The Lord's Forced Bride. Anne Herries
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she walked on, because there was so much to see. One stall was selling holy relics, another beads and bangles that gleamed like gold, but would turn your skin black if you wore them too long. You could find anything here, Catherine thought as she looked at spangled scarves and embroidered slippers, for only one stall away a man was selling cooking pots made of iron. A little further into the meadow were stalls selling cheeses and pies, also cakes and sweetmeats, and the smell of roasting sucking pig permeated the air, making her feel hungry.
Besides the stalls selling merchandise there were others offering a chance to play games. You might guess how many dried beans there were in a pot or throw hoops over small prizes. You could throw balls at Aunt Sally or shoot arrows at a target, and if you wished you could visit the tooth drawer, though from the cries of pain that came from his wagon, Catherine thought that she would prefer the toothache. Two teams of men were having a tug of war, and others were engaging in various trials of strength.
As Catherine waked past the area where the sports were taking place, she heard a burst of cheering and she stopped to watch what was going on. Her gaze came to rest on two men; stripped to the waist, their bodies gleamed with sweat, as if they had been working hard. They were laughing and one slapped the other on the back, clearly pleased with himself.
‘They have each won two rounds and are well matched,’ a man standing next to Catherine said. ‘Neither of them can best the other and so they have agreed to one last bout, winner take all…or they will share the prize if neither wins.’
‘For what do they fight?’ Catherine asked. Her eyes were on one of the men. He was the same height as his opponent and of similar weight and build, but there was something different about him, though she did not know what it was until he suddenly turned her way. He was surely a gentleman! The other man was one of the villagers and known to her by sight, but this man was a stranger. For a moment their eyes met and then he grinned at her, the expression in his eyes sending little tingles down her spine.
‘For the sum of ten silver pieces,’ the informative man said next to her. ‘It is the best prize of the year.’
‘Oh, I see…’ It was a considerable sum, enough to feed a family for some months.
Catherine felt her cheeks grow warm, for the look the stranger was giving her was too forward, too bold. She dropped her eyes, determined to move on, and yet as she heard the murmur of approval from the crowd, she looked up and saw that the contest had begun once more.
It was immodest of her to stand and watch, as she knew that her mother would not approve, and yet something held her. She saw at once that the two men were clearly skilful at wrestling. She had caught sight of other wrestling matches on fair days, but never before had she been tempted to watch the outcome. Today she was fascinated, and knew that she wanted the man with the deep blue, intelligent eyes to win.
She caught her breath when the other man threw him to the ground, but he could not hold him, and in another second he was back on his feet and the situation was reversed. Again and again, the men threw each other, but neither could hold the other down long enough to be called the winner.
Catherine’s nails had turned into the palms of her hands, for she was tense with excitement, and only her natural modesty prevented her from calling out with the other spectators as the contest continued. Oh, who was going to win? She did hope it would be the handsome stranger…
Suddenly, the stranger stood back and held up his hands, a hush falling over the crowd as he spoke. ‘I give you my hand, friend. We shall share the prize. Come, take my hand and we’ll drink on it…the ale to be paid for with my share of the winnings…for all of you…’ His eyes embraced the crowd, inviting them to share his good fortune.
His opponent hesitated and then took his hand. They started laughing and the crowd joined in, everyone cheering them as, arms about one another’s shoulders, the wrestlers went off in the direction of the ale tent, followed by a score of others eager to take advantage of the stranger’s good nature.
‘I’ve never seen that done before,’ a man said behind Catherine. ‘Our Seth has bested every challenger to come against him.’
‘Well, he’s met his match at last,’ his companion said. ‘Do you know who the challenger is?’
‘He didn’t give his name. No one knows him, but he speaks like an Englishman.’
Catherine walked away, back towards the stalls where her mother and sister were now examining some pretty lace. Lady Melford turned to look at her daughter.
‘There you are, Catherine. I was beginning to wonder where you had gone. Come and look at this lace. I thought this would be pretty to trim the sleeves of your gown—do you like it?’
Catherine looked at the beautiful lace her mother had picked up and smiled. ‘It is lovely,’ she said. ‘But I think the heavy cream lace is perhaps more to my taste.’
‘Well, they are both pretty,’ Lady Melford said. ‘I think we shall take them both, for you may decide at your leisure which one suits you when your gown is made and lace of this quality is no ill store.’ She turned to her younger daughter. ‘Now, Anne, have you decided on what you would like?’
Catherine’s mind wandered as her sister and mother began a long discussion about the various pieces of lace and their merits. She glanced towards the ale tent, into which the wrestlers had disappeared, along with the small crowd of men and women who had been watching them.
Who was the stranger and why had he come here? Was it simply to take part in a wrestling match? They had few strangers here in her father’s village, except for the pedlars at fair time, and he certainly had not looked like a merchant. So what was he doing here?
‘I think we shall go home now.’ Lady Melford’s voice broke into Catherine’s thoughts. ‘What are you thinking about, Catherine? You do not seem very interested in your new gown. Are you not happy with the silks we have chosen?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, Mother,’ Catherine said. ‘Forgive me. I was just thinking that the smell of roasting pig is very good…’
‘You are hungry,’ Lady Melford said. ‘We shall go home and see if your father has returned from his business.’
Andrew came out of the ale tent, having drunk but one tankard himself. He had spent the five shillings he had won on buying drinks for the men who had watched the wrestling bout, accepting their praise and good wishes in the spirit of the day. He had been angry when he offered his challenge, but, finding himself matched against a worthy opponent, his anger had evaporated—and catching sight of a pretty girl in the crowd had lifted his mood still further.
He had come here to the Marches to try and settle the long-running dispute between his family and Lord Robert Melford, and to bring him news, but he had been turned away without a hearing. Lord Melford’s steward had told him that his master had been called away to Shrewsbury and was not expected back until later that day. He had apologised for the inconvenience, but Andrew was almost certain that it was merely an excuse, a way of avoiding him. It had made him angry, because the quarrel was none of his making, and, despite his mother’s wishes, he had wanted to settle the business without laying a complaint before the King. His mind went back to a recent conversation with his mother, her words still echoing in his mind despite his efforts to shut them out.
‘Listen to me when I tell you that we were robbed of our inheritance!’ Lady Gifford’s voice had been shrill, harsh with bitterness. ‘Robert of Melford took Gifford by force and we were driven from our home. The King must listen to you, Andrew. He must make reparation.’
Andrew Gifford had looked at his mother with barely concealed impatience. ‘Have I not told you a hundred times, Mother? My father betrayed his promise to give himself up to the King and it was his betrayal that led to his death. Our estate was forfeit and the King gave it to Lord Melford. He had the right to sell it as he pleased.’
‘So you say,’ Lady Gifford retorted, her eyes cold with hatred. ‘Why will you not make a plea to his Majesty? It is the custom to grant boons at times of celebration.