The Lord's Bride Page 4

  “You have returned,” the abbess said. “From whence have you returned?”

  Mary beamed with pride. It was a look which the abbess had come to understand proceeded statements of outlandish simplicity. This one was no exception.

  “I was planting bluebells in the forest.”

  “My dear child, you do not need to plant flowers in the forest. The bluebells grow themselves according to the Lord’s will.”

  “Do they?” Mary tipped her head to the side. “I wondered who had planted all the others. What a wondrous gardener the good Lord is.”

  The abbess was not surprised by the story. Mary was extraordinarily simple, given to wandering off and undertaking ridiculous tasks, such as planting bluebells, or the abbess’ favorite, blowing clouds across the sky. Some might have found her a burden, but Mary’s fanciful nature brightened the austere convent, where the vows of obedience, chastity, and reverence for all things holy was absolute.

  “I have been looking for you, Mary,” the abbess said. “We have a visitor to the convent, one who calls after you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sheriff de Stafford himself, no less. You know him well, don’t you?”

  “In a previous time, perhaps. Now I know no man, for no man can approach the majesty of the Lord.” Mary cast her eyes skyward and beamed at the overcast sky as if the Lord himself were incarnate in the gray wisps.

  “Quite,” the abbess agreed. “You should change into clothing less stained and torn, then go to him. I will follow as chaperone.”

  * * *

  Washing herself in a wooden basin, Mary swore vigorously under her breath. One could not get a moment’s peace, really one couldn’t. If one wasn’t being chased by hounds, one was being visited by the sheriff. Surely the king’s own representative could find more pleasing means of entertainment than riding out to the convent.

  Having removed the worst of the smudges and mire and put a green dress upon her person, Mary considered herself almost ready for an audience with the sheriff of Staffordshire. Green brought out the color of her eyes, not that she much cared if he noticed her eyes or not. She brushed her long brown hair out several times, ensuring that there were no knots, tangles, or bits of forest still clinging to the strands. Being presentable was the aim, nothing more, nothing less.

  Finishing her ablutions, Mary made her way out into the gardens, noting the look of approval on the abbess’ face. Mother Tudor was rather fond of the sheriff, and why not, for they were cousins of a kind. Noble blood ran surprisingly thick, even in far-flung Staffordshire.

  The scent of the roses made for a pleasant distraction as she composed herself. One did not meet the sheriff unawares, for he was a keen man with an eye for the truth, a nose for lies, and an ear for, well, presumably for hearing the confessions of those who broke under his iron will.

  Laying eyes upon the man, she had to stifle a laugh, for Martin de Stafford did not look at all at ease amidst the flowers. As usual, he wore black. Black breeches, a black doublet, and a black hat tipped with a black feather. His beard was neatly trimmed, and dark hair formed to a crisp point at the end of his chin. His mustache was similarly disciplined, describing the upper line of a lip that might have been sensual were it not for the fact it adorned a man of such fearsome reputation. Peasants scattered when he walked, for he was capable of spotting a petty crime at a dozen paces and punishing the miscreant responsible without breaking his stride.

  Playing the role of subdued postulant, Mary crept into his presence gently, her head bowed. “How might I be of service to you, m’lord?”

  “You need not speak to me that way, Mary. We have known one another far too long for such formalities.” Martin de Stafford’s growling tones were in evidence even when he spoke kindly.

  She lifted her head, and an expression which belied her simple demeanor came to her gaze. “The Mary you once knew is gone, Martin. I have dedicated myself to the church and to the Lord.”

  “As any good widow should,” he agreed. “But you were married an hour, Mary. Barely had you left the altar then he passed.”

  “It was the happiest hour of my life.”

  Martin guffawed. “You always lied so sweetly, Mary. I am glad to see you have not changed.”

  “And I am glad to see that you have taken to the role you were born to perform with such alacrity,” she said in turn. “I trust your lovely wife is well.”

