Lord Greville's Captive
Author
Nicola Cornick
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19,5K
Chapters
11
Chapter One
Grafton, Oxfordshire, England
February 1645
The snow had been falling all day. It hung like a shroud between the besieged manor house of Grafton and the army that encircled it a bare half mile away. Now, as the church bell tolled midnight, the darkness had an unearthly glow that struck a chill into the men’s hearts. In the morning they were to do battle, but for tonight they huddled in the byres and barns of the village, around the fitful fires. They drank the last of their ale, talked in low voices and tried not to think of the morrow.
When the knock came at the door, Simon Greville thought at first that he had imagined it. He had already met with his captains, they had talked of their strategy for the morning and had retired to wait for dawn and get what little sleep they could. He had given specific orders that he should not be disturbed further that night. Yet the knock came once again, soft but insistent, on the barn door. Simon was not angered to have his instructions gainsaid, but he was curious. His authority was such that only in the direst emergency would his men disobey his direct command.
He strode across the room and flung wide the door. It shook on its hinges and a flurry of wind swept in, bringing with it night chill and a scattering of snowflakes. The candles guttered and the smell of tallow stung the air.
‘What is it?’ He knew that he sounded brusque. Even he, renowned for his steady nerve, could be forgiven a certain shortness of temper the night before a battle.
It was the youngest of his captains who stood there, a youth barely out of his teens called Guy Standish. He was looking terrified.
‘Your pardon, my lord. There is a messenger from Grafton Manor.’
Simon turned away. He might have known that the Royalist garrison in the house would try this last-ditch attempt to beg a surrender and avoid bloodshed. He had been waiting all day for them to try to negotiate a truce. And now it had happened. It was typical of the cowardice of the King’s general, Gerard Malvoisier, to try to bargain for his miserable life.
Two weeks before, Malvoisier had murdered Simon’s younger brother, who had gone to the Manor under the Parliamentarians’ flag of truce. Malvoisier had sent Henry back in pieces, no quarter given, but now he evidently expected Simon to spare his worthless life. Once again Simon felt the ripping tide of fury that had swamped him when he had learned of Henry’s death. A fortnight had allowed no time for that grief to start to heal. He had had the anguished task of writing to their father with the news as well. Fulwar Greville, Earl of Harington, supported the King whilst his sons were loyal to the Parliamentarian cause. And now Simon had written to tell their father that one of those sons was dead, fighting for a cause that betrayed their father’s fealty.
Simon knew that his and Henry’s defection had broken their father’s heart. He had the deepest of respect for the Earl, despite their political differences. And now he felt a huge guilt for allowing Henry to die. All he could do was to turn that anger and hatred on to Gerard Malvoisier, stationed at Grafton. There would be no mercy for the besieged army in the Manor house, not now, not ever. It made no odds that Grafton—and its mistress—had once been promised to him. The Civil War had ripped such alliances apart.
Standish was waiting.
‘I will not see the messenger,’ Simon said. ‘There is nothing to discuss. The time for parley is long past. We attack on the morrow and nothing can prevent it.’
His tone was colder than the snow-swept night and it should have been enough, but still Standish lingered, his face tight with strain.
‘My lord…’
Simon spun around with repressed rage. ‘What?’
‘It is the Lady Anne Grafton who is here, my lord,’ the boy stammered. ‘We thought…That is, knowing that it was the lady herself…’
Simon swore under his breath. It was clever of Malvoisier to send Lady Anne, he thought, knowing that she was the one messenger he would find difficult to turn away in all courtesy. They were on opposing sides now, but it went against the grain with him to show a lady anything less than respect, Royalist or not. Besides, he had been Anne Grafton’s suitor four years before, in a more peaceful time before the bloody Civil War had come between them. There were memories there, promises made, that even now he found difficult to ignore.
But this was war and he had no time for chivalry. His brother’s brutal death at Malvoisier’s hands had seen to that.
‘I will not see her,’ he said. ‘Send her away.’
Standish looked agonised. Despite the cold there was sweat on his brow. ‘But, sir—’
‘I said send her away.’
There was a clash of arms from further down the street and then the sound of raised voices and hurrying footsteps, muffled in the snow.
‘Madam!’ It was the anguished cry of one of the guards. ‘You cannot go in there!’
But it was already too late. The barn door crashed back on its hinges and Lady Anne Grafton swept past Guy Standish and into the room. The snow swirled in and the fire hissed.
Lady Anne flung back the hood of her cloak and confronted Simon. She was wearing a deep blue gown beneath a fur-trimmed mantle and looked every inch the noble-born lady she was. Her face was pale, her hair inky black about her shoulders. She looked like a creature of ice and fire from a fairy tale.
Simon felt his heart lurch, as though all the air had been punched from his lungs. He had not seen Anne Grafton in four years, for their betrothal had been broken almost as soon as it had been made. He heard Standish gasp as though he, too, was having difficulty remembering to breathe properly. Every man who besieged Grafton had heard the tales of the legendary beauty of the lady of the manor, but even so the impact of her appearance was quite literally enough to take a man’s breath away.
