La Flamme (Historical Romance) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: By King’s Command

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two: La Flamme

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Part Three: The Duchess of Balmarough

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  La Flamme

  by

  Constance O’Banyon

  © 1995 by Constance O'Banyon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief

  quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is lovingly dedicated to the real talent in my family, Glen Hoyle, artiste extraordinaire. Your magnificent talent has earned you a place of honor in the art world. I am so proud of you, my dearest brother.

  A special thanks to Judie Hall, PhD, RN, CEN, for being my medical advisor on this book. Your help is most appreciated.

  To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me, which though it alter not love's sole effect, yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.

  I may not evermore acknowledge thee, lest my bewiled guilt should do thee shame.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Part One:

  By King's Command

  1

  1630

  The sky was the color of smoke and there was a chill in the air as a weak sun strained to penetrate the high clouds. A wide circle of colorful tents dotted the meadow while crested banners of the noblest families in England snapped and waved in the light breeze that stirred the late spring wildflowers on Heyworth Moor.

  Charles Stuart had only been king for five years and already he'd made powerful enemies by disbanding Parliament whenever its members disagreed with him. His despotic actions had split the nobility; some supporting him, while others favored Parliament. Thus far the quarrelling factions had stopped short of armed conflict, but civil war would surely come if the two sides did not heal their differences.

  Apprehension was reflected on the faces of the highborn lords and ladies who had once rebelled against their king but now had gathered to pledge him their fidelity because Lord Woodbridge had asked it of them. Many here would face old foes today, not on the field of battle, but by attending the wedding that everyone hoped would unite a troubled England.

  The hope for the future of the realm came in the form of the young daughter of the powerful earl of Wood-bridge and in the son of the equally powerful duke of Balmarough. The houses of Woodbridge and Balmarough had divided loyalties; Woodbridge was Catholic and staunchly supported Parliament, while the house of Balmarough was of the Anglican faith and unquestioningly supported the king. Since the lords were still distrustful of each other, this mutual ground had been agreed upon for the nuptials.

  King Charles's advance guard had already arrived to make certain that everything was in readiness for the monarch's appearance. Holding their breath, many turned toward the woods from whence he would come—watching... waiting.

  It was rumored that Lord Blackthorn, the son of the duke of Balmarough, had disagreed with his father and refused to submit to the marriage. Those who were acquainted with Lord Woodbridge knew he would never tolerate such an insult to his daughter, Lady Sabine. So an air of uneasiness settled over the moor, for everyone realized that there might yet be conflict if the young lord rejected a marriage that had been arranged by Charles Stuart himself.

  Surely Garreth Blackthorn would not disobey the king…

  Fourteen-year-old Lady Sabine limped across a meadow where a sheen of dew still clung to the grass. Several years earlier, her leg had been broken, and it had never healed properly. Awkwardly, she lifted her gown to keep the hem dry. When she entered her mother's tent, Lady Woodbridge came forward, smiling, and pressed a kiss on her daughter's cheek. But Sabine's father scowled at her.

  "You are late for prayer," he said. "Your pleasure can be delayed, but God is not to be kept waiting."

  "Yes, Papa," she said, dropping to her knees. In the inner circle of light, she knelt beside her parents, while her mother's ladies and her father's attendants knelt just behind them.

  Sabine looked up at her mother and received an understanding smile that comforted her. Then Lady Woodbridge lowered her head and reverently clasped her rosary. Sabine was certain her mother's prayers were for her and Lord Blackthorn.

  The girl's mind was not on her prayers as she looked from her lovely mother to her stern-faced father. Her father's features were angular and his brows met across the bridge of his nose. He was a harsh man, but in rare moments he could show affection with a pat on the head or restrained praise. Sabine had gotten her curly auburn hair from him, although she'd always longed for flaxen-colored hair like her mother's. She knew she was not beautiful but her mother told her that with her striking amber-colored eyes and even features she would one day be a beauty. Sabine did not believe her—her mother looked at her with love, and not as she actually was.

  Lady Woodbridge was lovely of heart and face. She was devout in her religion and insisted that her family be the same. She was French by birth, and had taught her children her native language even as they learned English.

  Sabine squeezed her eyes together tightly and whispered a prayer that God would take pity on her and deliver her from this marriage. She paused to wonder if God had the authority to change the mind of a king.

  After prayer, which Sabine thought would never end, her father left the tent while her mother came to her. "My dearest, I have something to give you. It was given to me as a wedding gift by someone very special."

  Sabine's gaze dropped to her mother's hand and she saw the locket that her mother had never removed until now. "Surely not your locket. 1 know how you treasure it."

  "As shall you." Lady Woodbridge fastened the locket around her daughter's neck. "As you know, my sister, Margretta, gave this to me before I left France to marry your father. There is still a lock of her hair inside, and I have added a lock of mine."

