So Worthy My Love

  KATHLEEN E.

  WOODIWISS

  SO WORTHY MY LOVE

  To My Four-Year-Old Granddaughter,

  Alexa,

  Who Was The Visual Inspiration For Elise

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapters

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,

  11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20,

  21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35

  About the Author

  Praise and Acclaim

  Works by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  THE MAN WAS RELATIVELY YOUNG, perhaps five or so years past a score and ten, yet the lines of fatigue and recent deprivation were accentuated by the stubble of a beard that roughened his cheeks and chin and which seemed to age the handsome face. He was seated on a large, square-hewn block of stone that had tumbled from the jumbled ruins behind him. On a blanket spread near his feet a girl of two or more plucked listlessly at the woolen hair of a doll. She seemed to be watching and waiting.

  The man tipped his head back to catch the warmth of the midday sun on his face and breathed deeply of the cool, fresh breezes that brought the brushy tang of heather to him from across the moors. His head throbbed as he reaped the rewards of his recent excesses, which a long sleepless night had done little to ease. His hands hung limply over his knees, and his chest ached with the weight of his agony.

  The pounding in the back of his skull began to ease after a time, and he sighed at the release. He had come here to find some hint of a memory of brighter days when there had been three of them, and they had gamboled happily across these same slopes. The child, Elise, was not of an age to understand the permanency of their loss. She only knew this as a place where a warm, soft, and laughing person had played with her and had giggled in glee as they rolled on the sweetly smelling grass. She waited expectantly for that loving loved one to appear, but time fled and that one did not come.

  Clouds gathered above their heads and hid the sun. The wind turned northerly and was suddenly cold and chilling. The man sighed again, then opened red-rimmed eyes as a light touch caressed the back of his hand. His daughter had crept close to him and now looked up at him inquiringly. Her eyes bespoke her sadness as if she too, in her own child’s way, had come to understand that the memory would never again return to life and there was no further reason to stay in this place.

  The man saw in the deep blue eyes, in the dark russet hair, in the delicate shape of her chin and the soft, expressive lips, a hint of the wife he had loved so completely. He swept the girl into his arms and held her close, breathing deeply to quell the sobs that threatened to wrack him. Still, he could not stop the tears welling up between his tightly closed lids. Slowly they coursed down his cheeks and fell into the soft curls.

  The man coughed and held the tiny girl from him. Again their eyes met, and in that long moment was born between them a bond that nothing of this world could sever. They would ever share a touch, and it would span whatever distance separated one from the other while they remembered the one they had both loved so dearly.

  Chapter 1

  London became a place of unrest as tales of treason and paid recompenses began to be noised about with more frequency. Life in the city was mingled with a series of alarms as the Queen’s agents sought to uproot conspirators. Wild shouts and the clatter of running feet often shattered the silence of the streets during the darkest hour of night, then would come an insistent pounding of a heavy fist upon a solidly bolted door, followed by torchlit interrogations that sometimes resulted in multiple hangings and the display of severed heads on London Bridge. The attempts on the Queen’s life did not cease, but seemed to roil up from the nether realms of the earth. Mary Stuart was a prisoner of England and Elizabeth Tudor was on the throne, and one was as much in danger of losing her life as the other.

  November 7, 1585

  Near the Village of Burford

  Oxfordshire, England

  THE TINY FLAMES of myriad squat candles frolicked in jubilant accord with the wedding guests as they stepped in lively time to the courante. The festive music of the performing minstrels filled the great room of Bradbury Hall, blending with the revelrous laughter of the lords and their ladies. There was indeed much cause for celebration, for the oft-arranged betrothals and much-canceled weddings of the beauteous Arabella Stamford had finally resulted in a successful union. Just as amazing was the fact that no great disaster had yet befallen the brave swain who had so zealously sought her hand these past months. Of the six who had previously held the distinction of being the lady’s betrothed, none were known to be alive, including the late Marquess of Bradbury in whose country estate the guests now celebrated. Reland Huxford, the Earl of Chadwick, had decried the possibility of a curse on one so fair and had rushed recklessly on with his courtship, heedless of the dire fates of those who had preceded him. Now triumphantly wed, he stood joined to his bride by a garland of green while all around them leather-bound tankards and silver goblets were lifted in boisterous toast to the newly espoused couple. The strong ales and heady wines did much to warm the spirits and encourage the jovial moods, and servants hastened to tap fresh casks of the dark ale and hogsheads of claret and sack lest the excitement flag and fade.