It was not a comfortable beauty. Anne Grafton was small and slender, but for all that she had an aristocratic presence that could command a room. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones and winged black brows. There was no softness in it at all. Her eyes were very dark, only a couple of shades lighter than the ebony hair that spilled over the edge of her hood, and in them there was a fierce light that reminded Simon of a wild cat. This was no cosy armful to warm a winter’s night.
At the beginning of the siege Simon had heard his soldiers joke about taming the wild beauty of the Lady of Grafton. They had said it softly, knowing he would stamp down hard on any ribaldry or licentiousness in the ranks and knowing too that the lady had once been promised to him. Now he watched those same boastful soldiers shift and shuffle, held spellbound by Anne’s beauty but utterly unnerved by her defiant pride. Neither of the guards made any attempt to restrain her and Standish looked as though he would rather extract his own teeth than be obliged to confront her. Simon almost smiled. The Anne Grafton that he had known had been an unawakened girl of seventeen. This woman was a very different matter—and an enemy to respect.
And then he saw Anne press her gloved hands together to quell their shaking. He realised with a shock that she was trembling, and with nervousness, not with the cold. That flash of vulnerability in her made him hesitate a second too long. He had been about to turn her away without a word. Now it was too late.
‘Madam.’ He sketched a curt bow. ‘I regret that my guards saw fit to let you pass. It was ill considered of you to venture here tonight.’
Anne looked at him. Her gaze was bright and appraising and beneath it Simon felt very aware of himself—and of her. No woman had ever looked at him like that before. They had looked on him with pleasure and with lust and with calculation, but never with this cool assessment, soldier to soldier. He could feel her weighing his valour. He drew himself up a little straighter and met her gaze directly.
Four years had changed her beyond measure; changed everything between them beyond recall. The Civil War had taken all that was sweet and precious and new between them and had destroyed it along with the lives and hopes of thousands of others. When he had gone to Grafton all those years ago, it had been at his father’s bidding and to make a dynastic match. He had not expected to be attracted to his potential bride. At twenty-five he had fancied himself a man of experience and he had been downright disconcerted to find Anne Grafton so irresistibly alluring. He had desired her. He had been more than half in love with her. And then war had followed so swiftly. He had taken the Parliament’s side and the King had summarily ordered the betrothal broken. And later, he had affianced Anne to Gerard Malvoisier.
It had been a long time ago, but it might only have been months, not years, so fresh it was in his mind. And now Anne Grafton was here and the unawakened fire he had sensed in her all those years ago when he had kissed her was blazing, powerful enough to burn a man down. He wondered what had awoken that spirit, then thought bitterly that during the intervening years of civil war, loss and sorrow had touched every man, woman and child in the kingdom. No one retained their innocence any longer in the face of such bitterness. Everyone had to fight and struggle to survive.
Anne came closer to him now and tilted her chin up so that she could meet his eyes. Her head only reached to his shoulder. He was over six foot tall. Yet it did not feel as though there was any disparity between them. She spoke to him as equal to equal.
‘Good evening, Lord Greville,’ she said. ‘I am here because I want to speak with you.’
Her voice was soft, but it held an undertone of iron. She did not beg or even ask for his attention. She demanded it imperiously. And yet when Simon looked more closely at her face he could see the lines of fatigue and strain about her eyes. It was desperation that drove her on rather than defiance or anger. She was very close to breaking.
Simon hardened his heart to the treacherous sympathy he was feeling for her. He did not want to speak with her at all. He wished that they had never met before and that his thoughts were not shadowed by memories of the girl she had once been. It was far too late for that, too late for regrets, too late for compassion. They supported opposing sides now. He knew that she was going to beg for the lives of the innocent inhabitants of Grafton Manor and he could not afford to hear such stories. Within every siege there were the helpless victims, the servants, the people caught up in the struggle who had no choice. It was brutal, but war was indiscriminate. His reputation was built on fairness and justice, but he was also known as a ruthless soldier. And he was not about to compromise now.
He rubbed a hand across his forehead. He looked at the two guards, who had skidded to a halt inside the door, clearly unwilling to lay violent hands on a lady. Now they stood ill at ease, hesitating and awaiting his orders. Guy Standish hovered in the background, looking equally uncomfortable.
‘I will not speak to you,’ Simon said. He dragged his gaze from hers and turned to the guards. ‘Layton, Carter, escort the Lady Anne out.’
No one moved. The soldiers looked agonised and scuffed at the cobbled floor with their boots. A faint smile touched Anne Grafton’s lips.
‘Your men know that the only way they can get rid of me is to pick me up bodily and throw me out,’ she said drily. ‘They seem strangely reluctant to do so.’
‘Fortunately I suffer from no such scruples,’ Simon said harshly. ‘If you do not leave of your own free will, madam, I shall eject you personally. And believe me, I will have no difficulty in picking you up and throwing you out into the snow.’
He saw the flare of anger in her eyes at his bluntness.
