TODAY WE WELCOME HISTORICAL FICTION AUTHOR, BRIDGET BEAUCHAMP, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM HER RICARDIAN ROMANCE NOVEL, 'MAID OF MIDDLEHAM' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

Extract from ‘MAID OF MIDDLEHAM’

It was high summer; above the town the sun blazed down on the heath where moths and butterflies danced around fragile harebells bobbing their wafer thin lilac heads soundlessly in the wavering breeze, as it softly wafted the resonant notes of a curlew’s trilling call across the upland summits and away over to Swaledale. Far below, verdant pastures bloomed in clouds of colour; yellow buttercups, blue meadow cranes bill, bright pink rose bay willow herb, wild orchids and white ox eye daisies jostled for position, overhung by a tangle of hedgerows, where trails of white petalled dog roses, the emblem of Yorkshire, sprinkled the thickets like star clusters in a sky of green. Birdsong filled the air, swifts and swallows wheeled and darted to and fro in their constant search for flying insects, their scythe like wings slicing through the haze; below them peasants bent double labouring in the fields, sweating under the hot sun, gathering another harvest.

Released from her duties for the afternoon, Eleanor wandered down through the cobbled streets of her home market town, past the rows of close packed thatched cottages and stone-faced town houses, towards the river Ure, with Elizabeth, now just turned four. Several townsfolk who knew Aunt Mabel, hailed them with a friendly greeting and a comment about the agreeable day, watching the pair approvingly as they walked by. Mabel’s ward had done well for herself they weighed. Eleanor politely echoed their sentiments and prompted her daughter to wave back in acknowledgement. The little girl with amber coloured curls tumbling down her back, skipped along happily beside her mother and before long set to muddying her dress along the water’s edge, crouching down to watch the frogs hopping across the mud, landing with a plop into the water. Little Bess laughed then squealed in fear as a dragonfly buzzed around her head. She ran to hide behind her mother, who laughed mockingly.

“It won’t hurt you Bess. Look how beautiful it is with its iridescent blue body and delicate fairy wings”. Bess was not convinced.

A light breeze whispered through the willows bending low over yellow flag irises crowding the banks, their long-tapered leaves stroking the surface of the water, where tiny water boatmen skimmed across the tension and below them in the clear water, minnows darted erratically above the dappled stones on the riverbed. The air was warm, the sky an intense blue as cotton-wool clouds billowed high into the atmosphere in ever-changing shape, occasionally blocking the sun, while soaring skylarks sang in full voice filling the air with rippling waves of joyful high-pitched warbling. Picking daisies together, the young mother showed Bess how to make them into a chain, slitting the stalks with her fingernail and threading the flower head through one by one, joining the last onto the first to form a floral necklace. Carefully placing it around her daughter’s neck she pulled her long hair through gently, so as not to break the fragile stems.

“There you are, fit for a princess!” Bess beamed with pleasure and skipped on.

“Shall we see what time of day it is Bess?” said Eleanor reaching down for a dandelion seed head.

“Blow the seeds as hard as you can and count the times you need to blow the seeds away, that will tell you what hour past midday it is”.

Elizabeth blew as forcefully as she could and by the third breath all the seeds had gone from their naked stalk.

“Three!” she chortled gleefully, then stopped abruptly as a lone rider approached from the direction of Coverham abbey. The child grabbed her mother’s hand pressing against her skirt shyly as the nimble chestnut stallion was reined in and slowed to a walk, while they stepped aside to let the rider pass. Eleanor shielded her eyes from the sun and saw with a shock that it was Richard. He halted beside them, patting his horse’s neck to quieten him.

“A fine day for a walk madam”, he initiated, his voice deeper than she remembered, the teenage boy now full-fledged to adulthood.

Eleanor bobbed a curtsey, still holding Elizabeth’s hand tightly. “Aye, it is my Lord”.

“How are you, Eleanor?” he asked, fixing her with a mesmeric stare. Her heart missed a beat. He had not forgotten her!

“I am quite well, thank you my Lord” Eleanor blushed at the memory of their past encounter, steeling herself to appear calm.

“I am glad to hear it Eleanor” he replied, before jumping down from the saddle and leading his mount beside him. As they walked on slowly, Elizabeth pulled her hand away from her mother’s overly tight grip and ran ahead. Eleanor was silent while the man she yearned for walked beside her, waiting for him to speak, sneaking a glance at his profile as he watched his pretty daughter chasing butterflies along the path. How I long to tell him Eleanor thought wistfully. She wondered if he would see himself in her child, although Eleanor knew he could never acknowledge her publicly as his.

