LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter Two

       Wolf Hall

       Early August 1497

      “My lord, you have guests.” Dane Stokes pounded on the thick oaken door of the tiny library. “My lord?”

      Thomas Cavendish, the new Earl of Thornbury, hunched deeper in the chamber’s only chair. He pretended to read the Latin text in his hands. Perhaps if he ignored his steward’s battering long enough, Stokes would give up, and send away the unwanted visitors. A wide black mourning band slipped down Thomas’s arm to his elbow. Scowling, he hitched it back up.

      Blast the Fates! He had never wanted to be the earl. Had never even considered such a laughable idea. A little over a month ago, his father had been alive and healthy. William and his wife fought like cats, but that was not unusual for them. John’s wedding to a young, wealthy heiress was to be celebrated at the Harvest Festival in September. Meanwhile, Thomas had spent the bright sunlit days pursuing badgers.

      “Caught a fair lot of them, did we not?” he asked the undersize brown-and-white terrier of mixed pedigree who nestled on his lap.

      Lifting his head, Taverstock perked his ears and licked his lips in reply.

      Stokes pounded on the door again. “Sir Thomas, ‘tis some high-and-mighty lord who awaits your pleasure in the hall. Him and his ladies.”

      Thomas groaned softly. Not more women. He had one too many as it was. William’s ferret-faced wife, Isabel, refused to accept her widowhood with good grace. He wished that the witch would pack up her chests of clothes and return to her father.

      “And leave me in peace,” he added aloud as he scratched the sleek head of the fawn-colored miniature greyhound, who reclined beside his chair.

      Vixen looked up at her master with open affection in her deep brown eyes.

      “Aye, Vixen, you are the only lady in my life,” Thomas continued, massaging her velvet ears.

      Impatient with his master’s misdirected attention, Taverstock pushed his wet nose against the open page of Thomas’s expensive copy of The Comedies of Plautus. Clicking a reprimand with his tongue, Thomas closed the book, and placed it on the table beside him.

      Stokes knocked once more. “My Lord Cavendish, do you hear me?” he persisted. “What am I to do with them?”

      Send the high-and-mighty lord to the devil and dispatch the ladies after him. Thomas sighed. “Things are not the same as they were, eh, Tavie?”

      The terrier licked his lips again, then sneezed wetly.

      “Please, my lord. The company has come a long way to see you.”

      “Who?” Thomas thundered at his persistent steward.

      His loud tone woke the mastiff dozing in the nearby corner. The dog lifted his gray-flecked muzzle, then yawned, displaying two rows of large, sharp teeth.

      “’Tis Sir Edward Brampton and his lady wife. Sir Edward says he requests a most urgent conference with you.”

      “Never heard of him,” Thomas told his three canine companions. “What in blazes do you suppose he wants?” In a louder voice, he asked Stokes, “What for?”

      “I know not, my lord, save that the younger lady has brought all her baggage with her. Sir Edward said for me to tell you…” Stokes’s voice trailed away.

      “What?” Thomas bellowed.

      “That he has brought your…your…” Stokes’s voice quivered.

      “Spikes and thorns, man! What has he brought me?”

      “Your betrothed!” Stokes yelled through the wooden panels. “And Sir Edward is in a great hurry to be off and away, he said.”

      Thomas opened his mouth to hurl another oath at the steward, but a distant memory stopped him. A tall, thin girl-child in a plain blue woolen gown with her red-gold hair barely covered by a wide blue ribbon and a thin white veil—the goldsmith’s daughter. William had teased Thomas to distraction over his unlikely betrothal. It had been the first time Thomas had ever knocked one of his older brothers unconscious. The earl had whipped Thomas raw for it, but the punishment had been worth the pain. His brothers had never dared to provoke Thomas again. As for the girl—he presumed that she had been married off to the son of another merchant. He had heard nothing of her since their only meeting years ago. Alicia—that was her name.

      “‘Tis some mistake, I’ll warrant,” Thomas told Vixen. “What would a high-and-mighty lord like this Brampton fellow be doing with the daughter of a goldsmith? Nay, the word has gotten out that the new Earl of Thornbury is a rich young bachelor.” He grinned at the terrier in his lap. “Oh, and I am somewhat scattered in my wits, as well. We must not forget that part. I wonder if my Lord Brampton is the vanguard of prospective fathers-in-law? God shield me!”

      “My lord?” Stokes whined through the keyhole. “What do you want me to do?”

      “Come in!” Thomas roared back at him.

      The brass latch turned, then Stokes poked his head around the door. “Aye, my lord?”

      “The wench. What does she look like?”

      A sheepish grin spread across the steward’s face. He reminded Thomas of a lovesick swain on a May Day morn. The sight was enough to put a man off his feed.

      Stokes sighed. “Sweet and young, my lord. Fair and tall. The face of an angel. The voice of a lark. The figure of a willow. The—”

      “Peace with your moon song, knave!” Thomas curled his lip.

      A plague upon it! The little witch had already enchanted his steward. She would have to stir up all the charms of hell to ensnare Thomas in her coils. Blasts and fogs! He did not need more woman trouble. He snapped his fingers to his three best friends.

      “Up, Georgie! Let us meet this…female who claims me.”

      Thomas found Lord Brampton pacing before the cold fireplace in the great hall. The heel plates of the visitor’s riding boots grated against the flagstones. Brampton had thrown one side of his thick black wool riding cape over his shoulder, revealing his brown velvet garb. Thomas noted that the clothing was well made.

      A lady, presumably the impatient lord’s wife, sat in a nearby chair. Her travel cloak showed mud-stained signs of a rough journey. Her pale face held an anxious expression. When she lifted her cup of wine, her hand trembled.

      Planting himself in front of his master, Taverstock bristled the fur on the back of his neck. He growled once or twice in challenge. Vixen leaned against Thomas’s left leg. Georgie halted, lifted his nose, quivered, then with a thundering bay, he bounded down the length of the hall toward the startled guests.

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