‘Such discourtesy,’ she said sweetly. ‘You have been too long a soldier, Lord Greville. You forget your manners.’
Simon inclined his head in ironic acknowledgement. ‘This is a war, madam, and you are an enemy with whom I do not wish to have parley. Leave, before I show as little respect for the laws of truce as General Malvoisier did.’
He took a step closer to her so that he was within touching distance. At such close quarters he could see the pale sheen of her skin in the firelight and the telltale pulse that beat frantically in the hollow of her throat, betraying her nervousness. Her hair smelled of cold snow and the faint perfume of jasmine. Her eyes, very wide and dark, were fixed on his face. He put his hand out and took hold of her arm, intending to hustle her out of the door. And then he stopped.
It had been a mistake to move so near to her and even more of one actually to touch her. Simon’s senses tightened and he was suddenly sharply aware of her. He remembered in exquisite detail exactly how it had felt to hold her in his arms all those years ago. He felt a powerful need to pull her to him and slake his misery and his exhaustion against the softness of her skin. He needed her sweetness to cleanse all the brutality and wretchedness of war. He needed to forget it all. He longed to. He ached to go back to the way they had once been, and lose himself in her embrace.
The overpowering intimacy of the feeling held him still, shocked, for a moment. He saw a tiny frown appear between Anne’s brows and then her eyes searched his face and the need in him communicated itself to her. Her gaze widened and the colour swept up under her skin. Simon knew he was looking at her with a soldier’s eyes and with the hungry desire of a man who had been on campaign too long. He had been without a woman for months and he wanted her. Yet there was something beyond mere lust here. The truly shocking thing was the deep feelings and memories that stirred when he touched her. They threatened to make him forget his purpose. She was a Royalist. She was his enemy.
He let go of her abruptly, furious with himself and with her.
‘Go. Now.’ His voice was rough. ‘Captain Standish will escort you back to Grafton.’
He saw Guy Standish’s reluctance to take the commission although the captain did not demur. He even stepped forward—slowly—to indicate his willingness to obey the order.
But Anne was shaking her head. She had moved a little away from him and Simon could sense that she wanted to be gone and that it was only sheer determination that kept her there. He was starting to feel frustrated as well as angry now. This was folly. Was Anne Grafton simple-minded, that she did not understand the risk she was running in coming alone to the enemy camp? His soldiers were not as rough as some—his discipline was too good for that—but there was such a thing as looking for trouble. He could not guarantee her safety. Damn it, he needed to protect her from himself as much as from his men.
He took a step towards her, intending to throw her out without further ado, but she spoke quickly, staying him.
‘You do not understand,’ she said. ‘I have urgent news, my lord. I need to talk to you—’
Simon’s temper snapped. ‘There can be nothing so urgent that I wish to hear it,’ he said. ‘I know you are only here to beg for mercy for Grafton and I have no wish to hear your pleas.’ He allowed his gaze to travel over her with insolent thoroughness. ‘Take this reply back to Gerard Malvoisier, my lady. Tell him that I am not interested in talking terms with him, no matter how…temptingly…they are packaged, and if he sees fit to send you to parley with the enemy I cannot promise you will return with your virtue, let alone your life, intact.’
Anne’s eyes narrowed with disdain at the insult. Her chin came up.
‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to like a camp follower,’ she said coldly, ‘nor do I come from General Malvoisier. I wish to speak with you on a personal matter.’ Her gaze lingered on Guy Standish and the guards. ‘Alone, if you please, my lord.’
Simon strolled across to the table and poured himself a goblet of wine. He was shaking with a mixture of fury and frustration. He spoke with his back turned to her.
‘Have you then come to plead for your own life rather than for your betrothed and the people of Grafton, Lady Anne?’ he said. ‘Your self-interest is enlightening.’
‘I have not come to plead at all.’ There was cold dislike in Anne’s voice now. She took a deep, deliberate breath. ‘I have come to strike a bargain with you. I am here to tell you of your brother, my lord.’
Simon heard Guy Standish gasp. The guards shifted, looking at him, their gazes flickering away swiftly as they saw the way his own expression had hardened into stone. His men had all been with him when Henry’s body had been returned, bloody, beaten and unrecognisable, in defiance of all the laws of truce. They had seen his ungovernable rage and grief, and they were no doubt uncertain how he would react now that someone dared to raise the subject again.
‘My brother is dead.’ Simon’s tone was unemotional, masking the images of death that still haunted his sleep. ‘I imagine that you must know that, my lady. It was General Malvoisier who sent him back to me—in pieces.’
Anne met his shuttered gaze with a direct one. ‘It is true that he sent a body back to you, my lord, but it was not that of your brother.’