  "Oh, thank you, Maman," Sabine said, touching the locket reverently, knowing that it was a true gift of love.

  Suddenly they both fell silent and there were tears in their eyes. "This will never do," her mother said lightly. "We must make haste, dearest. My ladies are waiting to dress you."

  Sabine looked ruefully at her mother. "Some say that Lord Blackthorn will not come today. I hope he does not."

  "Make no mistake about it, Sabine, he will come. Like you, he'll do the king's bidding, and not dally past the appointed time."

  "But, Maman, I don't want to
marry Lord Blackthorn. I have never seen him. He's in his twentieth year and that's too old for me."

  Ryanne Woodbridge sat down on a velvet stool and held her arms out to Sabine. "I know what you are feeling, but I can assure you that it won't be so bad as you imagine. Your father is fourteen years older than I."

  "Were you frightened on your wedding day?" Sabine asked. In truth, she was amazed that her mother had ever feared anything.

  "Indeed I was. I had traveled from France to be your father's bride. When we were married, I was but three years older than you, and I had seen your father only twice before our wedding day. He seemed so stern, and I was terrified. I was far away from my home and about to marry a man I hardly knew."

  "But you love Papa."

  "I grew to love him, Sabine. I bore him seven children, though five died in infancy. We have shared the good and the troubled times, but not once have I regretted being his wife. It will be the same with you."

  Tears filled Sabine's eyes, and she stared at the tips of her green velvet slippers, hoping her mother would not notice. Unconsciously, she rubbed her aching leg.

  "Does your leg pain you, Sabine?"

  Sabine shrugged, unable to tell her mother that the real pain would come if she saw disgust in the eyes of her bridegroom, because she was crippled.

  Lady Woodbridge wiped her daughter's tears with a delicate finger. "Sabine, remember that nothing really changes today. You will continue to live with me and your father until your sixteenth birthday."

  Sabine glanced at her mother's slightly rounded stomach. "When this baby is born, I pray it will be a son like Richard so it will not have to leave you at marriage."

  "I only pray that the baby is safely delivered, Sabine, and it matters not to me if it is a son or daughter." Her mother's expression was tender. "I would not mind having another daughter as dear as you, even if she had to leave me as you will."

  Sabine moved to the cot where her three-year-old brother lay sleeping. Lovingly she touched his cheek. "When the time comes, how will I leave you, Papa, and Richard?"

  Her mother ushered her into the inner room of the tent, where her ladies waited. "Let us have only happy thoughts this morning. This is your wedding day, dearest!"

  With that, Sabine was disrobed, and submitted to having her long hair brushed and braided, then interwoven with fragrant red roses. She was dressed in a beaded crimson gown with yards of gold braid at the sleeves and hem. The gown was so heavy that it was even more difficult than usual for her to walk. It was grander than anything she had ever worn, yet it gave her no pleasure.

  "There, my dear," her mother said, pushing an errant curl behind Sabine's golden headdress. "You look very like a bride."

  Sabine limped to the mirror that Thea held out to her and stared at her reflection. "I look like an overdressed child." She turned sadly to her mother. "Lord Blackthorn will not treasure me as his wife."

  "Nonsense, dearest. You are from one of the most influential houses in England. Your hand has been sought by royalty and nobles alike. You take with you a dowry of three manors that bring in over a thousand pounds a year, as well as a fortune in gold, silver, jewels, and furnishings. What man would not want you for his wife?"

  No one, Sabine thought in despair, understood what she was feeling.

  "We must make haste," Lady Woodbridge added. "I am told that his majesty approaches."

  With a resigned sigh, Sabine raised her head and met her mother's challenging gaze. The young girl thrust her shoulders back and held her head at a proud tilt, knowing it was expected of her.

  "I am ready," she said.

  2

  The sudden blare of a trumpet broke the afternoon stillness. Fifty horsemen, riding two abreast, with King Charles at their head, emerged from the woods, their brightly colored banners snapping in the breeze.

  The king's colorful standard of the lion was not a call to arms, but displayed in honor of the union of two powerful houses.

  Sabine stood stiffly beside her mother and father, nervously clasping her hands. There was a dull ache in her heart as she watched the advancing riders, their giant warhorses thundering ever closer. She held on to the hope that Lord Blackthorn was not with the king, and therefore there would be no wedding.

  As the cavalcade approached, she noticed the surly expression on her father's face. It had been difficult for him to yield to a king he so adamantly disliked and distrusted. What kind of marriage would they have if Garreth Blackthorn felt the same? she wondered.

  The king dismounted, and Sabine dipped into a curtsy after being prompted by her mother. Her father, however, merely lowered his head. If the king noticed the lack of deference from Lord Woodbridge, he made no mention of it.

