Hugh straightened, still looking directly at her, then drew a sharp breath and swept after Wolf.

‘Susannah, why on earth are you so upset with poor Master Beaufort?’ Eloise asked as soon as the door had closed behind the men; she had dismissed Mary so they could talk without fear of being overheard. ‘He only rode north to see you safe to court. And at great risk to himself, for that road is one of the most dangerous in England.’

When her sister did not reply but sat still, head down, staring fixedly at the table, Eloise added with a stab of spirit, ‘Forgive me, but I don’t understand. I thought you liked Hugh, that the two of you were friends.’

Susannah lifted her head, and Eloise saw that she had been crying. ‘Oh Eloise,’ she burst out, pushing away her trencher as though her appetite had suddenly failed. ‘I did like Hugh Beaufort, very much. But now I hate him, I hate him. Everything’s ruined. And it’s all my fault!’

‘Whatever do you mean by that?’ she asked her sister, astonished. ‘Did something happen between you on the journey?’

But try as she might, Eloise could not bring Susannah to say any more. She very much feared some dreadful indiscretion must have occurred on the road back to court. But whatever had happened, it was probably for the best if they never spoke of it again, she thought warily, wrapping her arms about her sister’s shoulders in a gesture of comfort. Her father still hoped Susannah would marry a man of his own choosing, and Hugh Beaufort did not strike her as a man in love.

Little said, soon amended, she told herself, and rummaged in her belt pouch for a handkerchief.

Days passed, with the atmosphere at court growing ever darker and gloomier as Anne’s fate looked more certain, and one night in mid-May Wolf struggled out of sleep to find the bed curtains drawn back, and one of his men standing beside the bed, a candle flickering in his hand.

He sat up at once, immediately alert. He had not been asleep long, for his mind had been too occupied with dark matters, his psyche disturbed with a creeping horror that he could not shake off. Not that he was alone in that. Not tonight.

It was still dark, the early watches of the night judging by how low the fire had burnt since he had retired. Beside him, Eloise was still sleeping, breathing softly, her back turned.

‘What is it, Fletcher?’

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord. It would not wait until morning.’

The man was holding out a letter. Wolf took it, frowning down at the distinctive royal seal.

‘Hold the candle higher.’

He broke the seal and read the contents, digesting the grim message with chill striking into his heart.

‘Will there be any reply, my lord?’

‘No.’ He looked down at his sleeping wife. ‘What hour is it, Fletcher?’

‘A little after four of the clock, my lord.’

‘Come back in an hour and rouse me again. I must be on horseback by sunrise this morning.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘And leave the candle.’

He glanced again at Eloise, seeing the slender column of her neck from behind, her golden hair fallen loosely to one side. Caught in the grip of some primaeval terror, he could not prevent himself from imagining an axe being brought down upon that fragile neck, severing her throat, her life force . . .

He made a choking noise under his breath, his heart suddenly pounding, his palms damp with sweat.

Eloise stirred beside him in the candlelight, flushed from her warm pillow. Sleepily, she turned to look at him, her nightrail falling loosely off one shoulder to reveal pale skin, the curve of her breast below.

‘What is it, my lord?’

He looked down at her grimly, considering what to say, how to word his admission. He could not conceal the agonising truth from his wife, however much he knew it would distress her, but he could at least hide his own turmoil.

‘Fletcher was just here,’ he told her sparingly. ‘He brought an urgent missive from King Henry. I have received a direct command from His Majesty and must obey it.’

She sat up, staring. ‘Wolf?’

‘I am ordered . . .’

He choked again mid-sentence and sat silent, staring at nothing, holding up his hand without looking at her when she tried to speak.

It was a struggle to regain his self-control. Yet regain it he must.

‘I am ordered to the Tower of London this morning,’ he managed. ‘To witness the execution of our former queen, Anne Boleyn.’

‘Sweet Jesu.’ Her cheeks had lost their colour, reflecting the same unspeakable horror he was feeling. Her hand went out to him, brushing his sleeve. ‘Do not go, you must not go.’

‘He is my king,’ he bit out, and meant every word, regardless of who might be listening. ‘I swore allegiance to His Majesty. I must obey his command; I cannot break my oath.’

Her voice was hoarse. ‘A king who executes his queen . . .’