  “Elizabeth died more than a year ago. Our marriage was not much longer than yours.” He spoke bluntly, showing little emotion. Mary wondered if he missed his late wife or if he had perhaps been relieved when the burden of marriage was lifted from him.

  “My deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “We are both widowed.”

  It was true that they were both widowed, but they were not widowed in the same way. Whatever pain Martin felt at the loss of his wife, he had not also lost his lands and his title and his riches. He was still Martin de Stafford, Sheriff of Staffordshire. She, on the other hand, was no longer Lady de Vere. She was now postulant Mary, soon to be Sister Mary. She had been humbled beyond all imagination, so much so that laying eyes upon Martin was a fresh pain.

  “I have missed you, Mary,” he said, his voice gentle. “We were once the closest of friends.”

  “We were.”

  Martin smiled slightly. “I find it hard to believe that three years have passed.”

  “You were no doubt busy,” Mary said mildly.

  “Busy. That is one word. I had a sickly wife and a whole host of responsibilities. You know my father died not long after yours.”

  She had heard. Old de Stafford had died in bed, surrounded by loving family. His estate, title, and responsibilities had fallen to his son. Oh, to have been born a man. If she had been so blessed, she too would have her lands, her holdings, her riches.

  “Is that what brings you here? Ill tidings?”

  “No,” he said. “I was passing this way in my investigation of a most outlandish robber. Someone had told me that you found your way here, and I thought perhaps it would do us both good to lay eyes upon one another again.”

  “I trust you will find this robber,” she said, ignoring the latter part of his sentence. “I am sure you will.”

  “Perhaps you can aid in that. The abbess said that you were out in the forest this afternoon. What were you doing?”

  “I was walking in the forest,” she said, “planting bluebells.”

  “Planting… now you stop. I know you are no dunce, Mary,” he said, his brow furrowed. “There have been sightings of a nun about the place before and after these robberies…”

  “I am not a nun,” Mary said blankly. “I am a poor, chaste, obedient postulant, hoping to one day aspire—”

  The sheriff held his hand up as if her story were a runaway horse he wanted to stop. “I do not wish to hear fanciful tales, Mary. Tell them to the abbess.”

  “She does not always like my tales. Her lips become very thin when I tell them.”

  “Perhaps she suspects, as I do, that you are not telling the whole truth.”

  “Abbess Tudor is wise, but not suspicious.” Mary clasped her hands together and batted her eyelashes at the good sheriff. “May God grant you her qualities, in time.”

  Martin de Stafford fixed her with a glare he had not possessed in his younger days. His maturation had been more than physical. It had effected a curiously complete change in his person. Three years had been a very long time for both of them.

  “I will not be lied to, Mary.”

  “What is the lie? That I am a poor, chaste postulant? That I was in the forest planting flowers?”

  “Nobody plants flowers in the forest.”

  “I do. They look so pretty.”

  She spoke with the simplicity she had affected over the years. Mary had quickly learned that it was best to be regarded as dull if she wanted a measure of freedom. Clever people were watched closely and expected to perform many duties,
but the slow-witted had far fewer expectations placed upon them.

  Martin’s mustache twitched at her. There was no sympathy or levity in his gaze. When he spoke, it was with authoritarian threat.

  “If I discover you have been telling me lies, it will not go well with you. I have no qualms about whipping a lying postulant.”

  Mary’s eyes welled at the threat. “I hope I shall never live to see the day when such a cruel punishment is delivered to one of the Lord’s brides.” She sobbed loudly, bringing forth the abbess, who had not been too far hence, judging by how quickly she made her presence known.

  “Sheriff de Stafford, I will thank you not to upset poor Mary,” Abbess Tudor said, clasping a protective arm about Mary’s shoulders.

  Grateful for the protection of the formidable woman, Mary busied herself sobbing into her kerchief. The tears she cried did not sting with real sorrow, but they made an admirable barrier through which the sheriff would not be allowed to penetrate.

  “She is a simple soul,” Abbess Tudor continued. “If you wish to court her, I would request that you do so gently.”

  “He is not here to court me, Mother,” Mary sniffed. “He is here to question me and threaten me with criminal punishment.”