This time, no one moved or spoke for what felt like an hour. It was as though none of them could believe what they had heard. Simon found he could only observe tiny details: the crackling of the fire, the snow melting from Lady Anne’s cloak and forming a small puddle on the cobbled floor. He looked about him. The small barn was untidy. Despite all his attempts to make it more homely, it still looked what it was—no more than a glorified cowshed. There were maps and plans lying scattered across the wooden table where he and his captains had plotted the following day’s attack earlier that evening. There was a carafe of red wine—bad wine that tasted of vinegar—staining the surface of the parchment. His trestle bed was tumbled and disordered in testament to the fact that he had been unable to sleep. It was no place for a lady. Yet this lady had forced her way into his company and dared to broach the one subject that drove his rage and his anguish.
‘What are you saying?’ His voice sounded strange even to his own ears. He cleared his throat. ‘That my brother is alive? I regret that I cannot merely take your word for it, my lady.’
Lady Anne drew a step nearer to him. She put out a hand and touched his sleeve. He wondered whether she could read in his face the desperate fear and the spark of hope that he felt inside. Her voice was soft.
‘Take this, my lord, as a pledge that I tell you the truth.’
Simon looked down. She was holding a ring of gold with the arms of his family cut deep in the metal. It was true that Henry had not been wearing the signet ring when his body was sent back, but Simon had assumed that Malvoisier had added looting the dead to his other sins. Now he was not so sure. Hope and dread warred within him. He found that his hand was shaking so much he dropped the ring on to the table, where it spun away in a glitter of gold, momentarily dazzling him. He heard the guards shuffle with superstitious discomfort. Standish was looking strained, incredulous.
‘Forgive me, my lady, but it is easy to take a ring from a dead man.’ His voice was rough. ‘It proves nothing.’
The tension in the room tightened further.
‘You do not trust me,’ Anne said bluntly.
Their eyes met. ‘No,’ Simon said. ‘I do not. I trust no one.’ The anger seethed in him. He wanted to believe her; his heart ached to believe her, but that was the very weakness his enemies were trying to exploit. Suddenly his ungovernable rage swelled up. He swept the maps and plans from the table in one violent movement and turned on her.
‘Does Malvoisier take me for a fool to send you here on the night before battle to pretend that my brother is alive? He does it deliberately, in the hope that I will call off the attack! Dead or alive, he seeks to use my brother as a bargaining tool!’
‘General Malvoisier knows nothing of this,’ Anne said. She sounded calm, but she was very pale now. ‘Only your brother and a handful of my most trusted servants were party to the plan. I have come to ask that you call off the assault on Grafton, my lord. Your brother is alive; if you attack the Manor, you will surely kill him in the process.’
Simon stared at her, as though by searching her face he could read whether she told the truth. Her gaze was steady and unflinching. She looked as candid and honest as she had when she had accepted his proposal that hot summer evening in the gardens at Grafton. But that had been a long time ago and looks could be terribly deceptive.
He made a slight gesture. ‘Why come now? I thought my brother dead these two weeks past. Why wait so long?’
‘It was impossible to arrange safe passage out of Grafton sooner,’ Anne said. ‘General Malvoisier—’ She broke off, then added carefully, ‘The Manor is closely guarded.’
Simon knew that was true. He had been studying Grafton’s defences for all the months of the siege and knew there were few weaknesses. The Manor was small, but it was battlemented like a castle and ringed with a moat and low-lying marshy ground. There were snipers on the battlements and the house was garrisoned with a whole regiment of foot soldiers. He also knew that, despite Malvoisier’s reputation for drunkenness, his men were well drilled, and frightened into obedience. No, escape from Grafton was well nigh impossible.
‘Sir Henry said that you would not believe me, my lord,’ Anne said. She quoted wryly, ‘He said, “Tell that stiff-necked fool brother of mine that he must listen to you, Anne, for all our sakes.”’
Simon heard one of the guards give a guffaw, quickly silenced. It did indeed sound like the sort of comment that Henry would make. He was irreverent and light-hearted even in the face of danger, but his flippancy hid a cool head and quick mind. On the other hand, Anne had known Henry when they were both young. She would remember enough about his brother to deceive him if she were so minded.
‘If Henry has truly sent you,’ Simon said, ‘I will wager that he gave you some other proof to satisfy me.’
Anne’s tone was dry. ‘If you are minded not to trust me, my lord, then no proof on earth will persuade you, other than seeing your brother with your own eyes. And that I cannot arrange.’ She paused. ‘He did mention to me an anecdote that might convince you. It was not something that I had heard before, for all that we spent some of our childhood together.’ She paused, as though the thought was a painful reminder of a past that could not be recaptured. Then she cleared her throat and resumed.
‘Apparently there was an occasion on which you lost Henry in the woods when he was a child of eight. He told me that you preferred to dally with the milkmaid than act as nurse to your young brother that day…’
Simon froze. It was true, but he had long forgotten the incident. He had been eighteen and had much preferred to take his pleasure with a willing maid that summer afternoon so long ago. He had left Henry to fend for himself in the woods for a little while and had been mortified on his return to find that his brother had completely vanished. Now that Anne had reminded him, he could recall the desperation of the hasty search, the fear that had gripped his heart before he had found his little brother hiding in a forester’s hut. That fear had been a faint echo of the anguish he had felt when he had been told that Henry was dead. He had always tried to look after his brother.