  Edward Stamford was ecstatic at having finally gained a son-in-law of both wealth and title, but the giving of his daughter’s hand had not been accomplished without a certain measure of pain. Reluctantly he had conceded that the wedding banquet warranted more than the usual staples, and under his baleful eye huge trenchers of suckling pig, stuffed goat, and gaudily adorned birds were set before the ravenous guests. He winced in miserly distress as the succulent meats, elaborate puddings, and tasty sweetmeats were devoured with impartial gluttony by those who had come to indulge in his rare display of largess, but if any took note of their host’s lack of appetite, they kept such observations in reserve.

  It was an uncommon day indeed when Edward Stamford appeared kindly disposed toward anyone. Rather, it was said of him that he was something of an opportunist who had acquired his wealth through the misfortunes or follies of others. No one could aver that these windfalls had occurred through any clever manipulations of his, but Edward was always eager to seize whatever harvest he could wrench from those who had carefully sown and nurtured. His most noteworthy, if vocally reluctant, donor was the erstwhile Lord of Bradbury Hall.

  No one was cognizant of the supreme sacrifice Edward had been required to make in order to divert attention from his own involvement in the murder of the Queen’s agent. By casting the blame on Seymour, he had dismally foreseen relinquishing every honor and advantage he had once aspired to gain from his daughter’s union with the man. It was the very least he would lose if he were successful, he had realized, and if he failed? Well, the dangers to himself had been too enormous to even entertain. Not only had there been a threat of reprisal from her sovereign majesty, but the Marquess had for some time been touted as the finest of the Queen’s champions, and tales of his prowess with a sword had been well-published. In his mildest nightmares Edward had seen himself being skewered to a wall by the nobleman’s long, shining, two-edged rapier.

  Cautiously he had woven his tale while Elizabeth had lent an ear to his accusations, but he had underestimated her fondness for Seymour. She had flown into a rage, incensed that a favored lord would be accused of treason and murder by one held in such low esteem. It was only when witnesses affirmed that the Marquess’s gloves had been discovered beside the slain agent that Edward had gained the leverage he needed. The Queen finally had relented and, with a venging stroke, had sealed Seymour’s doom by calling for his im
mediate execution. Dealing out swift justice to traitors, she had stripped him of his title, possessions, and estates and spitefully heaped the latter two upon his accuser. Edward’s glee had been immeasurable, but fear had come quickly in its stead when Seymour vowed from his gatehouse cell at Lambeth Palace to see all those who had precipitated his fall from grace brought to justice. Though the nobleman had been scheduled to meet the headman’s axe a short fortnight away, Edward had nearly crumpled beneath the onslaught of fear, wary of even closing his eyes lest he never open them again. It was the cleverness of the man which had frightened him, and he had good cause to be afraid, for it was the Marquess’s plan to escape his guards when they crossed the bridge on their way to the Tower. Fate, however, decreed otherwise, and Seymour was shot and killed by a guard trying to halt his escape. Edward received the news in trembling relief and had finally deemed it safe to begin the transfer of his household from his own rather barren manor to the Marquess’s wealthy estates.

