The Lady and the Duke

Part III

Her face was white and pinched the morning of her departure; Mary had slept little the previous night, brooding on the uncertainty of her future and kept awake by her heavy, milk-filled breasts. Her restlessness was evident in every premature line on her face. Her cheeks were still stinging, but the blush she had pinched and slapped into them faded as quickly as it had risen. The deep crimson of her gown – her parents insisted she throw off her mourning garb before her entrance into the household of the Duke – drained any colour that she might otherwise have had.

She embraced her sister at the front door, before kneeling on the cold flagstone for her parents’ blessing. Her father made the sign of the cross on her forehead as her mother fondly brushed a stray lock of hair from Mary’s cheek. She stood, kissed her mother, curtseyed to her father and floated down the steps and into the carriage, feeling as though she were in some kind of waking death.

As the carriage bore her away, she pulled the curtain aside and absently waved at her family, taking a last look at her sturdy, picturesque childhood home and wondering how long it would be before she returned to it.

She was pleased to be escaping the confinement of widowhood and her mourning chamber, but at the same time felt that she was dishonouring Edward’s memory by casting him off so soon. She was utterly helpless, torn between clinging to her childish love for a dead man and her desire to experience her youth before it vanished entirely. At least she was away from the humiliating procedure of making her milk flow freely again, no longer needing to massage the breasts every hour to stimulate production. She would soon have a child to hold against her and nourish again, which would surely compensate for the indignity of the last few days.

Mary pulled her reluctant mind away from memories as she took in her surroundings. The beautiful, modern carriage sent by the Duke was fine, though small, and pulled by a pair of pretty white palfreys. It was built for two at most, the outside was painted blue and yellow, the colours of the Lincolns, and the curtains through which she had entered were of stark yellow velvet. She pulled them to, blocking her view of the journey. On the seat was a heap of damask cushions, embroidered with Lord Lincoln’s arms. Those same arms were painted on the ceiling above her, resplendent in gold leaf. The walls were gilt and busy with pattern of gold and silver leaf and a rich blue rug covered the floor. Her eyes followed the intricate patterns until she was dizzy. The edges of her vision blurred. There was too much to take in all at once. She fell back against the cushions, slipping into an exhausted, disquiet unconsciousness.

Her senses were assaulted as the carriage halted abruptly outside the Duke’s home, jolting Mary from a sleep fraught with ghosts. A blur of blue and gold swam and sparkled before her as she strained to focus her eyes and remember where she was. The din coming from the street beyond Duke’s walled courtyard was deafening, and the stench overpowering – a foul mixture of faeces, rotting vegetables, fermenting ale and bodily odours. The sounds were virtually indistinguishable; stall-holders crying their wares, wailing livestock, the clatter of hooves and wheels over cobblestones and the general hum of the largest town in England. They all mingled and melted together, the wave of noise washing over Mary and breaking in her ears, drowning out her thoughts.

Her memory returned sharply as a deep, imperious voice called from the street, “Lady Mary Norton?” she recoiled, hastily smoothing and arranging her skirts and pinching her lips and cheeks for colour. She gave as gracious a smile as she could muster when a smooth, bejewelled hand parted the curtains of the carriage and she found herself looking into the striking face of Thomas Lincoln. She wondered how she could ever have forgotten him. His eyes were a cold, piercing blue; they danced with delight as he leered at the newest member of his household, taking in every inch of her still-rumpled dress, now-flushed cheeks and innocent, dark-ringed eyes.

Mary dropped her gaze to the floor of the carriage, belatedly trying to hide that she was both flattered and uncomfortable. He looked silently at her, ripping through the silken folds of her gown with his stare. “Your Grace,” she replied, quietly.

He shook himself mentally, remembering that he was in a very public setting. He stood back from the curtain and offered his hand as she gathered her skirts and prepared to step out of the carriage. She took it gratefully, and he marvelled at the warmth and softness of the slender, delicate fingers in his palm. He was overcome with lust for this arresting young woman. She was not beautiful like his wife, the Duchess; this girl was charming and compelling, she had a fragility about her that his wife lacked, it had immediately aroused both his protective instincts and his desire when he had first laid eyes on her at King Harry’s festivities for his most recent marriage to the Parr woman.

“I trust you had a pleasant journey?” he enquired.

“Yes, my Lord, thank you,” at the last moment, she remembered to sweep a curtsey, as her mother had instructed her to do upon meeting the Duke.

Lincoln glanced down at her, longing to caress the dark locks of hair that had escaped from her hood and trying valiantly to suppress his illicit thoughts. There would be time enough for that, he considered, as he took Mary’s hands to raise her up. His eyes darkened a little as he noticed that she was still wearing her wedding ring, presumably in memory of that bland baron. He would soon make her forget that she had ever had a husband, he was sure.

As she straightened, the unfamiliar noise and stench of London overwhelmed Mary; the safety, peace and gentleness of her parents’ little manor seemed thousands of miles away. Even Edward’s comforting presence seemed to have abandoned her to this foreign world. She could no longer feel him on a calming breeze or hear him in a murmuring stream. She could not even feel God in this place. There were only cold stone walls and smothering clamour and stench.

As she quickly pulled her hands from those of the Duke, her wedding band slipped from her finger and fell unassumingly onto the stone at her feet.

Mary glanced up into Thomas Lincoln’s face, taking in the smoothly sculpted lines of his jaw and nose, his rosebud lips, and finally the arrogant, intrusive eyes.

She swooned silently, not feeling his arms close tightly around her as she fell.