His Captive, His Conquest by Ashe Barker

Chapter Twelve

Elborne Castle, Northern England

March 1491

Grim-faced, Stephen surveyed the clamour in his bailey from his vantage point at the entrance to his keep. Horses streamed across his drawbridge, along with several smaller carts laden with trunks and other provisions necessary for a lengthy journey. And these travellers had indeed come far, the entire length of the realm, in fact.

The tall knight who rode at the head of the column raised his hand in greeting.

Stephen scowled back. Privately, he was delighted to see his brother, the Duke of Whitleigh, after a gap of over a year, but he knew exactly what this visit meant.

Henry was tired of waiting. He had sent his envoy to hasten matters along.

And Richard had not made the journey alone. A smaller, grey palfrey pranced alongside his brother’s mighty war horse. His sister-in-law, Frances, the Duchess of Whitleigh, had accompanied her husband on this odyssey to the northern shires.

Frances smiled up at him, and Stephen was forced to relent. She was a beautiful woman, this Yorkist heiress who had ensnared his brother’s heart, and Stephen loved her like the sister he had never had.

His lips curled in a welcoming grin. “It is good to see you, Your Grace, though I see you have brought half the rabble of Devon with you.”

His brother had already dismounted. The duke helped his wife to the ground before the pair made their way across the cobbled bailey to the foot of the steps leading to the castle entrance. There, Richard removed his helmet, tucked it beneath his arm, and eyed his brother with interest.

“Greetings, brother. I trust we find you well.”

Stephen grunted his response. “Well enough.”

Richard inclined his head. “And Lady Katherine, too? We heard that she had been indisposed.”

“She is… somewhat recovered.”

In truth, Katherine was in rude good health and had always been so. For want of a better excuse, they had agreed to send word to the king that she was suffering from some unspecified malady, and this was the reason they had not celebrated their nuptials before Christmas. It would appear the king was not convinced.

“We are so pleased to hear that, are we not?” The duchess elbowed her husband in the ribs, though Stephen suspected the gesture was somewhat wasted since Richard was still clad in full armour. “I am so looking forward to meeting her.”

“She will be busy organising rooms for you all. Since we received word of your intended visit, she has not ceased in making preparations. Even now, she will be standing over the servants who are sweeping the floor of my hall and ordering them throw down yet more fresh rushes.”

“There is no need to go to a lot of trouble.” Frances made her way up the steps to stretch up on tiptoe and kiss each of his cheeks. “This is just a quiet family visit, after all.”

Stephen offered her another grunt, silently counting the horses and guards now milling about his bailey for this ‘quiet family visit’, all needing to be housed, fed, and watered. And unless he was very much mistaken, there were children scrambling from one of the carts. His eyes widened.

“You brought Henry and Margaret?”

“Of course. We could not leave them behind.” Richard bent to pick up his four-year-old daughter while her twin brother swarmed up the steps to fling himself at his favourite uncle. “And of course, we now have our little Elizabeth as well.”

“Oh.” Stephen could come up with nothing more incisive when a maidservant clambered from one of the covered wagons, clutching a bundle to her chest. “You brought the baby?”

“Aye, we did. You have yet to meet your youngest niece. She is nearly half a year old now.”

The servant handed the baby to the duchess, and Stephen found himself gazing into a pair of deep-blue eyes. The infant was truly adorable and regarded him with undisguised interest.

“She is beautiful,” he conceded. “You are most fortunate, my brother.”

“I am, this is true.” Richard bent to kiss his wife and made a comical face at the baby in her arms. “And so will you be, soon enough I daresay. Now that Lady Katherine is ‘somewhat recovered’. Are you intending to invite us inside or must we make camp in your courtyard?”

Stephen stood aside to allow the stampede which was his brother’s rowdy family to enter his hall. Katherine was just hurrying from the kitchens carrying a jug of ale and several pewter mugs, but she deposited her burden to rush forward and greet the guests.

Stephen remembered his manners. “May I present Lady Katherine Bramwell, sister to the previous marquis? Katherine, this is my brother, His Grace the Duke of Whitleigh, and his wife, Her Grace, the Duchess.”

“We are honoured to welcome you to Elborne,” Katherine responded, dropping a deep curtsey. “I trust your journey was not too onerous. The roads can be so treacherous, especially at this time of year.”