She studied his face which had matured and darkened with the sun, a shadow of stubble growth now noticeable on his jawline, no longer the fresh-faced youth she had first met. He looked strained and his perceptive discerning eyes even more joyless if that were possible. She thought about the battles he had fought, the supreme courage he had shown and the terrible things he must have seen. The four years he had been away had been turbulent in the extreme, his life in danger almost constantly. Surrounded by death, treachery and deceit, he had been one minute a fugitive, the next, elevated to great heights as the wheel of fortune turned. He had grown into manhood, ruggedly appealing, the embodiment of chivalric prowess, a knight who had won his spurs, victorious in battle and unrelentingly loyal. Eleanor wondered how many young maids had fallen under his spell since the day she watched that raw unseasoned youth of sixteen, charging off to offer his fealty, his life, his destiny, to his brother the king. As if following her line of thought, he asked

“How old is your daughter Eleanor?”

“This is her fourth year, my Lord” He walked on silently, watching Bess intently.

Eleanor’s thoughts raced, the awkward silence between them thankfully broken first by Richard.

“What is her given name?”

“Elizabeth, my Lord”

He paused, frowning slightly, the name perhaps reminding him of his brother’s choice of bride.

“I am sorry to hear you are widowed, Eleanor. I hope you are able to provide for Elizabeth”.

“Aye my Lord, I can manage. I am happy to continue serving the Duchess as long as she needs me.”

They walked on in pregnant silence, thoughts wrestling, each waiting for the other to speak; the Duke acutely conscious that this attractive widow had relinquished her virtue to him and Eleanor unable to voice the love and longing she still held for him. Time and position occupied an ever-widening abyss between the former lovers, which polite conversation could not bridge. As a passing cloud briefly cast them into its shade, Eleanor shivered, earnestly searching for appropriate words of pleasantry to impart to this man she idolised. She peeped sideways at Richard, averting her eyes quickly as he returned her stare, unspoken words vacillating between them. As the sun broke through bathing them in warmth once more, they were both relieved at the diversion when Bess came running back to them.

“Look, a lady beetle!” she held out her hand, unfurling her fingers carefully as the red spotted insect crawled over her palm, then spread its tiny wings and flew off.

Richard looked down into the child’s face and smiled.

“You will have good fortune now, Elizabeth” he told her. He stopped leading his horse and turned to face Eleanor.

“She will turn heads one day! “he said quietly, watching the girl as she trotted off down to the water’s edge. He was tempted to add ‘like her mother’ but he knew such a remark was inappropriate now he was a married man. Lasciviousness and perfidiousness, so ubiquitous in his brothers, were not part of Richard’s character and despite his wish to atone for his youthful indiscretion with Eleanor, he knew Anne did not deserve her husband’s disloyalty, in expressing admiration for another woman, especially now she was with child. The romantic dalliances of youth were an assumed part of growing up but with maturity should come moderation, self-discipline, and honour.

Richard was now looking intently at Eleanor. She gazed back longingly as his eyes searched hers and she had to look away for fear of blurting out her secret. She trembled and her heart raced at the proximity of his lean figure, which she noticed, he held a little awkwardly as if in some discomfort. Standing so close to him once more, Eleanor felt that surge of feeling she had withheld for so long; she ached to embrace him and feel his lips on hers one more time but she knew the gulf between them could never now be narrowed - he was wed to another, the Lord of Middleham, her master, her protector but never again her lover. She understood that even if he still held feelings for her, he would not show it out of respect for Anne, his wedding vows and his ingrained moral integrity, so at variance with his brother’s libertinism.

“If you need anything Eleanor, you only have to ask” he said gently. Eleanor sensed he wanted to say more, when just then Bess called to her mother from the riverbank, eager to show her something and the moment passed. It was to Eleanor as if for that brief moment of immobilising eye-contact they had been locked in a soundless bubble, devoid of everything around them save for their shared experience, until the child’s cry shattered the illusion and reality burst in.

“Thank you, my Lord”, Eleanor replied meekly, though in her heart she was crying out ‘Richard, I want for nothing save you, the father of my child, stay with me and be mine’. Instead, she stood immobile, watching him turn away, re-mount and trot the stallion down the path, waving to Bess as he passed her. Bess waved back, happy in her innocence, clasping a fistful of marsh marigolds, unaware this noble stranger’s blood ran in her veins. Eleanor’s eyes filled with tears, partly for her daughter, bereft of a father and partly for herself, robbed of the love she craved. I will tell you one day my sweet girl, I promise, she vowed silently.