  Sabine had not expected King Charles to cut such a dashing figure. He had an elegant beard and mustache, and looked handsome indeed as he stood imperiously before her father.

  The king had a speech impediment and he spoke slowly and distinctly so he would not stammer. "Lord Woodbridge, this is indeed a glorious day for us all. It is time to lay aside our swords of distrust and pick up the banner of unity."

  With a stoic expression, Lord Woodbridge turned to Sabine's mother. "Your Majesty, may I present my wife, Lady Woodbridge, and of course, my daughter, Lady Sabine."

  "Your son is not present?" the king asked.

  "You will have to excuse Lord Richard, Your Majesty," Sabine's father said. "Being only in his third year, he is napping, and unaware of the importance of this day."

  "Quite so—quite so."

  King Charles exchanged polite greetings with Sabine's mother. "My Lady, you are from France, as is my wife. The queen has long expressed a wish to meet you. I hope that it will be possible in the near future."

  "I would be most happy to meet Her Majesty, Sire. Doubly so since she is from the country of my birth."

  His expression became serious. "Then we shall arrange it." When he reached Sabine he took her hand and covered it with his, and the smile on his lips seemed genuine.

  "It's hard to imagine that the fate of so many has been placed on such small shoulders."

  Sabine tried to smile, but it came out as a sigh when she let out her pent-up breath. Nervously, she took several steps backward, and the king immediately became aware of her limp. To her surprise, his eyes softened with understanding.

  "Lady Sabine, know you that I could not walk until I was in my seventh year because I was stricken by a congenital weakness?"

  Her eyes rounded in surprise. "No, Your Majesty, I did not know that. I am so sorry."

  He raised her hand to his lips. "Have no pity, Lady Sabine, because I am completely recovered. I overcame my impairment by strenuous exercise, and perhaps you shall also."

  Before Sabine could answer, a shadow fell across her face, and she moved closer to her mother as a young nobleman dismounted and approached her father.

  The stranger's dark eyes held a look of insolence as they swept over her family. With an expression of total indifference, his gaze lingered for a moment on Sabine's face.

  Unlike most of the gentlemen present, including the king and her father, this man was clean-shaven. He wore tan breeches and a matching velvet doublet. His thigh-length boots were of the same color, and in contrast, he wore a rakish black hat with a green plume, which he removed as he bowed before the king.

  This could only be Lord Blackthorn. Sabine stepped forward, trying to get a better look at him. The sun seemed to reflect off his shoulder-length, ebony hair. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His features were handsome, his eyes deep brown. He was too handsome, too arrogant. Sabine was terrified of being his wife.

  King Charles spoke authoritatively. "The wedding will go forth as planned."

  Sabine felt panic, knowing the moment she had dreaded was upon her. If only Garreth Blackthorn were not so fair of face, he would not expect her to be a beauty. Why couldn't he be ordinary?

  At last, he stood before her. "So, My Lady, you and I are to be a pair."


  She feared that she would see distaste in his eyes when he looked at her, but there was merely acceptance in the cold, brown depths.

  "Are those tears because you must have me for husband, My Lady?"

  She looked up at him earnestly. "No, Your Grace. I feel pity that you have so recently lost your father, and your sadness strikes at my heart."

  His eyes did not waver, nor was there any warmth in them. He merely removed his leather gauntlet and held out his hand to her. "Come, let us get this thing done."

  His dispassionate manner caused her to draw back. Then, knowing what was required of her, Sabine placed her hand on his sleeve and raised her chin. "As you wish, Your Grace."

  When he led her forward, he became aware of her limp and slowed his steps so she could keep pace. Sabine searched his eyes. "Did no one tell you that I am lame, Your Grace?"

  "No one told me anything about you." His voice was devoid of emotion, so she could not discern his feeling about her deformity.

  "I was not born this way, but suffered a riding accident which resulted in a broken leg. Although a physician attended me, the leg did not heal properly." She did not tell him that her leg ached constantly and that when she was tired the limp was more pronounced.

  King Charles presented him to her mother and father. "I understand you have not as yet met the bridegroom. This is His Grace, the duke of Balmarough."

  Lord Woodbridge looked baffled. "Say you that he is the duke, when I know that his father carries that title?"

  "My Lord, My Ladies," Garreth Blackthorn said, bowing slightly. "I can see how you might be confused. My family has met with a grave tragedy and my father is dead."

  Lord Woodbridge was clearly dismayed. "When did this occur?"

  The young duke raised his head. His dislike for Sabine's father was clearly reflected in his eyes, but there was no feeling in Garreth Blackthorn's voice as he replied. "Sorrowfully, my father has been ailing for some months, and died but three weeks past."

  "Most unfortunate," Lady Woodbridge said, placing her hand on the new duke's. "Please know that you have our family's deepest sympathy."