Of One Heart

chapter 26





April 15, 1533

Yorkshire, England



The day that brought Andrew and Micheline to Aylesbury Castle began leisurely, for they had spent the previous night at the Starre Inn in York and were little more than an hour's ride from their destination.

Not only were they accompanied on their journey by Mary, Finchley, and squires for their coach and horses, but Sir Jeremy Culpepper had joined them as well. Micheline hadn't been surprised to discover that Jeremy had grown up on the estate bordering Aylesbury Castle. Since childhood, he had been as close as a brother to Andrew, and now he was eager to combine a visit with his family in Yorkshire with the opportunity to attend Sandhurst's wedding.

With Jeremy along, the journey northward had been fraught with amusement, yet crowded as well. The two men shared a chamber at every inn, while Mary slept with Micheline, and the remaining three servants had a third room to themselves. Sandhurst and Micheline were rarely alone. Because of intermittent rain, he insisted that she ride in the coach with Mary. Mealtime conversation, which Culpepper cheerfully monopolized, was generally the only opportunity Micheline had to share Andrew's company.

On this last morning they both rose early by previous arrangement and met in the common room of the inn. When Sandhurst put an arm around her waist and bent to graze her lips, Micheline flushed with excitement. It seemed that their moments of intimacy belonged to another lifetime, for now each casual touch sent currents of fire over her nerves.

He took her on a brief walking tour of York, and both of them were heady with mischief, like adolescents who had escaped the watchful eyes of parents. First, they walked up Stonegate, Andrew explaining that the oft-used suffix of "gate" in the city of York was derived from the Scandinavian word for street. It seemed that the Vikings had captured York in the mid-800s, and their influence was still felt.

"You're probably descended from a Viking yourself! It would be very fitting," Micheline exclaimed.

"That's the rumor," he said, smiling. "In fact, Aylesbury Castle stands on the site of a Viking fort. Unlike most of England, which was overrun with Danes, Yorkshire was conquered by Norsemen." Laughing softly, Sandhurst added, "My mother used to tell a story about a beautiful Saxon maiden from York who was taken prisoner by a handsome Viking and brought to the fort—now our castle—where he surprised everyone by making her his wife. According to Mother, the Westons sprang from that tempestuous union."

"That must account for your wild streak," she mused.

"If so, I take after my ancestor. Even he, celebrated as a heathen, was susceptible to the mellowing power of love."

Micheline tucked her hand through his arm and leaned against his velvet-clad shoulder. Clad in a doublet of slashed buff-colored velvet set with only a handful of round emeralds, Andrew seemed to grow more handsome with each passing day.

Content just to be together, touching, they strolled north to Petergate, where Micheline viewed the great minster for the first time. Sandhurst took her inside the cathedral for a proper look at the spectacular ninety-foot-high vaulted nave and the stained-glass windows that were justly celebrated. In the nave was the great west window, with tracery in the form of a heart, while the south transcept boasted the rose window, which commemorated the end of the War of the Roses nearly fifty years earlier. Andrew and Micheline knelt together, praying silently but with one heart, then lit a candle before leaving the cathedral.

On Low Petergate, Sandhurst stopped to buy warm sugared buns for them to eat, and then a nosegay of violets from an old flower woman. Micheline was wearing a gown of rose and lavender silk, and the violets made a charming accessory.

Petergate wound into the Shambles, an especially narrow street lined with butcher shops whose overhanging eaves nearly touched at some points. The sun was fully visible over the River Foss when they began to circle back to the Starre Inn. He chose a meandering route which eventually brought them back to their lodgings in Stonegate.

"I like York," Micheline told him, "and all of England!"

"I'm glad," he said, pausing outside the Starre's doorway to hold her against him. "That was one of my chief concerns before we left France. There is so much for you to become accustomed to..." He sighed, breathing in the fragrance of her hair. "A new country, new customs, a new family, friends, potential responsibilities dealing with a new king—it's a great load."

"I'm up to the challenge, my lord," she declared, amusement infecting her voice. "Why, I'm even learning to like dumplings!"

Laughing, Sandhurst led her into the inn, where they found Jeremy and the servants waiting for them and eager to compete the journey. So within the hour the band of travelers passed through the towered Walmgate Bar, the eastern gate to the city, bound for Aylesbury Castle.