Not long afterwards one evening after Anne had withdrawn to her chamber, Richard sent for some bread and wine before retiring. His page was engaged in feeding the dogs, so Eleanor took the plate and flagon of wine up to him, hoping for another chance to converse with him. As she entered the solar, he was sat at the desk engrossed in papers and books. He did not look up as she placed the jug and platter on a chest by the hearth and turned to go. Hearing the rustling of her dress he raised his head wearily, his face relaxing into a smile when he saw who it was.

“Eleanor! Thank you…I sent for Thomas….”

“He is busy with the dogs, my Lord” Eleanor interrupted “I was passing and offered to help”.

“I am glad to see you, Eleanor…” Richard hesitated and put down his quill.

“I wanted to ask you something…”

“Pray sit down, Eleanor, pour me a drink and yourself too” He passed her his goblet to fill and she took the spare goblet she had brought and filled them from the jug.

“Thank you, my Lord” she replied sitting down on a low bench beside the hearth.

“Pray call me Richard, we are alone, Eleanor”.

He took a draught of the sweet liquor and let it warm his throat, closing his eyes momentarily, as he rested his head against the high-backed carved oak chair. Eleanor waited politely, his classic facial features and long lashes reminding her of his brother Edward, when he had sat before her. She sipped at the full-bodied wine sparingly, fearful that the rich intoxicant she rarely tasted undiluted, would soon dull her senses, perhaps encouraging her to be unguarded. When Richard opened his eyes a moment later, he regarded her fixedly with a direct stare.

“Is she mine, Eleanor?” the intensity of his gaze and the abruptness of his question threw her off guard and made her jump. There was no doubting to whom he referred.

Eleanor nodded looking at the floor.

“Yea, Richard, she is,” she whispered, relief flooding over her and tears welling in her eyes as the burden of her secret lifted. She heard him take a deep breath, perceiving a look of hurt in his eyes as she looked up. As he scrutinised her face his expression caused a stabbing pain of remorse and self-reproach to pierce Eleanor’s breast. The last thing she wanted was to wound the man she adored.

“Why did you not tell me, Eleanor?” He frowned, serious now, not angry but visibly annoyed, whether at himself or her, she was unsure.

“Forgive me, Richard. You left and ….” Her voice trailed off. She hadn’t meant to castigate him.

“I had to leave, Eleanor. You could have got a message to me. I could have provided for you. Clearly you do not have a very high opinion of me!” he studied her face keenly.

She was stung by the unfairness of this remark from the man she had worshipped for so long, held in such high regard, loved to distraction.

“Oh, nay, my Lord, I respect and admire you ...I did not wish to burden you, my Lord. You had your duties and I was ashamed of my… situation”

“So you married Ralph and passed Elizabeth off as his?” he said flatly. Eleanor blushed. He made it sound so base.

“Aye but….the Countess….” She stopped, realising she had broken a confidence.

“The Countess?” Richard exclaimed, glancing up surprised. “She knew of this?”

“Aye, she arranged for my marriage and dowry”

“Oh, I see.. “he hesitated, frowning. “Did she know the child was mine?”

“Nay, Richard, of course not, I would never have given that away...if the Countess returns however, she may see the likeness as you have done, Richard. Bess, … has your eyes and your colouring”.

“I know” he sighed, with a pained expression, swallowing another mouthful of the heady red liquid.

“I suspect Anne will perceive it before too long” he spoke as if to himself, twirling the goblet in his pliant fingers. Noticing the purple slash of fresh scar tissue branding his hand and forearm, Eleanor involuntarily drew in a swift intake of breath.

“You are injured?” she stared in alarm.

“T’is only a scratch Eleanor, nothing of consequence” he replied, brushing aside her concern and pulling his sleeve down further; a reminder of Barnet he would prefer to forget.

Eleanor realised how little she knew of his life and the events that had transformed him from boy to man. She wished so much she could be part of his life, share his pain, his joy, keep his secrets but the gulf between them was as wide as it could be.

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COMING SOON: On Friday, 15th August, our team member, author Dawn Treacher, will be sharing Chapter 4 of her novel, 'The Ninth Life Of Norris'.