“We are delighted to be here at last. It has been so long since we saw Stephen.” The duchess embraced Lady Katherine, though still somewhat encumbered by the child in her arms. “And we have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“And I you, Your Grace.” Katherine’s manners were, as ever, quite impeccable. “Please, be seated. May we offer you refreshment after your journey? Some buttermilk for the little ones, perhaps?”

In a matter of moments, their guests were installed at the high table. Mugs of ale or buttermilk were placed before each, and the women chattered as though they had known each other for years. It never failed to astonish Stephen how quickly females could become friends, or perhaps it was simply a talent peculiar to those of his close acquaintance. Flora had been just the same…

Frances bobbed her daughter on her lap and smiled happily at Stephen. “It truly is wonderful to see you again. We have missed you, have we not, Richard?’

Her husband was less effusive. “’Tis true our larders have been less speedily depleted, since you buried yourself away here in the north.”

“Ignore him, Stephen.” Frances sent her husband a stern glare. “Betsy Tinker sends her regards.”

“Ah,” Stephen replied. “I trust she is well. And young Donald.”

“She is, yes. And young Donald Tinker is twelve years old now and apprenticed to Richard as his squire. Your brother is determined to make a soldier out of the boy.”

“An excellent choice. The lad is cut out for adventure and has a nose for trouble. His duties as squire will likely keep him out of worse mischief.” Stephen well recalled the occasion some five years previously when he and Richard had been obliged to drag the boy from the river. Donald had narrowly escaped death that day. The rescue had been a near-run thing and earned both Stephen and Richard the undying loyalty and devotion of the boy’s mother and elder sister.

Thinking of that sister, Stephen dropped his gaze to his ale. He and Sara had been…what? Not close, exactly, but that might have come, in time. Sadly, there was to be no time. Barely had he begun to gain her trust when she was struck down by the sleeping sickness. Sara was well and laughing at him in the morning, and by the same evening tossing, delirious in her bed. Her mother’s formidable healing skills had been powerless to prevent the looming tragedy. By the time the sun rose again, Sara was dead.

Had the memory of Sara, and of what might have been, prevented him from forming the attachment he might have to Katherine? Stephen did not think so. He had liked Sara, been intrigued by her, but he had not been in love. He was likely getting there, but the budding attraction had been crushed almost before it had started.

And then, there was Flora MacKinnon. Sara Tinker’s ghost had not been present in his chamber during those glorious weeks.

“…in Castille.”

“What?” He shook his head, casting off the sudden and unaccustomed bout of nostalgia. “My apologies, what did you say?” His sister-in-law had been chattering away whilst he had been momentarily lost in his thoughts of the past.

“Edmund. He is in Castille.”

“Oh? You have heard from him, then?”

He was aware that Frances referred to her elder brother, Edmund de Whytte, the previous duke who had lost the Whitleigh seat following the Battle of Bosworth and the victory by Henry Tudor. The de Whyttes, who had had the misfortune to find themselves on the losing side, had been stripped of lands and titles. The dukedom of Whitleigh was awarded to Richard in recognition of his loyal service to the new Tudor monarch.

Edmund had barely escaped with his life, and only then because Richard and Stephen had set aside their allegiance to their monarch and put their new family first. Richard was, by then, wed to Frances, and they felt it was right to aid her brother. He had last been seen boarding a ship bound for Cadiz and was not expected to return to England.

Frances nodded. “We had a letter a couple of months ago. He is in Castille, at the court of Isabella and Ferdinand.”

“I see. And does he prosper?” Stephen sincerely hoped so. The last thing he and Richard needed was for Edmund de Whytte to return to their shores in search of further protection, giving rise to some exceptionally awkward questions from their king.

“He is a sailor, and yes, he is doing well enough. He is master of his own ship, the Santa Maria.”

Stephen nodded. He had not been especially well acquainted with Edmund but could readily see him as an adventurer. A life at sea would suit him.

“Edmund tells of a friendship he has formed with a man from Genoa by the name of Christopher Columbus. They hope to persuade Isabella and Ferdinand to finance an expedition to establish a western route to the Indies. Edmund is convinced that the trading opportunities from such an endeavour will prove lucrative. He expects to make his fortune that way.”

Stephen smiled. He could well imagine it. Edmund de Whytte was nothing if not an optimist.

“Let us hope their majesties are tempted by the prospect,” he replied, “and that the venture is successful.”

“I confess, brother, I am baffled.”

Stephen turned to Richard, seated on his right. “Baffled? How so?”