Micheline looked back out of the coach window at the banks of daffodils that rose up to touch the magnificent white walls encircling York, and wondered what sort of surprises the rest of the day held in store.

* * *

Although the sky grew darker as morning progressed, Micheline found Yorkshire hauntingly beautiful. Gray clouds scudded over bright green vales dotted with trees and sheep and brightened with liberal sprinklings of buttercups. Especially interesting to Micheline were the intersecting limestone walls that seemed to snake endlessly over the windswept landscape. She chatted with Mary, enjoying the scenery, until her heart caught in her throat at the sight of a castle silhouetted against the swirling gray sky.

Sandhurst rode up alongside the coach, pointing, to confirm the fact that Aylesbury Castle was at hand. Unlike the charming, peaceful-looking chateaus of France, which were set amid parkland and gardens, this castle had a stark, wild look about it. The closer they drew to the cluster of bastions, crenellations, and towers, the more nervous Micheline felt. The place did not look welcoming, nor could she imagine it as her home.

Noticing her mistress's apprehensive expression, Mary soothed, "It's not so bad, ma'am, and his lordship hardly ever comes here. You'll like Sandhurst Manor much better, I'll warrant."

Micheline nodded bravely, but she was thinking that the austere appearance of the castle merely seemed to forebode the atmosphere within.

A chilling wind penetrated the coach as it climbed a twisting lane to the castle. Andrew led the way as they crossed a drawbridge that led them into the barbican with its surrounding curtain wall. Servants had already begun to appear, rushing to welcome the Marquess of Sandhurst as he rode over a second drawbridge, through the gatehouse, and into the enormous inner courtyard of Aylesbury Castle.

Sandhurst swung down from his horse and handed the reins over to his squire, then made his way through the group of familiar happy faces, greeting each servant by name. Reaching the coach, he opened the door and helped Micheline down, holding her against him as he announced, "I want all of you to know Madame Micheline Tevoulere, who will become Lady Sandhurst just as soon as we can arrange the wedding!" Laughing in response to their cries of excitement, he added, "There may be some extra work involved for many of you, but I'm confident that you'll understand my plight and take pity on me. Each day of waiting is torment!"

Sandhurst's exaggerated expression of agony drew laughter from the servants, followed by a rush to bow or curtsy before the beautiful Frenchwoman. He introduced each of them by name, and Micheline realized that his visits must always be a cause for celebration. If the duke was as sour as she'd been led to believe, then this retinue was surely starved for the affection and respect shown them by Lord Sandhurst.

At length they were free to enter the castle. As they approached the mammoth arched doorway, a dark-haired young girl burst through the portal and ran forward to throw her arms around Sandhurst.

"Andrew! Oh, Andrew! You've come!" She was actually weeping with joy, her face buried against his shoulder.

He had to let go of Micheline to return the girl's fervent embrace, a fond smile warming his brown eyes.

"Of course I've come, child. Did you doubt it?"

"Don't leave me again, Andrew. I couldn't bear it! Please, you must promise!"

"I'll do nothing of the kind. Loose me, Cicely, and meet your new sister, Micheline."

The girl pressed her lips together and reluctantly withdrew her arms from his neck. Micheline, who had been somewhat taken aback by the emotional scene she'd just witnessed, mustered a warm smile. Although Cicely kept her eyes averted, it was readily apparent that she was a beauty. Lustrous dark curls tumbled over her shoulders and the gently curving bodice of her pink satin gown, and her face was delicately enchanting.

"Greetings, Cicely. I'm so happy to meet you at last, for I know how dear you are to Andrew."

Cicely raised wet sable-brown eyes and replied in a monotone, "Welcome to Aylesbury Castle, mademoiselle."

"I'm sure you two will be great friends," Andrew said with forced cheerfulness. Silently he remembered the words his sister had spoken that night in London: "I hope that Mademoiselle Tevoulere is a toad!" Cicely was by far the most endearing member of his family. If she would not open her heart to Micheline, it appeared that there was little chance for a happy relationship between his wife and her new family.

