Her face was pale but she gave no other sign of the turmoil inside her. She wanted to run away and hide somewhere, but there was nowhere she could go—no one who would dare to stand up against her father. She thought that perhaps Robert of Melford might have done so if she asked, but her pride forbade it.
She had no alternative but to return to her father’s house.
How many of the promises given could he truly rely on? Rob had spent the past five days riding the Marches, talking with men who could bring in trained fighters if they cast their affinity with Richmond’s cause. Some had smiled to his face but he had thought them false behind his back, for he was aware that the King was also hoping to raise support in the border country. Yet if even half the promises made were kept, Rob would be able to take between two and three hundred men with him when Henry Tudor set up his standard. At least half of them would be skilled fighters. And he was sure that there would be a rising in Wales in support of Henry.
He was feeling weary and in need of a cooling drink when he gave the reins of his horse to a groom and went into the house. It felt strange to hear himself addressed as master or my lord, for he still thought of his father as the master here. It would take some getting used to, he thought, and sighed as his steward came to greet him.
‘What news, David? Have any messages come for me?’
‘None, sir,’ David said, and looked anxious. ‘But there is something I think I should tell you…concerning your father’s illness.’
‘You said nothing of this before?’ Rob walked into the room that had been his father’s place of business. ‘What troubles you?’
‘Before the seizure that laid him low, there was a visitor.’
‘A visitor?’
‘He claimed to have brought a message from Lord Whitbread. Your father was closeted with him privately for some minutes and they quarrelled—for we heard shouting. I hurried there when the man left and found him lying on the floor. He recovered after a moment or two—but it was that night he was taken ill.’
‘Can you name this messenger?’ Rob frowned for he did not like this tale. ‘You have no idea what was said between them?’
‘The messenger is known as Harold of Meresham—the bastard son of Lord Whitbread.’
Rob’s mouth thinned into a grim line. ‘Then I hold Harold of Meresham responsible for my father’s death—and one day there shall be a reckoning between us.’
Rob touched the scar on his cheek, his thoughts swept back to the day of his humiliation at Harold of Meresham’s hands and the pain he had endured.
In those first dark nights, when the pain made him cry out and weep like a child he had vowed to be revenged on the man who had done this to him—and the witch who had cast her spell over him. He must have been mad to believe her…and to help her when she was attacked in the forest. She had aroused a heated desire when he held her to him as they rode through the forest but he had forced himself to behave as an honourable knight—he should have taken his revenge while he had the chance! In his anger at the news of what had happened to his father, he was tempted to take as many men as he could muster and attack the castle. He would like to burn it to the ground with those devils in it! And yet he knew that there was more important work—work that prevented him seeking personal revenge.
His bitterness knew no bounds as he paced the room and thought of his father at the mercy of that oafish brute. It seemed that there was an evil curse on all that that family touched or did—and one day they would suffer for what they had done!
‘Be careful, Rob,’ David said, looking at him sadly, for he could guess what was in his mind. ‘The bastard was only obeying his father’s orders—and Lord Whitbread is a powerful man. If you cross him, he will destroy you.’
‘He may do his worst!’ Rob said, and scowled. ‘I have given my word to Henry Tudor and must keep it—but one day my chance will come.’
Melissa’s heart sank as she and Rhona rode into the castle. Seeing her father’s flag flying at full mast, she had known that he was home, and she had given the monks’ servant leave to go as soon as they were in sight of it. As she and Rhona rode over the drawbridge, she saw her half brother, Harold, standing in the courtyard, and her heart caught as he turned to look at her. His expression was triumphant, and she knew that that meant her father was angry with her.
Harold came to help her down. She shook off his hands, giving him a look of dislike, for she hated it when he touched her.
‘Where have you been, little sister?’ he asked, his thick lips curving in a sneer. ‘Father was in a rage when he discovered that you had gone. I hope he orders the thrashing you deserve—and allows me to do it.’
Melissa gave him a haughty look. ‘You would enjoy that, my dear brother, I have no doubt, but my father has more sense than to allow it. I am an heiress and the King is my guardian.…’
‘If it were not so, I should have had my pleasure with you before this,’ Harold said, his mean eyes glittering. ‘If Father did not fear that the King would seize your lands, you would have died long ago.’
Melissa walked away from him, her heart hammering. She had always known that her father hated her, but he held his counsel and she had not guessed that her life was in danger. She wished that there was somewhere she might find sanctuary, but all hope had gone with her aunt’s death. No other Abbey would take her for they might suffer a terrible retribution at Lord Whitbread’s hands. Her only hope lay in a petition to the King—but who would stand up for her?
Owain would have done it had he been able, though his word would carry little weight for he was not a noble, merely a freeman of England. Surely there must be someone who would help her? Yet try as she might, she could think of no one.
She went into the house, walking up the curved stone stair to her chamber. For the moment she must wait and see what her father had in mind for her.
Rob had been training with his men all the morning. He had been working hard and was wiping the sweat from his body in the courtyard. He doused himself with cold water drawn from the well, and then dried his body on a coarse cloth. He shook his head, the water flying from his long, dark hair as it would the coat of a shaggy dog. The sun was in his eyes and it was a moment or two before he realised that the man approaching him was Owain Davies.
‘You are better,’ he said, greeting him with a smile. ‘I must thank you for what you did for me that night, sir. Had I known your name I should have done so long ago.’
‘No thanks were necessary. I could not stand by and see murder done by those villains—Besides, from what I have been told, you have since repaid the favour.’
‘I did what any decent man would have done,’ Rob said, but his smile had gone for the bitterness was deep in him and grew stronger as the days passed. ‘Is there something I may do for you?’
Owain was dressed plainly in leather doublet and hose, his shirt of wool and dark in colour. The monks had cropped his hair short so best to tend his hurts, and there was a livid scar across his head. Yet he was a handsome man, who held himself with pride, his eyes green and bolder than many a man in his position. Something about him seemed oddly familiar, though Rob was not sure what made him think it.
‘I came to offer you my affinity,’ Owain told him. ‘I know that my lady has returned to her father’s house, for the monks told me it was so—and I can no longer wear the livery of Lord Whitbread. He stands for the King and I am for Henry Tudor. I have heard that you are also of this mind—and I would fight with you, if you will have me?’
‘Yes, and right gladly,’ Rob said, offering his hand. ‘Indeed, I am proud to call you my friend.’
‘Thank you,’ Owain said, and smiled. ‘But I would have you know that I shall return to the service of my lady when