The Golden Widows Page 6

  Dickon did not answer, just burrowed his face in the folds of her kirtle. She tousled his hair.

  The bailiff, not to be denied an answer, poked the child in the ribs. ‘Aye, one day it will be you riding to battle, little man. Having a whack at the Saracens or the froggies.’ Receiving no response he bestowed a smile of inebriated pity upon Elysabeth and made his way to the nearerst keg.

  ‘Where’s Tom?’ she asked Dickon. ‘He was here a moment ago. Oh, he’s not at the motte again, surely? He’ll catch his death of cold.’

  But when Dickon slid a thumb out of his mouth and nodded, Elysabeth left him in the care of her maidservant and went to berate her older lad.

  Tom had taken to keeping his own company in the ruins of the old Norman keep that lay in the grounds of the hall. Today he was perched elfinlike – his chin resting on his knees – on one of the ancient wallstones that had evaded being reused.

  ‘There’s been a victory, darling. Did you know? The queen’s army has defeated Warwick.’

  A shrug. ‘So?’

  ‘But, Tom, don—’

  ‘Go away, Mother! Leave me alone.’

  ‘It is so cold outside here, Tom.’

  ‘I don’t care. Leave me alone!’

  ‘We have to talk, Tom.’

  ‘What is there to say? I wish we were back at Astley. At least there I don’t have to put up with Grandmother Ferrers comparing me to stupid old Reginald and wishing I were dead in his stead.’

  ‘She never said that!’

  ‘She did not have to. I can see it in her face every time she bothers to look at me.’ He sprang up from the stone. ‘We need to go back to Astley, Mama. It’s not good for us here.’

  ‘No, but your father asked me to—’

  Tom staunched her words with a sneer: ‘Mind his cursed bricks for him? He cares more about that damned tower than he does about any of us.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘All right then, about Dickon and I. And she…’ he jabbed a finger towards the hall. ‘She doesn’t want us here. Father may think this tumbling old place is his but it isn’t. It’s hers and we are not welcome.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Mama. I can see it in your face.’ He nodded towards the hall. ‘Better go, Mama, it seems you’re wanted.’ The Ferrers’ chaplain, jowls aquiver, was hastening towards them.

  ‘Ah, my lady, there you are. I’ve just been informed by the old stablehand, Bart, that one of the horseboys is back with news from St Albans. I haven’t seen or spoken with the lad yet myself but I thought—’

  She stood up and smoothed her skirts. ‘Thank you, I’ll come at once. Tom?’

  The boy shrugged and stayed where he was.

  ‘I can see your young fellow is still sulking from the beating,’ observed the chaplain, puffing somewhat to keep up with her brisk walk. ‘It’s a difficult age, the transition between being a child and becoming a man. Would you like me to have a word with him?’

  Elysabeth pulled a weary face. ‘My lord husband blames me for not sending him away. So does Lady Ferrers.’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m sure Lord Grey will soon put matters right. Every lad needs a father to keep him on the straight and narrow.’ He bestowed a smug smile upon the clouds as though his paternal connections were more heavenly than most, before he courteously opened the door for her.

  The nearest way to the front yard was through the hall and Elysabeth set her hand on her mother-in-law’s arm as she passed through the throng. ‘There’s word come from John, madame.’ A revelation she instantly regretted.

  ‘News! News!’ exclaimed a happy Lady Ferrers, waving a wine cup. Wobbly and happy, the household lurched out of the hall in the noble ladies’ wake only to halt with grunts of astonishment.

  Two men were waiting in the courtyard, facing the steps of the hall. Right behind them, still held by its leading rein, was a laden ass.

  The grey-haired man – this must be Bart – bobbed in respect and stepped aside. Elysabeth recognised the youth who was with him – one of the stable lads who had left Groby last week as an excited horseboy and returned as…?

  The young man bowed and as he raised his head, sorrowful eyes, gritted with weariness and suffering, pierced hers. Elysabeth, confused, skewed her gaze behind him to the pack ass – not one of theirs but a poor bony creature. Its load…was a body.

  The corpse was slung across the animal’s back. It hung face down, wrists bound to bare ankles to prevent falling. A quilted brigadine, heavily red-stained, had slid downwards to collar the man’s head.

  Staring at Elysabeth, the lad reached out wordlessly and tugged the garment up so she was able to recognise the tousled, bloodied hair and the hands, ringless and tethered palm to palm.