He saw Guy Standish’s face split into a broad, incredulous grin before the captain regained control of his expression. This story would be around the barracks before an hour had passed and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He laughed reluctantly and the tension in the room eased.
‘Damn him,’ he said. ‘Henry swore he would never tell anyone about that. I made him promise on a dozen oaths.’
‘Sir Henry swears that he has kept his word until now,’ Anne said, ‘but desperate times require desperate measures.’
‘They do indeed.’ Simon looked at her. ‘Which is why you are here.’ His tone hardened. ‘You wish to bargain for Grafton’s safety with my brother’s life.’
Anne made a slight gesture with her hands. ‘I would do anything to keep my people safe, Lord Greville.’
Simon nodded, though he did not answer at once. He had seen for himself just how much the people of Grafton loved their lady—and the devotion she had for them.
He turned back to his men. ‘Layton, Carter, get back to your posts. Guy—’ Standish bowed, the smile still lurking about his mouth ‘—be so good as to fetch a flagon of wine for us. The good stuff…’ Simon gestured towards the table ‘…not this poor excuse for a drink.’ He turned to Anne. ‘You will join me in a glass of wine, madam?’
Anne shook her head. ‘I cannot tarry, my lord. I came only to give you the news that Sir Henry was still alive and to extract your promise that you will call off the attack on the house.’
Simon moved to bar her exit. His men had gone out into the snow, leaving them alone in the firelit shadows of the barn.
‘You cannot run away now,’ he said softly, his eyes on her face. ‘You have told me but a quarter of the tale.’
He closed the door behind Standish and moved to set a chair for her. It was of the hard wooden variety, for there was not much pretence at comfort here in the barns and byres of the village of Grafton.
Simon had been shocked to find the village in ruins when his troops had arrived to lay siege to the Manor. He soon discovered that it had been Gerard Malvoisier’s Royalist troops who had burned, looted and ravaged the area at will, taking whatever they wanted and destroying the rest for sport. Malvoisier’s conduct had been all the more unforgivable since Grafton had always held for the King. Now the populace was scattered, the houses in ruins and the people sullen with resentment, though they still held fast to the Royalist allegiance of the old Earl.
Simon’s troops had encircled the Manor, living alongside the remaining villagers for three months in an uneasy truce. They had won a grudging respect from the people through sheer hard work, by treating the villagers courteously, sharing their food and helping with everything from the felling of timber to the rebuilding of cottages. Simon’s men mingled with the people in the streets, but it was an uncomfortable co-existence with all the tension of occupation, and at any moment it could erupt.
To Simon’s mind, sieges were the most wearing and dangerous form of warfare. Only time, starvation and ultimately brute force could break the garrison in the Manor, and during those long days a man could get bored or careless, and forget to watch his back and be picked off by a sniper or knifed by a Royalist agent in the dark alleys of the village. Simon had lost half a dozen men that way in three months and the constant vigilance was rubbing them raw. They were all desperate to see action on the morrow. But now this news, on the eve of battle…
Simon watched Anne as she reluctantly came closer to the fire, pulling her damp cloak closer about her like a shield. There was an uneasiness in her eyes as though she felt that she had already stayed too long. He thought of the haughty composure that she had assumed to get her past his men and into his presence. It could not be easy for a young woman in her situation to hold the people of Grafton together whilst her father lay dying, her home was overrun by Royalist troops and the threat of siege could end only in disaster and bloodshed. She was only one and twenty.
Once again the treacherous sympathy stirred in him and he pushed it violently away. He had a job of work to do and he did not trust Anne Grafton any more. He could not.
He moved to light another candle, keeping his eyes on her face. She looked so delicate and yet so determined. The line of her throat was pure and white above the collar of her blue velvet gown and the material clung to her figure with a seductive elegance that put all kinds of images in his head that were nothing to do with war at all. Then her hand stole to her pocket and he remembered his own safety with a flash of cold reason and all desire fled.
‘You carry a dagger, do you not?’ he said. ‘Give it to me.’
Her head came up sharply and she bit her lip. Her hands stilled in the folds of her cloak and she straightened. ‘I should feel safer to keep it,’ she said.
‘No doubt,’ Simon said, ‘but it is a condition of our parley that you are not armed.’ He gestured to his sword belt, which lay across the back of one of the chairs. ‘I ask nothing of you that I am not prepared to concede myself.’
Still Anne did not move and Simon knew she was thinking of her virtue rather than her life. Then she sighed and reluctantly placed the dagger on the table between them.
‘Thank you,’ Simon said. ‘You are in no danger, I assure you.’ He smiled a little. ‘Tell me,’ he added casually, returning to a thought that had struck him as soon as she had entered the room that night, ‘are all men afraid of you?’
She looked at him. Her eyes were so dark and her face so shuttered that for a moment it was impossible to read her thoughts.
‘No,’ she said. ‘A few are not.’
Simon laughed. ‘Name them, then.’
