LITMIR.BIZ

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as she was to Isabel. No doubt the great Earl of Thornbury now cowered somewhere in the home park with those filthy hounds of his. Isabel presumed that he wouldn’t return until after sunset. All the better. This bold wench could be well on her way back home by the time Thomas gave her a second thought. A tiny smile crept around the corners of Isabel’s mouth.

      “Bring her to me,” she ordered. “I shall deal with this unpleasantness myself.”

      Meg bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, my lady.” She turned to go.

      “And, Meg?”

      The maid paused. “Aye, my lady?”

      “Tell no one of my conference with the woman. Do you mark me?” Isabel narrowed her eyes. Meg was such a taddle-toad. “One word, and ‘twill go very badly for you, I promise.”

      The maid swallowed. “Aye, my lady.” She bobbed again, then dashed away.

      Isabel picked her way around the heaps of discarded clothing that littered the floor of her chamber. She stopped before the large sheet of costly Venetian looking glass that William had imported especially for her, and wrinkled her nose at her reflection. She hated to wear black. It made her look plague-racked. Who in this godforsaken castle cared what Isabel wore? She could roam the corridors stark naked for all the interest she stirred in Thomas.

      She skimmed her hands across her breasts and down to her narrow waist. William had always complimented her figure. He appreciated a beauty when he saw one. Not like his father, the old earl. All that man had ever said to Isabel was, “When are you going to do your duty, mistress? When am I going to hold my grandson?”

      God knows she had tried hard enough to get pregnant. William had mounted her almost nightly—twice a day when they were first married. Isabel sighed at the memory. Though she had often complained at the time, she missed her dead husband now. Thomas couldn’t possibly hold a candle to William, yet she had little choice. She must marry Thomas, or be sent back to her father’s crowded household where she would have to fight her enormous number of sisters for every scrap of food on the table. Farewell to fine gowns, bright jewels and looking glasses with which to admire herself. Isabel shook out the folds of her black damask skirt. How could she possibly attract Thomas if she looked like a pinched crow?

      Behind her, someone cleared her throat. Isabel whirled around. A tall creature, dressed in a plain green woolen gown, dropped a curtsy. Despite her height and apparent low estate, the stranger’s posture remained perfect, even when she rose. Isabel drew in her breath. This woman was a giantess. No doubt her feet were as large as shovels—nothing like Isabel’s own dainty ones. She relaxed a little. Nothing to fear from this long drink of water. Cavendish men liked their women petite.

      “I am Lady Isabel Cavendish,” she announced as she seated herself upon the only chair in the room. She spread out her skirts around her. “My husband was Sir William, second son of the Earl of Thornbury.” Isabel paused, then corrected herself. “The late earl, that is.”

      “May God have mercy upon his soul, and upon the soul of your dear, departed husband,” the chit replied in a low tone.

      Isabel fumbled in her reticule, then drew out a fluttering snippet of white lawn and lace. She dabbed her dry eyes with a corner of the handkerchief. “Poor William!” she murmured. “It pains me to think of him.” Which was the truth. She had finished shedding her tears over his inconvenient departure a fortnight ago. Now she had other amusements to console her grief.

      “You have my deepest sympathies, my Lady Cavendish.” The stranger appraised Isabel’s tender little scene.

      Isabel wished she had learned to cry at will like several of her sisters could. It was an extremely effective method to get what one wanted out of a man. She prayed the woman before her did not notice the absence of tears. Best to get down to business.

      “Who are you, and what do you want at Wolf Hall?” Isabel waved the handkerchief in the air before her as if the visitor was accompanied by a foul odor. “You may speak freely to me, as I am Sir Thomas’s chatelaine.”

      A faint blush hovered in the woman’s cheeks. The color unfortunately made her look a little pretty.

      “Mistress Alicia Broom, my lady. My…my father is…was the goldsmith by the Micklegate in the city of York.”

      Isabel wanted to laugh out loud. The daughter of a merchant claimed to be Thomas’s betrothed? No wonder the man bolted for the woods. Naturally he left the distasteful task of getting rid of the strumpet to Isabel.

      She pretended to yawn, barely covering her open mouth with her hand. Let the goldsmith’s gawky daughter catch sight of the colorful gems decking Isabel’s tiny fingers.

      “I fear you have made a long journey to no purpose, mistress. As you can see, I am in mourning, and am not in the mood for buying new baubles. Come back to see me during Advent Mayhap I shall give you some custom in honor of the Christmas season.”

      The pink in the girl’s cheeks turned to a deep crimson, though she did not change the soft tone of her voice. “I fear you have been misled, my lady. I have not come to sell my father’s wares, but to take my rightful place at Wolf Hall.” She drew herself up even taller. “I am pledged to be Sir Thomas Cavendish’s bride.”

      Isabel could not contain her laughter. The mere idea of this plain stick as the Countess of Thornbury was too ludicrous. “I thank you, mistress, for providing me with a spot of mirth to gladden this sad time.”

      “I do not jest, my lady,” the merchant’s daughter replied, with a hint of steel creeping into her voice. “The contract was signed, and the dowry paid ten years ago between my father and the late earl. I can understand your wonderment, but—”

      “But nothing!” Isabel snarled. How dare this brazen creature invade Isabel’s domain, and claim it for her own? “Either you have been sadly misinformed, or else you deliberately pretend to a place that is not yours either by birth or by right. You are most fortunate that I have a mild disposition, or else I would bring you before the bailiff on a charge of deception, fraud, counterfeit and…and…” Surely there was something else with which Isabel could threaten Mistress Broom. Treason, perhaps? That word always inspired terror.

      A blue fire leapt into the other’s eyes. “The law is on my side, my lady. I have a copy of the betrothal contract to prove my claim.”

      How dare she challenge me! Isabel stood, though she barely came up to the woman’s shoulder. “What does my Lord Cavendish have to say to all this nonsense?”

      Mistress Broom bit her lip, though she did not lower her eyes as Isabel had expected. This jade was a proud one, and needed a good beating to bring her down a peg or two.

      Isabel tossed her dark curls. “Methinks he said nothing. Typical! Thomas hates discord of any sort. He leaves all such matters to me. Very well, goldsmith’s daughter, mark what I say to you. I am betrothed to marry Thomas once the period of our mourning is over.”

      Mistress Broom’s eyes widened at this piece of perfidy. Isabel became even bolder. “Aye, already a courier has been sent to the Archbishop of York to procure a dispensation for the marriage between my brother-in-law and myself. Our wedding will be celebrated before the Advent season. Therefore, I suggest you remove yourself immediately before my darling Thomas returns, lest his anger grow hotter than mine.”

      The goldsmith’s brat lifted her chin. “I will speak with my Lord Cavendish first,” she replied, snapping off her words. “If he tells me to go, I will. But if he bids me to stay, then I will take the place that was promised to me. I vow this, as God is my witness. Good day, Lady Cavendish.”

      Without asking permission to go, Mistress Broom turned on her heel and left the room. The wench did not even bother to curtsy before her better. Isabel crossed to the table that held a jug of wine and several cups. She helped herself to a long, but unsatisfying drink.

       The devil take the baggage! She is just the sort who would appeal to Thomas. And then, pray tell, what will

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