had caused it to rise from the hotly contested land he had been given as reward for his valour in battle. He had been named William after his commander and the estate had remained in the Christowe family for many years, until one of the young Franco-English heirs had misguidedly sat down to play cards with Harry Latimar.
Harry had brought his new bride, Bess, to it; it had then entered into its golden age, for Bess had been both lady and farmer’s daughter. Her strong instinct for the soil had encouraged her to bring the land back to fulfilment; her more delicate strain, vested in her by her aristocratic father, had enabled her to make it a true gentleman of England’s home. Over the past three decades Maiden Court had become renowned for being the most flourishing and lucrative estate within a radius of one hundred miles, and also a place English nobles enjoyed visiting to take their ease. Gay King Hal had spent many hours beneath its accommodating roof, as had his successive Queens, and his sickly heir, Edward. Mary Tudor had expressed the opinion that Maiden Court, with its peaceful verdant acres, “offers me peace in my troubled life”, and her sister, Elizabeth, obviously felt the same for scarcely a half-year passed during her reign when she did not visit.
Hal, pausing on the slope overlooking the manor and gazing down on the mellow house, every window yellow with candle light, smiled sideways at his companion, saying, “I have been riding back from some place or other for ten years and never fail to be moved by the first sight of my home.”
Piers shifted in his saddle. “There is no place like home, or so they say,” he murmured sardonically. “Naturally, I do not speak from experience.” He knew it was unforgivable to make such a bitter comment, but—just sometimes—he was overcome by envy. It was irrational, he knew, for he probably had been given in his short life every reasonable entitlement. But, a dedicated gambler, he often felt the odds to be so damned uneven. Why should one man have so much, another so little? It was not a question which could ever be answered, or presumably there would be less miserable beggars at the gates of Greenwich or Windsor or Richmond. And he had to admit he was more advantaged than they. After all, his reluctant father need not have made so casual a gesture as ensuring his bastard son was educated and trained and sent out into the world as a qualified soldier. And yet, occasionally, Piers was resentful. Resentful of Hal Latimar who had it all: good breeding, good looks, plenty of money and not a care for any of it. Not a thought other than where the next card or dice game would be held, or the next cock fight or bear-baiting bout would take place. And if these excitements palled, there was always the prospect of an assignation with a pretty woman, usually falling over her silken skirts in her haste to succeed in snaring Latimar where so many of her sisters had failed.
Hal put a swift hand on his arm. “You know,” he said, “you are always welcome in my home.”
Piers returned the smile ruefully. It was impossible really to resent his generous friend for long. “I know, but your mother’s letter said this was to be a purely family affair—I may be out of place on this occasion.”
Hal shook his reins and began to descend the rise. Over his shoulder he replied, “Nonsense! If anyone suggests any such thing, we shall take our leave immediately.”
In fact, Bess was a little put out that Hal had brought his friend, not because she did not like Piers, but because she knew Hal well enough to know he rarely made the journey home without company because this company was a kind of protective armour against any complaints which might be directed towards him. She was aware her husband wanted to speak to his son of the debts he so frequently incurred and of his irresponsible behaviour in general. This coming autumn Hal would come into his majority, would be granted—if he wished—an establishment of his own and considerable monies would be settled on him. Thereafter he would be his own master. Meanwhile, he must live within his generous allowance. Nevertheless, she embraced both boys fondly and hurried them into the house.
“Are the rest of the clan not gathered yet?” Hal asked as he looked about the hall, acknowledging its unspoken welcome and accepting a glass of wine.
“Sadly Anne and the rest of the Hamiltons cannot get away, but George and his family are expected before nightfall and we are soon to entertain visitors…Tonight will be an adult party, tomorrow we will do it all over again with the little ones present.”
“It sounds terrifying,” Hal commented, turning towards the stairs as Harry Latimar descended. Regretfully, Hal noticed the slow movements, the breathless pauses, the general deterioration of his father since last they met. With his characteristically graceful stride he crossed the floor and leaped up the stairs to embrace the other man who gratefully took his arm for the remaining steps. Safely in his chair by the hearth, a glass of his own in his hands, Harry gave the charming smile his younger son had inherited to both young men. “Dear Hal, how well you look, and Piers, my boy! Come, both shake my hand and forgive my decrepitude.” Piers and Hal leaned affectionately over the back of his chair, laughing and joking. But soon Hal straightened up and his eyes sought his mother’s across the hall. She made a wry little grimace and turned back to the table.
At that moment horses’ hooves and voices could be heard in the yard outside. The door opened and a young woman stepped inside, throwing back the hood of her cloak. Bess hurried forward. “Katherine, my dear, welcome to Maiden Court!” The girl acknowledged the greeting with a little smile and offered her cheek.
Hal, conscious that his father was struggling to rise and that Piers was helping him, remained rooted to the spot. He was dazzled. Surely this latest addition to the hall had brought every last ray of the setting sun in with her. Katherine Monterey was astonishingly fair. No, not fair, but golden. Golden-haired, golden-eyed; her vivid face cream and rose and gold. She shimmered against the dark panelling of the old hall. Time paused for Hal as she smilingly and sympathetically waited for Harry Latimar to reach her.
She then stood on tiptoe to kiss him, took his arm and that of his lady and, thus linked, came further into the room. Behind these three George was ushering his family in, but Hal had no eyes for anyone but the apparition approaching. He moved at last and Harry introduced him gravely. Katherine smiled mischievously.
“Well…the only member of the family I have not yet met. How do you do, sir? I have heard a great deal about you.” She laughed, a marvellous musical expression of enjoyment, then glanced behind her. “Rachel—where is Rachel?” Unnoticed, a small dark girl was standing shyly amongst the chattering visitors. “May I introduce the Lady Rachel Monterey? A very distant cousin who is lately come to England to be my—er—companion.”
The girl came forward tentatively and dropped a graceful curtsy. Rising, she said in a soft timorous voice, “Good evening my lord, my lady and sir.”
Katherine grasped her hand and turned her about to present her to the others. Hal bowed and his uninterested, but assessing, eyes swept over her.
Rachel Monterey was delicately made, unfashionably full-bosomed, but otherwise very small and slender. Her downpouring of shining blue-black hair appeared too heavy for her elegantly moulded head on its slim white neck. Her face was a pale triangle, distinguished by a small straight nose, a determinedly firm chin and a pair of extravagantly lashed dark eyes overlarge with an expression both wary and proud. She had been born in Spain of an English father and a mother who had both English and Spanish blood in her veins. Her father she knew only from a little miniature painted before he died, her mother from a great portrait which had hung in her maternal Andalucian home, painted the year before she died when her little daughter was but eight years old. Rachel had been raised by her grandmother who hated all things English.
Two years ago, when Rachel was fifteen, the grandmother—her only relative in Spain—had died and she was suddenly alone. A strict Catholic, she had applied to the local priest for advice and the good man had been dismayed to find that when all the estate debts were paid there was nothing left for Rachel. The servants in the casa were fiercely