‘My father.’ Her face went still, as though mention of the ailing Earl of Grafton was almost too much for her to bear. ‘And your brother, Sir Henry, treats me as though I were his elder sister.’ She looked up again and met his gaze. ‘And then there is you, my lord. I heard tell that you were afraid of nothing.’
‘That is a convenient fiction to encourage my men.’ Simon spoke shortly. He was surprised to feel himself disconcerted by her words. ‘Only a fool is not afraid on the eve of battle.’
She nodded slowly. ‘And surely you are not that. One of the youngest colonels in the Parliamentarian army, renowned for your cool strategy and your courage, a soldier that the King’s men fear more than almost any other…’
They looked at one another for a long moment, then Simon moved away and settled the logs deeper in the grate with his booted foot. They broke apart with a hiss of flame and a spurt of light, spilling the scent of apple wood into the room. Inside it was shadowy and warm, giving a false impression of intimacy when outside the door the snow lay thick and an army of men prepared for battle.
‘I was very sorry to hear of your father’s illness,’ Simon said. ‘The Earl of Grafton is a fine man. We may not support the same cause, but I have always admired him.’
‘Thank you.’ Anne pushed the dark hair back from her face. It was drying in wisps now, shadowy and dark about her face. She looked pale and tired.
‘Will he recover?’
Anne shook her head. ‘He lives, my lord, but it would be as true to say he is dead. He neither moves nor speaks, and he takes little food. Nor does he recognise any of us any more. It is only a matter of time.’
Simon nodded. It was very much what he had already heard from the talk in the village. The Earl of Grafton had been ailing for years and it was no surprise that the King had recently sought to reinforce Grafton with troops from Oxford, under the control of General Gerard Malvoisier. Grafton was ideally placed to keep the route from the West Country to Oxford open for the King, and it had been strongly equipped with arms and men. The Parliamentarian generals also suspected that there was a quantity of treasure hidden at Grafton, sent by Royalists in the West Country to swell the King’s coffers. Therefore General Fairfax had sent Simon, with a battalion of foot soldiers and a division of cavalry, to take Grafton from the Royalists once and for all.
It was King Charles himself who had ordered the betrothal between Gerard Malvoisier and Anne soon after war had been declared in 1642, and Simon therefore had all the more of a grudge against the Royalist commander. Grafton had been promised to him—and so too had its heiress, before the King had intervened. Simon had always despised Gerard Malvoisier, whom he considered nothing more than a thug who tried to conceal his brutality beneath a cloak of soldiering. When he had thought Malvoisier had murdered Henry, he had hated him even more. As for the idea of Anne’s betrothal to him, it was repugnant. The thought of Malvoisier claiming Anne, taking that slender body to his bed, breaking her to his will with all the brutality of which he was capable made Simon feel physically sick.
Looking at her now, with her hair drying in the warmth of the fire and the candlelight casting its shadow across the fine line of her cheekbone and jaw, he felt something snap deep within him. Malvoisier would never have her. Unless…Simon paused. Perhaps it was already too late. Rumour said that Gerard Malvoisier had made sure of Anne by following up their betrothal with a bedding immediately after. She was in all likelihood already his mistress.
There was a knock at the door and Standish stuck his head around.
‘The wine, my lord.’ He withdrew silently and the door closed with a quiet click.
Simon poured for them both and passed Anne a glass. His hand touched hers; her fingers were cold. A strange feeling, part-anger, part-protectiveness, took him then, once again piercing the chill that had encased him since Henry’s death.
‘Come closer to the fire,’ he said abruptly. ‘You are frozen. It is a bad night to be out.’
She shot him a quick look, but drew her chair obediently closer to the flames. Now that they were alone with no further interruption, she seemed to have withdrawn into her own thoughts. The vivid spirit that had burned before was banked down, invisible, leaving nothing but the outward show of beauty. Simon took the chair opposite and studied her for a moment, until she lifted her gaze to his.
‘What can we make the toast,’ he said, ‘given that we support different causes now?’
‘All men’s loyalties are tangled and confused by this conflict,’ Anne said. ‘It spirals out of our control. I know not where it will end.’ She hesitated. ‘I had heard that you were estranged from your father because of your allegiance—’ She broke off, colouring slightly.
‘You heard correctly,’ Simon said abruptly.
Anne looked away. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.
Simon felt her grief touch his own heart. His estrangement from his father was never far from his mind. Less than five years before he had sat beside Fulwar Greville in Parliament. Looking back, it seemed that the country had slipped almost insensibly into civil war. Fulwar had not approved of the King’s arrogance towards his subjects, but he had served the crown for forty years, had broken bread with his sovereign and could not forsake his allegiance now. Simon, on the other hand, had seen only a monarch who had gathered an army to fight his own countrymen and whose power had to be curtailed. When he had signed the militia oath to protect the Parliament he had seen his father’s face grow old before his eyes. They both knew what it meant. Did he honour his father or his country? His loyalty was torn for ever.