For Andrew's sake, Micheline decided to try again. "Cicely, I have to confess that I have always wished for a sister. Much like you, I had only a much older brother. Perhaps we will be able to be the sisters that neither of us had before."

The younger girl shrugged and looked away. "Pretending's not the same, is it? Besides, I've been through this sort of thing before, inheriting fully grown family members. Rupert and Patience aren't exactly my idea of—"

Sandhurst gripped her arm tightly and interjected, "Micheline is not Rupert or Patience—I can assure you of that! Let's go inside now. I can hardly wait to see the rest of my charming family!" His voice was acid with sarcasm.

Although Cicely had always lived in dread of making her brother angry, this time her resentment of Micheline was stronger than her need for Andrew's approval. She allowed herself to be dragged along into the castle, and when he gave her a dangerous glare, she returned it defiantly.

The trio climbed a spiraling newel staircase in single file, emerging in a broad stone corridor that passed the family apartments. Micheline looked about as she walked, noting the fine tapestries displayed on the white walls and the woven rush mats that took the place of loose rushes. She'd expected the place to be gloomy, but in fact the castle's interior was remarkably clean and bright.

They came into the solar, which served as a private living room. Its southern exposure and high arched windows filled the airy chamber with April sunlight, while the hall, in the adjoining east wing of the castle, was too large and shadowy for the comfort of a small gathering.

Seated in a velvet-upholstered chair was a bony old man who narrowed his eyes at Micheline. A fur-lined satin coverlet was draped over his shrunken frame, and his feet were propped on an oaken stool. Behind him stood Rupert Topping, while a pale, long-faced young lady occupied a settle near the windows. She put down an elaborate piece of embroidery and watched the proceedings with tiny, alert eyes.

"You're looking well, Father," Andrew said in greeting. Holding Micheline's hand, he drew her across the room until the two of them stood before the craggy-faced Duke of Aylesbury.

"Bah! I'm dying and you know it!" The old man briefly took the hand proffered by his son.

Sandhurst wanted to throw up his hands and stalk out of the solar, but instead he forced a smile. "Happy news, then. Perhaps it will improve your health to know that I've granted your request and brought Micheline Tevoulere here to be my bride."

It was impossible to keep the irony from his voice since the duke had never been kind enough to make a "request" in Andrew's memory. His father's propensity for issuing ultimatums had resulted invariably in his refusal to comply. Now, however, he thought that peace might be served by his pretending that Micheline was here because the duke had wished it. Sandhurst would have done anything to make her new life more pleasant.

Micheline stepped forward and dropped into a brief curtsy. The lavender of her gown and the nosegay of violets tucked into its bodice served to emphasize the vivid color of her eyes. Sunbeams burnished her hair and haloed her lovely face.

"I am so pleased to meet you at last, Your Grace."

"You speak English! Well, well. And you're a beauty. My son is very fortunate."

"Not so fortunate as I, Your Grace," she replied firmly

"Hmmph!" The old man arched his white brows. "That's a matter of opinion, but then, Andrew always has been skilled at charming the ladies." He turned his attention back to his son. "I suppose you're expecting me to lavish praise on you for doing as you were bidden!"

Sandhurst's entire body was taut. "Far from it. I am marrying Micheline because we love each other, and I had hoped that you and I might declare a truce for her sake."

"I thought so. You couldn't resist telling me that you are doing this because you want to, and not because I wished it! As usual, you go your own way without any respect for other people—least of all your own father!"

"Are you saying that you'd be happy if there were no love between Micheline and me?" His eyes were dark with rage.

"Don't prattle on to me about love, boy! It's beside the point. What I can't forgive is the way you disappeared for two full months! No one knew where you were; it was impossible to make wedding plans in view of your record of rebelliousness. Now you turn up unannounced and declare that you've been a good boy and expect me to smile and pat you on the head! April's nearly gone. It's too late to send word of your wedding to London. I wanted every nobleman in England to come to Aylesbury Castle for this occasion, but—"

"In the first place," Sandhurst ground out, "the last thing I yearn for in this life is to be patted on the head by anyone, least of all you. Secondly, this is Micheline's and my wedding—not yours. If I'd had my way, we'd have been married a fortnight ago in London, but because you wanted to have the ceremony here, I thought to comply in the hope that this might be an opportunity for all of us to make peace and a fresh beginning. As for your desired guest list, I don't give a damn who attends this wedding so long as Micheline and I and the priest are there. It would be agreeable to have family and friends present as well, but even that isn't necessary. Now, if you want us to leave and be married elsewhere, just say so. Otherwise, I would appreciate it if you could endeavor to soften your tongue, at least in Micheline's presence."