“She is quite exquisite, your Lady Katherine. Is there some particular reason she is not already bearing your heir?”

“We have not…” He struggled to find a suitable response, something to satisfy his brother. At a loss, he opted to stall for more time. “She has been ill, so—”

“Ballocks.” Richard had never been a man to mince his words. “I do not believe that. More to the point, neither does the king.”

“He sent you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Aye.” Richard waited, clearly expecting an explanation.

“The matter is… complicated.”

“In what way? The lady appears eminently suitable to me.”

“She is. I have nothing but the utmost regard for Lady Katherine.”

“Utmost regard?” His brother raised one dark eyebrow. “I do not much like the sound of that.”

“We shall marry. Eventually. It is simply that we have been so busy here. There are the constant raids by the border clans, and the estate to manage, of course. There has been no time to consider anything else.”

Richard tilted his head and regarded his brother. His brow furrowed, he appeared puzzled. “Do I look like an idiot to you?” he eventually enquired mildly.

‘Fuck,” came the succinct reply. Stephen rose and stormed from his hall.

“So, what is actually happening here?”

Stephen did not turn his head on hearing his brother’s voice. He continued to rest his elbows on the stone parapet, his gaze fixed upon the moat below. “Nothing is happening.”

“Exactly. Why have you refused to comply with your king’s wishes?”

“I have not refused. It is just… not convenient at this time.”

Richard gave a dry chuckle. “Marriage is rarely convenient. But it is necessary. You must see that. You cannot defy the king’s request for much longer without incurring his anger. That would not be wise. Henry is patient but tenacious. He will have his way eventually.”

“I know that.”

“Lady Katherine will make an excellent wife,” Richard continued.

“Yes,” Stephen agreed. “But she does not love me, and I do not love her.”

“Frances was not overly fond of me when we were first married, but we rub along well enough now. Love may come, after a while.”

Now it was Stephen’s turn to let out a wry laugh. “You two adored the very bones of each other, right from the start. It is different with Katherine and me.”

He noted that his brother did not deny the charge. The early relationship between Richard and Frances had been turbulent, but Stephen had never doubted their desire for one another. Theirs was one of the few marriages he was aware of that was a true love match. Why should he not aspire to the same? Katherine, too, for that matter.

Richard continued to press his cause. “Do you like her?”

“Of course. Katherine is my closest friend, my companion here in the north. I do not know how I would manage without her. But it is not the same as…”

Richard slapped him between the shoulder blades. “I know that it is not. But in time, perhaps the rest will come. For now, though, you should settle for what is offered — a beautiful, gentle-mannered, and efficient bride who will manage your household and bear you heirs aplenty. And you must placate the king, if not for your sake, then for Katherine’s. If you do not wed her, what will her future be?”

“Katherine has a home here for as long as she wants it.”

Richard was not to be dissuaded. “If not her, then some other woman will become the next marchioness. That is inevitable, and Katherine’s situation will be far less assured then.”

“I will protect her. She is as a sister to me.”

Richard shook his head. “That is not good enough, brother, and you know it.”

Stephen’s close scrutiny of his moat continued uninterrupted. He did not answer his brother. There was no need. They both knew that Richard was right.

* * *

St Mary’s Abbey, Scottish Borders

March 1491

Flora started at the sound of the door banging. She swore softly when blood beaded on the tip of her finger, the result of a slip with the needle. Setting aside the child’s shirt she had been working on in readiness for the coming birth, she regarded her newly arrived companion with concern.

“Mattie? Whatever is wrong? You seem quite agitated. And out of breath. You have been running. I hope no one saw you.”

Mother Immaculata would be enraged if she were to learn of such inappropriate and ungodly behaviour within her hallowed halls. She disapproved of anything other than the steady, unhurried pace demanded of all who dwelt beneath this roof.

Matilda sank onto the chair opposite Flora, still panting for breath. “Never mind that. I was coming from the village…”

“Yes?” Flora sucked on her injured finger. “Did something happen?”

“I wanted some eggs, so I came through the kitchen gardens.”

Flora listened, nodding. Of late, she had become inordinately fond of coddled eggs laced with a generous shake of pepper and a spoonful or two of honey. Mattie had promised to bring some back with her.

“Sister Joseph and Sister Agnes were there, in the garden. They were digging.”

“I see. They were planting something, perhaps?”