‘Perhaps the only true toast can be to loyalty itself,’ Simon said, ‘though it may mean different things to different men.’ He touched his glass to Anne’s and a moment later she smiled and raised her glass in silent tribute, taking a small sip of the wine.
‘Loyalty,’ she said. ‘I can make that my pledge.’
A flush crept along her cheek, rose pink from the fire and the warming effects of the drink. It made her look very young.
Simon sat back. There was no sound, but for the brush of the snow against the roof and the crackle of the fire in the grate. For a moment the room was as close to peace as it could come.
Then Anne broke the silence. ‘So,’ she said, ‘will you stand down your troops, Lord Greville? Do we have an agreement?’
‘No,’ Simon said. ‘Not yet.’
Anne started to get to her feet. Her hand moved to take the dagger from the table, but Simon was too fast for her. He caught her wrist in a bruising grip.
‘You are too hasty.’ His tone was smooth, belying the fierceness of his clasp. ‘There are questions I wish answered before we strike a bargain. Stay a little.’
He released her and Anne sat back, rubbing her wrist. Simon picked up the knife and turned it over in his hands. The firelight sparkled on the diamonds in the hilt.
‘This is a fine piece of work,’ he said.
‘My father gave it to me.’
‘And no doubt he taught you to use it too.’ Simon pocketed the knife. ‘You will forgive me if I keep it for now. I have no wish to feel it between my shoulder blades.’
Anne shrugged. Her gaze was stormy. He knew she was angered by his blunt refusal to agree terms, but she was unwilling to let it show.
‘I have little choice, it seems,’ she said. She looked at him. ‘You said that you had questions, my lord. Ask them, then.’
Simon nodded slowly. ‘Very well.’ He paused. ‘Is it true that General Malvoisier does not know that you are here and is not party to your decision to tell me about Henry or to bargain for the safety of the manor?’
Her gaze flickered at his use of Malvoisier’s name, but it was too quick for Simon to read her expression. ‘It is perfectly true,’ she said. ‘Malvoisier does not care for the welfare of the people of Grafton as I do. He would not have agreed to try to come to terms with you.’
‘So you have betrayed your ally?’
The look she gave him would have flayed a lesser man alive. ‘I am the ally of the King. I have not betrayed my Royalist cause and never would I do so!’
Simon inclined his head. She was not going to give an inch and would certainly do nothing to compromise her loyalty. He could feel the conflict in her; she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but too much was at stake. He could also sense her desperation. She cared passionately about the fate of Grafton. It had to mean that she was telling him the truth about Henry. Either that, or she was a damnably good actress.
‘So you maintain that it is true that Henry is alive and well, and that Malvoisier lied to me about his death,’ he pursued.
Again he saw that flicker of feeling in her eyes. ‘It is quite true,’ she said. Her gaze dropped. ‘That is, Sir Henry is alive, but he has suffered some hurt.’
Simon felt a violent rush of anger and hatred. ‘At Malvoisier’s hands?’ He brought his fist down hard on the table. ‘I might have known it. Damn him to hell and back for what he has done!’
‘Sir Henry will recover,’ Anne said. He saw her put her hand out towards him briefly, but then she let it fall. ‘Your brother is young and strong, my lord, and given time…’ She stopped and the silence hung heavily between them. Simon knew what that silence meant. Henry would recover if he survived the assault on the Manor the next day. He would recover if Gerard Malvoisier did not use him as a hostage, or make an example of him by hanging him from the battlements.
He got to his feet in a surge of restlessness. He was torn. When he had thought Henry dead there was nothing to lose with an all-out attack on Grafton. But to attack now, knowing that his brother was a prisoner within…It was dangerous—perhaps even reckless—but he was not going to let a man like Malvoisier hold him to ransom.
He strode across the room, unable to keep still and contain the rage within him. ‘He sent me a body,’ he said, through shut teeth. ‘If Henry is alive, how is that possible?’
Anne’s very stillness seemed a counterpoint to his fury. She did not even turn her head to answer him, but he saw her clench her hands together in her lap and realised that she was nowhere near as calm as she pretended.
‘The dead man was one of Malvoisier’s own troops,’ she said. ‘He died of a fever.’
Simon felt revolted. He spun around to look at her. ‘Malvoisier denied one of his soldiers a true burial? His body was defaced to make me believe that it genuinely was Henry?’
Anne’s expression was sombre. ‘They were the same height and build, my lord. All Malvoisier had to do was to dress the body in your brother’s clothes.’
Simon’s fingers tightened about his wineglass so that the crystal shivered. He had never questioned that the dead man had been Henry. The body had been so mutilated that it had been impossible to recognise, and, drowned in his misery and regret, he had never once imagined that Malvoisier had deliberately played him false. He had buried his brother with all honour, had written to their father apprising him of his younger son’s death in action, and had laid his own plans for a cold and brutal revenge. No matter that to attempt an assault on the garrison of Grafton was a foolhardy undertaking. He cared nothing for that. All he wanted was to wipe out the stain on the family honour and grind Gerard Malvoisier into the dust.