The duke's face had gradually turned a shade of mauve. "I knew you hadn't changed. I heard that you were going to marry the girl, but I knew that you'd never admit defeat."

Micheline wanted to speak up and ask why a father would want to defeat his own son, but the air was so heavy with tension that she lost her nerve.

"I'm not broken, if that's what you mean," Sandhurst said, an edge of steel in his voice. "And as you know, I have no desire to continue these perverse little games of yours, the object of which seems to be the breaking of my spirit. I have more important, productive ways to spend my time."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that. You've always had something better to do than obey your father." The duke heaved a mournful sigh and dropped his head back against the chair, then glanced over to Rupert, smiling wanly. "Fortunately, not all my offspring are so arrogant." Now the old man turned his attention back to Micheline, who was looking both bewildered and stricken. "Let me assure you that you shall have your wedding here. I had hoped to make it a day that all of England would remember, but..."

"I assure you, Your Grace, that the ceremony itself is all that matters to me," Micheline replied as politely as she was able. "Whether or not all England remembers isn't important. The day I become Andrew's wife will be the most meaningful of my life, and my only other desire is that his family share in our joy."

The duke shrugged and looked away from her again as if she were a child spouting nonsense. "The king himself expressed a desire to attend."

"Father, I spoke to King Henry," Sandhurst said flatly. "Micheline and I went to see him at Hampton Court. I had assumed that the preparations for Anne Boleyn's coronation next month would prevent them from attending this wedding, but he hopes to make the journey after all, bringing members of the court with him."

The old man merely turned his craggy face toward the windows as if he hadn't heard.

In the silence that followed, Rupert cleared his throat.

"I haven't had a chance to bid you welcome!" he exclaimed loudly. Rushing forward, he shook his half brother's hand, then turned to Micheline. "Madame, you are looking more beautiful than ever! Tress bell, what?"

A bubble of amusement rose through her tension. "Hello again, Roo-pair! But no, that is wrong! Hello, Roo-poort!"

Even Sandhurst forgot his rage for a moment and smiled. Thank God for Micheline. What had he ever done without her? Slipping a hand around her waist, he drew her near and kissed her shining hair.

"You must meet my dear wife!" Rupert was declaring. "She's been looking forward to it so much!" He turned his head without taking his eyes off Micheline. "Patience, darling, do come and join us!"

Smiling shyly, Patience complied. As Rupert's wife drew near, it became painfully apparent to Micheline that the woman was singularly unattractive. Much taller than Rupert, Patience Topping had no breasts or hips to speak of, and her face was long, with thin lips, a sharp nose, and round little eyes. Her dun-colored hair was parted in the middle and tucked into an unflattering gable-hooded headdress, completing the picture of plainness. Micheline's heart went out to her.

"This is Micheline, dearest!" Rupert enthused. "Isn't she everything I told you? Aren't we fortunate to have her as our sister?"

Sandhurst winced slightly at that, but Patience was beaming. "We are indeed, dear husband. Hello, Sister, and welcome to our family."

"Thank you, Patience." Bemusedly she looked around the room, her eyes falling on a petulant Cecily; the shrunken, sour-faced Duke of Aylesbury; gawky, overeager Rupert; and Patience, who possessed the face of a horse but none of its elegance. Finally Micheline turned her gaze up to Andrew. There was wry humor in the set of his mouth and the way he lifted his brows as if to say, I told you they were different!

The warmth of his gaze melted her doubts. As long as they were together, she could surmount any obstacle. This resolve was put to the test minutes later when Patience kindly volunteered to show Micheline to her bedchamber so that she might wash and rest.

"You'll be safe from Andrew until the wedding, just in case he should become impatient!" Patience announced proudly. "His chamber is at the opposite end of the corridor!"

"Oh." Micheline nodded, feeling slightly ill. "How thoughtful of you."