  John.

  She screamed and rushed forwards, falling on her knees. The ass, startled, move forwards. The boy swiftly grabbed the reins.

  ‘How can this be?’ Elysabeth shrieked, twisting in anger to face the people behind her.

  John’s mother’s face was as grey as ashes. ‘O Jesu,’ she whispered crossing herself in horror. ‘O Jesu, Jesu, Jesu!’

  ‘But it was a victory,’ protested someone.

  ‘What of Grey, my other son?’ Lady Ferrers was asking.

  ‘He be recovering from wounds, my lady,’ answered the boy. ‘That be why he could not come ’imself.’

  Oh, if only John’s brother had died instead! Elysabeth wanted to shriek aloud in her wretchedness. How could God be so cruel? And she and John had parted in such anger!

  ‘No, no!’ she protested, her hands fists against the wrath of God.

  ‘My lady?’ Exclaiming and muttering, their people were all about them now, the women servants sobbing and the older men blaspheming in shock. And Elysabeth was reaching out in grief and pity to John’s brow as if her fingertips needed to assert what her mind refused to believe.

  And then the voices halted, as though a knife had been thrust against each throat. She twisted round, dashing her own tears aside. The throng had parted to let Tom through. The chaplain was trying to hold him back but he jerked away from the cleric’s hand.

  ‘No, no, don’t let him see!’ exclaimed Elysabeth. ‘Take him in! For the love of God, take him in!’ She stumbled to her feet, spreading her arms.

  Ignoring her, his face like hewn stone, he came past her and halted, staring wide-eyed at the purple bruises that made his father’s profile almost beyond recognition. It was as if he was counting the wounds, forcing himself to register each one. Elysabeth, shaking with shock now, looked, too. There were so many. And the gash. The line of dried blood ribboning John’s throat.

  ‘Tom,’ she began but her son’s face was a mask of defiance.

  ‘This is victory, Mother? I do not think so.’

  The servants parted in silence as he walked back through their midst into the house. For a moment no one moved and then his grandmother took charge. ‘Why do you stand in such idleness?’ Lady Ferrers cried, gesturing the servants towards John’s body. ‘Carry your master to the chapel at once! And you, sirrah,’ she demanded of the youth. ‘What of Lady Grey’s kinsmen and the rest of our men?’

  Elysabeth clutched her fingers to her lips with a painful, guilty gasp. In her anguish, she had forgotten that her father and eldest brother were with the army, too.

  ‘They stay with the queen, my lady. She intends to march on to London. Two of the men from Astley were killed with the master but they’re like to be buried at St Albans, and Nicholas Anstey had an arrow in his shoulder but the chirugeon got it out and reckons it’ll heal an—’

  ‘They will be in our prayers,’ cut in Lady Ferrers. ‘Come, Elysabeth! Let us to the chapel!’ But then rage and sorrow broke through her mask of briskness. ‘I’ll say this, though, lad, you could have brought your lord home with greater honour, not slung like a traitor!’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, my lady. It be not my fault nor Master Edward’s. Her highness would not s
pare the horses.’

  ‘No horse?’ Elysabeth exclaimed, her voice strange and shrill. ‘My lord husband died for the queen and she could not spare a horse?’ For an instant, her entire body shook with hatred, welcomed it, but the horror was overwhelming. She was conscious of the chaplain at her side, the murmur of concerned voices.

  ‘Pray go in, my lady,’ he was saying. ‘Your sons will need you.’ And then Lady Ferrers, with an arm about her shoulders, was turning her towards the steps. She could feel the same righteous anger pulsing through the older woman’s fingers.

  ‘Ahem! Please you, Lady Grey.’ They had forgotten the young messenger who had brought his master home.

  Both of them looked back. Elysabeth felt the words stick in her throat, but Lady Ferrers still had a stifler on her grief and nodded. ‘We thank you, boy. You shall be rewarded.’

  He sniffed dismissively, waggling his lower jaw. ‘Not that, my lady.’ It seemed he had a speech for both of them but his gaze was for Elysabeth. ‘Master’s esquire, Andrew Chilvers, wanted me to say to you that the master fought bravely. He led the charge but it was them traps what did it.’

  ‘Traps?’ The word tasted raw, bitter as she turned and braced herself to listen.