Matilda shook her head. “They did not see me approaching. They were talking, and I overheard what was said.”

“What were they talking about?” Whatever it was, the topic of conversation had clearly upset her friend deeply. Flora reached for Mattie’s hand. “You should not take any notice of them.”

Mattie shook her head. “It was awful. Wicked. How could they even…?”

Flora gripped Matilda’s hand more tightly. She had a bad feeling, suddenly. “Tell me what you heard, Mattie.”

“They were digging a grave. For the baby.”

“The baby?” Flora gaped at her friend, incredulous. “What baby?”

“Your baby.” Mattie was weeping now. “Oh, Flora, they mean to bury him.”

The child chose that moment to deliver a hearty kick. Flora gasped and clutched her abdomen instinctively, in the protective gesture common to women the world over.

“But why? I mean, they cannot…” Her father’s words came back to her, words spoken in anger, in madness. No one would take such ramblings seriously. “My father said the babe should be drowned at birth, but I thought… I never imagined…”

“Mother Immaculata would do anything. She is cruel, beyond spiteful, and completely devoid of compassion. She disguises her evil deeds as piety, and claims that she is about the work of a good and merciful God, while in truth…”

“No merciful God would countenance the cold-blooded murder of an innocent child. You must be mistaken. Surely, you misunderstood.”

Matilda shook her head. “I know what I heard. Sister Joseph spoke of ‘strangling the brat’. Those were her precise words. She was concerned that the hole must be deep enough. Sister Agnes said that the grave would be unmarked, as befits such an abomination, the fruits of corruption, so it did not matter if it was deep or not.”

Flora leapt to her feet. “It is they who are the abomination. I shall go at once to Mother Immaculata. I shall speak to her. She must see that this is evil. It would be the most monstrous, mortal sin. Her very soul would be forfeit…”

Mattie grabbed her arm. “No. Do not do that. She will not listen. Her mind is set. Surely you can see that. She must have personally instructed that these preparations be made.”

Flora sagged back into her seat. “You are right. The Lady Abbess is as mad as my father, though he has the excuse of his illness to mitigate his wrongdoing. She is simply malevolent and vile. She enjoys cruelty and revels in causing pain.” Flora met her friend’s gaze. “She will not succeed in this malicious scheme. I shall escape. I shall leave here at once, and—”

“You cannot. If it were so simple, would we still be here, in this grim, joyless place? Sister Gabriel will never permit you to pass through the gate, and you cannot scale the walls, not in your condition. Even if we did manage to get outside, where would we go? You cannot walk far, let alone run…”

Flora covered her face with her hands. Mattie was right. Escape was not feasible until after her baby was born, but by then it might be too late. What if they came for him in the first moments after her precious baby came into the world? She would not be able to defend him, or herself. And the child was due any day now. There was so little time. Still, she would not give up. There must be a way…

“I know! I have a plan.” She sat bolt upright. “It will not be easy, but it could work. It has to work. But I shall need your help…”

The pains started at dawn, three days later. Flora clutched her abdomen and buried her face in her mattress. She must not cry out.

Her baby’s very life depended on her ability to give birth with as little fuss and din as might be possible. She clenched her jaw, determined not to fail.

“Mattie,” she managed, once the wave of pain receded. “Mattie, wake up. I need you…”

“It has begun?” Mattie was beside her in an instant. “How far apart are the cramps?”

“I am not sure. A few minutes… Aaaah.” She stifled her groan as the next contraction gripped her. Dear Lord, this is agony…

“Here. Bite down on this when you need to.” Mattie handed her a roll of wadded fabric. “It is not much, I know, but it may help.”

“Thank you. I… how long will this take?”

“I do not know. It is different for each woman. Sometimes it is quick, a few hours. Others take longer…”

“A few hours? Dear God…”

“It is fortunate that we are now housed separately from the rest. There is no one close by, not since Mother Immaculata was obliged to move us to better quarters. No one to hear if you make some sound, but you must try to be quiet. If they realise what is happening…”

“I know. No one must know of his birth until he is safely away from this place, beyond their vicious reach. I shall… ooooah.”

Flora doubled up again, this time remembering to stuff the wad of fabric between her teeth. She chewed on it until the pains eased.

“Here, take a few sips of water.” Mattie held the cup to Flora’s lips, which were already dry. “You are certain the babe is a boy, then?”

“No, but… Aaaah!”