  Edward’s swift dispatch of the Marquess was one of his most memorable exploits, but now when he displayed sympathy or opened his house or his purse to help another, there were those who were wont to believe his base intent was to reap some greater reward. It seemed precisely the case when he extended his hospitality to Elise Radborne, the daughter of a foster sister now ten and five years dead. The disappearance of Elise’s father had brought about circumstances that had necessitated her flight from the family manor in London, and only too aware of the rumors of a hidden treasure, Edward had eagerly opened the east wing to her. Still, it was not in his nature to be overly generous. Since he was the only kin the girl could turn to, he had taken advantage of her plight, requiring steep rents and pressing her into service as working mistress of his newly acquired country estate of Bradbury Hall. Casually he had given the excuse that his own daughter could not be bothered by menial tasks while she attended to the preparations for her marriage to the Earl of Chadwick. Well in advance of the wedding feast, Edward had instructed his niece to restrict herself from the evening’s regalement and to give her full attention to the supervision of servants as they laid out the feast. Not a drop or a crumb was to be wasted, he had sternly admonished her, and above all there was to be no sampling of the fare by the hirelings.

  Though naught but ten and seven years of age, Elise Radborne was a rather resourceful young lady and not without experience in managing a large manor, for she had served as mistress of her father’s house for several years past, but she was among strangers and had been placed in charge of a household staff still sympathetic to the late Marquess of Bradbury, Maxim Seymour. As loyal as the hirelings were to his memory, they were equally as critical and resentful of the new squire, for it was widely rumored among them that Edward Stamford had purloined the estates of Bradbury by conniving lies.

  Elise had no way of determining what was truth and what was not. She had come to Bradbury months after the Marquess was killed in a reckless bid for freedom and had never had the occasion to become acquainted with the man. Her closest contact with him had been her discovery of his portrait in the east wing where she now resided. Previous to her arrival, the quarters had remained closed, but in the tiny cubicle where the portrait had been found, the disturbance of dust and the clean, fresh covering over the piece had given evidence of its recent placement. Curious as to why so grand a painting would be hidden away, she had made discreet inquiries, only to be told that the squire had ordered the portrait destroyed shortly after his arrival and that the servants, taking umbrage at his dictate, had spirited it away to the east wing.

  Elise could hardly fault the servants for their loyalties, though she was persuaded by the evidence of the Marquess’s crimes that he had not deserved such devotion. After all, he had been judged guilty of foreign intrigue, conspiring to assassinate the Queen, and of trying to conceal his duplicity by the murder of her agent. Still, when she considered how long many of the servants had been at Bradbury, some even before the event of Lord Seymour’s birth, three past a score and ten years ago, Elise could understand why they would choose to reject the evidence of his guilt and remain faithful to his memory.

  She was determined to remain just as sensitive to her uncle’s motives in ridding the house of every reminder of the late Marquess. If the portrait represented a true likeness of the man, then one could assume that Seymour had made quite an impression on Arabella. The loss of such a magnificent suitor would have made any woman resentful of a father who had somehow been involved in his demise. If for no other purpose than to keep peace in his small family, Edward had been justified.

  The challenge Elise had found herself faced with since her arrival was dealing with a staff of servants who disliked the squire. Though they kept busy and attended the duties of the house, it was done more out of respect for its previous owner. A confrontation usually ensued after a long period of continual grumbling over Edward’s way of doing things. It was not their right to question the squire’s orders, Elise instructed them, no matter how inane they seemed to be.

  This evening was proving no exception to the rule. She had already scolded several for their unfavorable comparisons between their present master and their last, when she noticed a manservant dawdling in front of a tapped barrel. This one wore a tunic whose hood covered his head, preventing any glimpse of his features. He stood hunched over his task in such a way that his broad shoulders obstructed her view, giving rise to the suspicion that he was taking liberties with the brew, certainly an unforgivable sin in her uncle’s eyes.