  “Ridiculous,” Abbess Tudor snapped. “Why, just yesterday I found this young woman lost in a maze but three feet high. You think her a criminal?”

  “Perhaps I have stolen the sun and hidden the stars,” Mary sniffed, “for I do not see either.”

  “The sun is behind the clouds, and the stars only come out at night,” Abbess Tudor reminded her patiently.

  “Surely you cannot be taken in by this charade!” Martin de Stafford exclaimed. “Mary is not a dullard.”

  “She is simple in mind and heart, and that is what we so cherish about her. Good day, Lord de Stafford.”

  Mary bit back rising triumph as the abbess drew her away from what seemed to her to be the most dangerous man in her very small world.

  Chapter Five

  Not an hour later, in a small cell just barely large enough for a straw mattress, Mary’s fingers worked fast upon the nubbin of her petal. She bore the sheriff’s dark gaze in mind, the sternness of his visage, the tightness of his breeches revealing something of his ardor. In that private moment, she pleasured herself with soft gasps and lifted hips.

  Would it were his hands betwixt her thighs. But it could not be. Martin de Stafford represented all that which Mary had come to fear. Once she had dreamed of him, spent many idle hours imagining how it would be if she were his bride. Once she had wished nothing more than to bear his progeny.

  Those dreams had been trampled most thoroughly under the cruelties of fortune. After the ill treatment she had received at the hands of those who had oppressed her, she no longer wished for anything besides freedom—and the ownership of her ancestral lands.

  Freedom came at a price. It came at the price of the masculine love her body naturally yearned for. When fleshly apparitions such as the Sheriff de Stafford appeared, Mary found herself quite overcome with the impulse to release the burgeoning pressure building between her thighs, so she retreated to her little cell and touched herself with unfettered lust. Her exertions were made all the more exciting by the knowledge that they were certainly illicit. Lust, the abbess often said, did not only come from men but could be delivered by one’s own hand.

  Certainly, Mary’s fingers were delivering a dose of pleasure quite unbecoming a lady of the cloth. Her breath came short and fast, panting even through pursed lips. Flashes of fancy passed through her mind, imaginings involving a shirtless sheriff and the full expression of his masculine desire.

  Casting her mind back through the years, Mary remembered how it had felt to be pressed against the hard line of his frame, to feel the flat of his hand against her tender cheek. He had been masterful even then, sure of his touch. What would he now be like, with the weight of age and experience? Though she had remained virginal, it had surely been a long time since Martin had been able to make such a claim.

  With fingers pressing between her lips and finding the forbidden depths beyond, Mary felt her entire body flush with excitement, matched with a queer sense of shame. She did not usually express her desires quite so fully. She certainly did not usually press her own fingers inside her body and imagine that they belonged to that thrusting part of a man, but the sight of the sheriff had caused her old carnal desires to rise as fast and wild as a spring tide…

  “Mary!”

  The door to her cell was thrown open. In the doorway stood Sister Lucia, head of the postulants and mother of the devil, as far as Mary was concerned. The woman seemed to have a second sight where misdeeds were concerned. In addition to the rosary beads carried at her waist, Sister Lucia also carried a stiff leather strap and a wooden ruling stick. She made ample use of both on the hides of those in her domain.

  “What are you doing, postulant?” Sister Lucia’s bright blue eyes were narrowed with suspicion. Her raven hair was not contained and fell about her shoulders in a silken skein. Sister Lucia might have been attractive once, but four decades of meanness had written themselves heavily upon her visage. Deep sneering lines ran from the corners of her nose to the corners of her mouth, and her brow was similarly marked.

  “Nothing,” Mary said, drawing her hand away from her mound. “I was laying here wondering if the angels in heaven wear pajamas.”

  “Tch!” Sister Lucia made the sound of irritation and snatched the cover off Mary. Almost immediately, the gentle scent of feminine pleasure wafted through the room. Lucia must have smelled it, for her face contorted with punitive glee.