Mattie mopped her brow with a damp cloth. “You are doing well, but if you feel able you should try to get up and move about. It sometimes helps to hurry matters along a bit, or so I am told. When my own wee Charlie was born, I paced the floors for hours.”

By the time the bells rang out to summon the holy sisters to their midday prayers, Flora, too, had paced the floors for the last several hours and the pains were less than a minute apart. Each one twisted her entire body, bringing her to her knees if she attempted to walk about the chamber, or contorting her on her mattress if she tried to lie down.

“I cannot bear it,” she ground out. “How much longer…?” She grasped her friend’s hand and clung on through the worst of the next contraction. “Surely, he must come soon.”

Her jaw ached from biting down on the wadded rags and from swallowing the screams which threatened to erupt from her parched throat. Occasionally she could not contain herself and let out a cry, but Mattie was quick to stifle any sound by covering Flora’s mouth with her hand.

“I am sorry, but you must make no noise. Do not alert the holy sisters of what is happening.”

“More like unholy,” Flora muttered. “I know, you are right, but it is so hard.”

“You can do it, Flora. If anyone can, it is you. Think of your child. He needs you to do this.”

“I will. I must…”

When the bells rang out for vespers, her waters broke. Startled, Flora found herself standing in a puddle while liquid ran down her legs. She could no longer resist the urge to push. Moaning softly, she lay on her back, legs spread, knees bent, panting between contractions.

“It will be soon, I know it. On the next one, bear down hard. Grip the bed if it helps…” Mattie peered beneath her sodden night dress. “I can see the head.”

Flora offered up a silent prayer of thanks, then forgot all else as the next wave of agony seized her. She pushed, willing the child into the world and doing all she might to help him on his way.

“The shoulders are out. I have him. Just one more push, I am sure of it.”

Flora braced herself for the final effort, and when the time came, she bore down with all her might. For one horrendous moment she was sure her body would split apart, then it was over. Something shifted, slithered out between her legs. The searing agony abated, simply… ended.

“Is he…?” Flora knew a moment of panic. “Mattie?”

“He is here. A boy, as you thought. And he is perfect.”

“Let me have him. I need to see him.”

Mattie beamed as she passed the slippery little form to her. The child was still covered in blood and such other gore that Flora did not care to name. But he was beautiful. He was alive and safe, already gasping in his first breaths and starting to whimper for food.

And he was hers.

She was seized by an overwhelming sense of wonder, and utter love for this tiny little being she had fought so hard to bring silently into a world so hostile to his very existence.

Mattie interrupted her reverie. “Feed him. Quickly.”

“I do not know how…”

“Then learn, and fast. He needs a full belly.”

Mattie was right. Acting on instinct alone, Flora held the tiny head to her breast and placed her nipple against her son’s rosebud mouth. The baby mewled softly, then latched on and began to suck.

“Thank God,” Mattie muttered. “He is strong, this wee one. Now, we need to deliver the afterbirth.”

“There is no time. You need to take him. It is already dark, and you have far to go.”

“As soon as he finishes feeding. Let me see to you as best I can before I leave.”

“I shall be all right.”

I have no choice.

Less than an hour after taking his first breath, his belly filled with his first meal, the sleeping infant was bundled up in a length of the Mackinnon plaid and strapped to the chest of his mother’s closest friend. A warm cloak protected both of them from the inclement elements.

Mattie slipped silently from the chamber and crept down the stairs. Pausing to listen for any approaching footsteps, the hushed murmur of voices, she turned the door handle and eased open the door to the garden. She stepped out into the darkness and prayed that the sudden blast of cold would not disturb the baby. He must not cry, must make no sound at all to betray his presence, not until she had him safe away from this evil place. Keeping to the shadows, Mattie made her way around to the gate.

Sister Gabriel eyed her with suspicion when she approached. “It is late. The gates are locked for the night.”

“My husband sent word that he is to meet me in the village. He has news from Roxburghe. If you do not allow me to pass, he will be obliged to come himself and demand entry. Would you prefer that?”

Grumbling, and presumably considering this degree of disturbance to be the lesser of two evils, Sister Gabriel slotted the key into the lock and turned it. “Do not think I shall be letting you back in this night.”

“I shall not. Thank you, Sister.”

Mattie hurried through the gate. It clanged shut behind her. She set off along the lane leading in the direction of the closest village, not deviating from her path until she was quite sure she could no longer be seen from the abbey.

She broke into a run and did not look back.