  Bracing herself for another argument, Elise straightened her spine and smoothed her black velvet gown over the hooped farthingale, assuming her best mien as mistress of a great house. For one so young, she looked very intent and most elegant in her simple but costly garb. A white, lace-edged ruff, conservatively narrow compared to the lavish excesses of court dress, flared out from her throat and rose higher in the back, enhancing the beauty of her oval face. A bloom of rosy color brightened delicately-boned cheeks, setting off a sparkle in the jewel-blue eyes. Those sapphire orbs slanted slightly upward and were thickly fringed with silken lashes of a coal-black hue. Her brows had not been shaved as was the custom of some women, but were slashes of red-brown that swept upward across flawless, lustrous skin. Her rich auburn hair had been parted in the middle and was neatly coifed beneath a pert, black velvet attifet which formed an arc above both sides of her forehead. Two long ropes of pearls hung about her neck beneath the crisp ruff and swept downward over her bosom. A ruby-encrusted frame served as a clasp at the first full swell of her breast and held a miniature enamel painting, the profile of a woman whose image her father had often said resembled her mother.

  Elise hoped she looked as imposing as the subject of the tiny portrait, for the servant would be more likely to give her the respect due her station, than if he were one of those who had witnessed her undignified masquerades as ragged urchin and Hansa youth. Pausing close behind the man, she inquired almost sweetly, “Is the wine to your liking?”

  Slowly the hooded head turned until the narrow opening of the deep cowl faced her above a broad shoulder. The covering was drawn up close around the man’s face, half masking it, and though his darkly translucent eyes caught the glow of nearby candles and seemed to glimmer at her from the shadows of the hood, she was forbidden a clear view of his features. He seemed much taller and somehow different from the other hirelings, lending to the suspicion that he had come from a different portion of the estate.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress. The ol’ winemaster bid me sample the brew so’s no bitter vetch’d be sourin’ the tongues o’ these ‘ere foin folk.” Though stubbled with the coarseness of a commoner’s speech, his voice was deep and rich, with a full measure of warmth. He raised the flagon he held, tipping it a bit, and thoughtfully contemplated it before tapping his forefinger against its side. “Mark me word, mistress, this ‘ere brew comes from the ol’ stock. Has a fair ta middlin’ bite, ‘at it does. ‘Tain’t none
o’ ‘at rot this fellow Stamford serves up.”

  Elise stared agog at the man, taken aback by his unabashed affront. His audacity pricked her sense of propriety, and her voice sharpened with sarcasm. “I rather doubt Squire Stamford would countenance your judgment or your opinion, whatever it may be. Ungrateful wretch! Who are you to cast awry the good intent of one who pays your wage? For shame!”

  The hireling heaved a wearisome sigh. “ ‘Tis a pity, it be. A rank, poor pity.”

  Elise settled her hands on her slender waist, and her eyes flashed with a feral gleam as she gave him a chiding retort. “Ah, now we would hear it! A complaint! Forsooth! The squire would sooner tolerate grievances from the poor beggars in the streets than from those in his own kitchen. Pray tell, good fellow, have I hindered your freedom to imbibe by my presence?”

  The man raised a hand wrapped in ragged strips of cloth and scrubbed it across his mouth. “The squire’d do well ta taste his own stock. ‘Tis a pity ta give ‘ese foin folk ’em bitter dregs what he’d ‘ave us pour.”

  “Are you unquestioned as a tapster, or were you just born arrogant?” Elise asked with rampant scorn.

  “Arrogant?” The fellow gave a brief chortle tinged with reproof. “Well now! Ye might say I’ve gots me share. Been ‘round ye high-blooded folk too long.”

  Elise caught her breath in high-flying indignation. “You have far more than your fair portion, let me assure you!”

  Untouched by her criticism, the servant responded with an indolent shrug. “ ‘Tain’t so much arr’gance as ‘tis knowin’ good from bad, right from wrong . . . an’ sometimes it takes a wee bit o’ wit ‘fore ye can tell the difference ‘twixt the two.” Stepping close to the cask again, he began filling a second flagon. “Now when his lor’ship were ‘ere . . .”