  “What have you been doing, laying abed in the morning?”

  “I thought it was midnight,” Mary said blissfully.

  “Midnight! You foolish woman! Do you not understand the light of day? How have you managed to stay alive for more than twenty years without choking on a tree stump or some such accident?”

  “The Lord protects me and guides me.”

  “Hpmh!” Sister Lucia cast the itchy blanket back down onto Mary’s prone frame. “Get up at once. There is gardening to be done. The vegetable beds need to be weeded.”

  “Yes, Sister Lucia,” Mary said, rising obediently from the bed. “I will weed them bare!”

  “You will…” Sister Lucia spluttered. “Foolish woman! One does not weed a vegetable garden bare! One plucks the unwanted shoots and stalks from around the vegetables.”

  “Oh, that is very clever!” Mary clapped her hands together and smiled broadly. “What a wonderful trick to play upon the plants.”

  Sister Lucia’s face screwed up in frustration. “This is what nobility does to a woman. Makes her head as soft as her hands. Go to the kitchen and help Sister Wigner peel potatoes. Try not to peel your fingers from your hands.”

  Mary let all Lucia’s scorn and disdain pour off her like water from a pheasant’s plumage. It was a testament to the success of her pretense that those around her treated her as a dunce. More than once her alleged simplicity had helped her evade the cut of Lucia’s leather. Any other postulant caught abed in the morning light would certainly now be feeling the sting against her bare skin.

  Setting off out of her little cell, Mary did not go to peel potatoes but instead took her leave of the convent and went out into the woods. Later, Sister Lucia would no doubt be furious, but for the moment, Mary had more pressing matters to attend to.

  She went straight into the darkest part of the forest, the place where most locals feared to tread. Moss and fungi flourished in that place, the lower reaches of broad trees covered in thick growths. Fallen logs were dotted with rising mushrooms and toadstools, some red and white, others brown and blue capped. There was a cacophony of life in that dank and silent place, referred to as the witch’s circle by the local peasantry.

  Here and there, the peaty ground had been disturbed. Mary made for the third largest fallen tree, crouched down beside it, and began to dig with her hands i
n the dirt. Soon, a polished wood chest came into view. It had been sunk deep into the earth, no small task for a woman of Mary’s stature. She pushed the chest open and feasted her eyes on the contents. Gold. Sapphires. Rubies. All manner of treasure was hidden there. But still, it was not enough.

  Gazing through the trees, Mary cast her mind through to the rolling grass hills beyond. She knew what lay beyond the trees. Her familial lands—hillocks and streams and thickets of trees that had once belonged to her, and would do so again.

  In Mary’s father’s day, the lands had been rich. The peasants had been ruddy-cheeked, well fed. He had never taken much from them, preferring to profit from their labor rather than to place onerous taxes upon that labor.

  “They work for their gold,” he would say. “I need not take it from them.”

  But that was not the new way. The new way involved a thousand little taxes, no longer paid by the lord of the land but passed on to the peasantry who could ill afford the cost. Mary could do very little for the people who had once called her Lady—not until she had a little more money.

  Hiding her treasures well, Mary moved to another part of the forest, where a second chest was soon unearthed. This one contained a doublet and britches. It also contained a wig of finest human hair, of head and mustache and beard.

  Postulant Mary had entered the forest, but it was Robert de Vere who left the clearing. Robert de Vere, nobleman. Robert de Vere, masked robber.

  Chapter Six

  After a most unsatisfying audience with the woman he had once known as Mary de Vere, Martin strode to his home, where he was met most enthusiastically by a broad headed, black coated hound, which bounded and whined upon seeing him and finally threw itself onto its back, presenting its belly.

  “Good day to you, Sir Barkington,” Martin said, stooping to pat the dog. “Have you been productive this day? Caught the rats? Chased the cats?”

  “He has been harassing cook for meat bones.” The speaker was the squire, Edward, a forward young man with aspirations to knighthood. He was a large enough fellow, bulky enough that the double-handed sword strapped to his back did not dwarf him.