Betrayed, Betrothed and Bedded. Juliet Landon
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she adjusted the other side, rattled by the man’s unwelcome closeness. He had changed since that first meeting when he’d been twenty-four and she a very opinionated sixteen. Now a trim dark beard outlined his square jaw, emulating the king’s own device for concealing fleshy jowls, though Sir Jon’s muscled neck was clearly visible above the white frill of his shirt collar. From above, she saw how closely his hair was cropped, fitting his head like a black velvet bonnet that joined the narrow beard in front of his ears, and the black brows that could lift with either disdain or mirth were now levelled at her, giving back stare for stare. She knew he was laughing at her discomfort, though the wide mouth gave nothing away.
Her father’s smugness had vanished. ‘Mend your manners while you’re at home, Virginia, if you please,’ he said sternly.
That stung. ‘There’s little wrong with my manners, Father, I thank you. Had it not been for all this baggage, I could have managed by myself. I’ve been riding since I was three, remember. Sir Jon is confusing me with those of his friends who like to pretend a little maidenly helplessness. Easily done. They’re thick on the ground here at court, are they not, sir?’
Her horse threw up its head at Sir Jon’s roar of laughter that Ginny usually heard from a safe distance. Close to, she could see the white evenness of his teeth smiling at her prickly retort. ‘Correction, Mistress D’Arvall. I could no more confuse you with another woman than forget my name,’ he said. ‘And that’s the most I’ve heard you speak since you came to court. Even an attempted put-down is better than nothing, I suppose. The manners will come eventually.’
‘Then I hope they’ll never be as selective as yours, Sir Jon,’ she said, easing her mount round to present its wide rump to him. ‘Farewell, Father. We cannot waste any more time.’
‘Virginia! Do you forget who you’re speaking to?’ he scolded, holding the bridle. ‘Sir Jon is—’
‘Yes, I know who Sir Jon is, Father. They’re all the same, these gentlemen of the bedchamber. They rate themselves highly. Too highly.’ Her words were almost lost beneath the hard clatter of hooves on the cobbled yard as she and the two grooms moved off and Sir Walter let go, sliding his hand over the gelding’s back and pulling gently at its tail, fanning it out.
Recently elevated to being one of the king’s gentlemen of the bedchamber, Sir Jon was rather higher up the social ladder than Sir Walter, to whom he showed every respect. A great well-built handsome creature of the kind King Henry liked to have about him, his excellence at jousting, hunting, dancing, and music was well known to all at court, and wherever the king was, there also was Sir Jon Raemon in attendance. But although Ginny had never been short of company or admiration, Sir Jon and she had exchanged no pleasantries or conversation since their first tense meeting at Sandrock Priory, not even when they had met in the dance. Other young women she knew would have rectified that situation within days, but Ginny saw no reason to, and many reasons why she should not. The man had plenty of worshippers and she would not be one of them.
Sir Walter shook his head, sighed and turned back to his friend, whose expression was much less serious and far more admiring, his eyes following the trio out of the gates and along the track that ran alongside the River Thames. In the weak light of early morning, Sir Jon could see only Ginny’s slender figure swathed in furs, riding astride in the manner made fashionable by the king’s second wife. Enclosed by a headdress and hood, her lovely face had been the only part of her visible, except for the brief glimpse of shapely ankles, but he knew from oft-recalled memory how her glorious ash-blonde hair framed her face and could sometimes be seen in a heavy jewelled caul behind her head. He had not exaggerated when he’d said she was impossible to confuse with others. She was, in fact, the most distinctive and desirable woman at court, and if she thought her absence would not be noted, then she was much mistaken.
Well able to understand and even to sympathise with her coldness during her month at court, Sir Jon would entertain no doubts about his ability to bring about a change in her attitude, for their first meeting at Sandrock was still as fresh in his mind as yesterday. She had been caught on the wrong foot even then and had given him back word for word the reproofs he’d offered, just to provoke her, to make her rise to his bait. Sharp-tongued and courageous, she had fenced verbally with him as few women did at court where their flattery and simpering helplessness was, as she had said, thick on the ground. None of them was worth the chase. Since that meeting, however, so much had changed for him, not all of it for the best, and now, although he was sure of her interest while she tried to hide it, the situation would require some careful handling and patience on his part. The lady’s strong opinions were deeply rooted in so many misconceptions that it was hard to see how best to proceed. Only time would tell. Perhaps, he thought as he turned away, a certain firmness of manner might be best, in the circumstances.
* * *
After an overnight stay at Elvetham Hall, where Sir Edward Seymour and his lady lived, Ginny and her escorts reached home just as her father had predicted, even to the weather. His estimates were never far out, for the snow had been no more than a warning flurry that covered the rolling fields like a dusting of flour. The gardens of D’Arvall Hall looked like an embellished chessboard, and fine wreaths of smoke from the tall redbrick chimneys showed her that the servants had been up and about for half a day, and the distant clack of an axe on wood called up the image of wide stone fireplaces with blazing logs, warmed ale and her mother’s welcoming arms. Riding into the courtyard through the wide arch of the gatehouse, they were met by running grooms, shouts of surprised greeting and the sudden bustle of skirts at the porch as Lady Agnes D’Arvall and her ladies emerged with faces both happy and curious, their breath like clouds in the freezing air, puffing with laughter.
Always content to stay at home rather than at court, Lady Agnes D’Arvall was nevertheless eager to hear from her daughter every detail of the life there, unbiased by the accounts of husband and sons. Politics, rivalries and appointments were far less interesting to her than what the ladies were wearing, doing and saying, information that Ginny was soon happy to supply across a white cloth spread with trenchers of warm bread, cheeses, roast pigeon and wild duck, apple-and-plum pie, spiced wine, nuts, and honeyed pears. Good homely fare, Ginny told her mother, that she’d missed at court.
‘What, with all that variety and every day different?’ said Lady Agnes. ‘I doubt your father and brothers miss it so much. I think that’s one of the things that keeps them there.’
From what Ginny had seen and heard in her month of the queen’s service, the main attraction of the court for her older brothers had less to do with food than with women—more varied, more attractive and easily obtained. ‘You know full well what keeps them there,’ Ginny said, closing a hand over her mother’s wrist. ‘Father believes that, with enough of the D’Arvalls in the king’s service, he’ll be in line for promotion. Heaven knows, the king puts people down and sets others up so fast these days, I dare say Father could find himself Lord Steward one day.’
Lady Agnes leaned forwards so that one of the long black-velvet lappets of her headdress flapped onto her bosom. ‘No, I really don’t see that happening. Yes, Sir Walter is ambitious, and I believe the king regards him well, but commoners don’t make leaps of that kind, my dear. Well, apart from Thomas Cromwell, of course. Tell me about the king’s new wife, Queen Anna. Does he like her any better now?’
‘No, Mother. I fear not. He rarely comes near her except at night.’
‘After only a month? Poor lady. Then what? Has he taken a mistress?’
Delivered lightly, the question held more interest than Lady Agnes had intended and her daughter’s ears were quick to detect it. Since King Henry had first noticed Ginny during his brief stay at D’Arvall Hall late last year, Lady Agnes, as ambitious as her husband, had recognised what might result from his mild flirtation, for that was how he had wooed and won his second and third wives, Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. His summons to her daughter, just after the New Year wedding to the Lady Anna of Cleves, had been no great surprise to Sir Walter and Lady Agnes, or indeed their sons, even disguised as a temporary position in his bride’s new household. Now the seemingly innocent question about mistresses demanded more than a simple denial when the king’s amorous intentions