‘Why did he do it?’ he asked softly. ‘Why make me believe my brother was dead?’
‘You are the strategist, my lord,’ Anne said. ‘Why do you think he did it?’
Simon considered. ‘He wanted me to believe Henry dead in order to provoke me,’ he said slowly. ‘He wanted to end the siege, to drive me out into the open so that he had a better chance to defeat me.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘So now he has two advantages.’ Simon was thinking aloud. ‘He has forced me into a rash course of action and he still holds my brother.’ He nodded slowly. ‘It is very cunning. I might almost admire his tactics.’ He came across to Anne’s seat and leaned on the table beside her, so close that his breath stirred her hair. ‘That is—if it is true, Lady Anne. Almost I believe you.’
He knew that to trust her was madness. Even now she might be lying to him, tempting him to withdraw his troops, tricking him to defeat. Every instinct in his body protested that she was honest, but he could not afford the weakness of allowing himself to feel sympathy for her. He was tired. His mind was clouded with fatigue and the prospect of the killing to come and he knew it could be fatal to his judgement.
Anne turned her head abruptly. Her dark glare pinned him down like the dagger’s point. She tried to rise, but Simon caught her arm and held her still. They were so close now. A mere hair’s breadth separated them.
‘I do not lie,’ Anne said disdainfully. ‘If I were a man, you would answer for such an insult.’
Simon pulled her to her feet so abruptly that her chair rocked back and almost fell. She felt taut beneath his hands, shaking with anger and resentment.
‘Fine words, my lady,’ he said. ‘Yet you must have lied to one of us, to Malvoisier or to me. And he is your ally now.’
Anne wrenched her arm from his grip, suddenly furious. ‘Do not dare to accuse me of disloyalty to my cause,’ she said. Her voice shook. ‘I serve the King and until and unless he releases me of that charge my loyalty is absolute. Malvoisier—’ She stopped, and there was an odd silence.
‘Aye?’ Simon’s voice was harsh as he prompted her. He was breathing fast. ‘What of him?’
Anne paused. ‘Malvoisier and I share the Royalist cause, but our other loyalties are different,’ she said slowly. ‘My first loyalty is to the King, but my next is to my people. I have to protect Grafton. So…’ She spread her hands. ‘I came here of my own accord this night to beg a truce, my lord. If you attack the Manor, you will almost certainly kill your brother along with half the population of the castle. You have cannon—we cannot survive such an onslaught! Call it off and spare Sir Henry’s life and that of my people!’
The silence spun out between them, taut with tension. It was, Simon knew, the closest that Anne of Grafton would ever come to begging. She had so much pride and she had humbled it to come here tonight to ask him to spare the lives of the people she cared for. And now he had to deny her. He shook his head slowly.
‘No. I will not call off the assault.’
He saw the shock and horror on her face and realised that she had been certain, convinced, that he would do as she asked. She straightened up, her eyes riveted on his face.
‘Do you not understand, my lord?’ she demanded. ‘Sir Henry is too weak to move—too weak to fight! When you attack he will be killed in the battle or, worse, Malvoisier will take him and string him up from the battlements! He is a hostage and Malvoisier will use him to barter for his freedom—or to buy yours! Whichever way you look at it your brother is a dead man!’
‘And do you care about that?’ Simon asked harshly.
‘Of course I care!’ Anne snapped. ‘Your father is my godfather, Lord Greville. Henry is as dear to me as—’ She broke off and finished quietly, ‘as dear to me as a brother.’
‘And yet you thought to use him to buy the safety of Grafton,’ Simon said bitterly, ‘and I cannot surrender to such blackmail.’
Anne stared at him, her eyes full of anger and disbelief. ‘What, you will do nothing to help him?’ she challenged. ‘I do believe you have run mad. You would sacrifice your brother for nothing!’ Her voice warmed into fury. ‘Why not tell me the truth, my lord? You will not withdraw your troops because you have committed to make the attack on Grafton and you cannot be seen to weaken. Henry counts for nothing! It is all about your reputation in front of your men. That is all that you care for!’
They stared at one another for a long moment, dark eyes locked with dark.
‘Even if I called off the attack, I could not free Henry,’ Simon said. He tried to ignore her taunts and the anger they stirred in him. ‘You are correct—he is Malvoisier’s hostage. The only way I can save him is through taking the Manor.’
Anne grabbed her cloak. ‘Then I am wasting my time here. Henry said you would listen to reason. Clearly he overestimates you.’
Simon reached the door in two strides and blocked her path. He leaned his shoulders against the panels and folded his arms. Anne had come to a halt before him and was waiting impatiently for him to let her pass. He did not move.
‘Of course it is the case that you have given me the means to counteract General Malvoisier’s plan,’ he said quietly.
Anne looked up at him and he saw the bewilderment in her eyes.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
Simon gestured about the room. ‘It is true that Malvoisier holds Henry, but you are here now, in my power. A hostage for a hostage, a life for a life.’ He held her gaze. ‘I will use you to free Henry, Lady Anne. You are my prisoner now.’