  ‘Yes, Lady Grey. Lord Warwick hid traps – nets, caltraps and that ilk to wound the horses, see. That’s what brought the master down. His horse trod upon the caltraps and he fell upon the field and our enemy’s soldiers rushed forward with their halberds.’

  ‘Oh dear God! You saw this?’

  ‘Not I, my lady, but Master Chilvers did. And he bade me give you this.’ He thrust his hand inside his jacket and tugged out a crumpled piece of silk.

  The St Valentine’s gift.

  The youth was a blur beyond her tears as he tumbled to his knees at her feet like a penitent waiting for absolution. ‘An’ I crave your forgivene—’

  He broke off. Dickon had burst out of the hall and was pulling at her skirt.

  ‘Mama come, come! Tom is throwing the wooden soldiers that Father made us onto the fire.’

  Elysabeth, torn, her heart breaking, caught the child to her side and set a trembling hand upon the messenger’s head. ‘God’s blessing on you for bringing your master home.’

  ‘An’ God be wi’ you, my lady,’ he said.

  With pity.

  Kate

  25th February 1461

  Shute Hall, Devonshire

  Lord Bonville was dead. Unquestionably. By the bloody hand of the queen.

  The old man who had been Grandfather Bonville’s bodyservant for fifty years wept piteously as he knelt before Lady Bonville and Kate in the great chamber with the saddest of tidings from the battlefield of St Albans. Newton was crouched beside him with his arm about the old fellow’s shoulders.

  ‘My master’s great age should have saved him, my ladies. He and Sir Thomas Kyriel ought to have stayed at the Tower of London with King Henry in their keeping but my lord of Warwick insisted that King Henry should be carried as prisoner to St Albans, and there we had his highness in a tent, well guarded. And that night, my lord Warwick came with his brother and my lord of Arundel, and they spoke with my lord on the eve of the battle. They said they had been waiting for York’s son, the Lord Edward, to join them but that he had not come and they would have to hold the road without him. They said that the queen’s army was great indeed but, for their own part, they had handgunners and mounted pikemen.

  ‘And my lord king said that whosoever should prove the victor, it would be by God’s will, and he would spend the night in prayer for the souls of the men who would die that morrow.

  ‘And many did. We heard the screams of the men and horses even though the king’s tent was back amongst the horseboys and the supply carts. No word came, either from my lord of Warwick or any of his captains, so my master and Sir Thomas did not know what to do, but they knew it their duty to safeguard the king and so they waited.

  ‘And then came Queen Margaret with her young son and all her captains, and King Henry asked for mercy for my lord and for Lord Kyriel especially because they were great in years and had been courteous in their keeping of him, but Queen Margaret scorned his plea. “Let our son decide!” she said. “No, madame,” protested our lord king once more. “You cannot ask this of him. The child is only eight years old.” But the queen laughed scornfully and the boy did, too. “Cut their heads off!” he said, and the order was carried out.’

  ‘Oh, my poor Bonny!’ Lady Bonville crossed herself and sank down onto the chair. Kate gestured to Master Newton to fetch aqua vitae from the aumery, then helped the old retainer to his feet.

  ‘God bless you for staying with your master. Tell me now as to my brother Warwick? Was he slain?’

  The old man rubbed a hand across his salt-wet lips. ‘They were searching the dead for him when I came away. The queen has proclaimed an award for his capture if he is still alive. I fear your brother John was captured, my lady.’

  Oh God!

  He turned towards Lady Bonville, his aged hands trembling as he clutched his hat. ‘It was King Henry who ordered that the master’s body be returned to you, my lady. It is—’

  ‘Shall I see to it, my lady?’ Newton offered with a bow. ‘We’ll lay him out in the chapel.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Outwardly, Lady Bonville was holding herself together as though God had not yet slapped her face with the reality of her husband’s death. ‘He always said he should be buried at Chewton where he was born. We shall…yes, we shall hold a remembrance here at St Michael’s on Sunday and then we shall leave for Somerset. Make the arrangements, Newton. It will be your duty.’

  The suggestion seemed to surprise the young man but his chin went up as though he appreciated the responsibility. ‘As you wish, my lady.’ He held out an arm to the ancient manservant. ‘Come along, old gaffer.’

  Lady Bonville nodded. ‘See him looked after, Newton, and send in my amanuensis on your way out. So much to do, Katherine. You must help me make a list. I shall write to inform Lady Margaret, my stepdaughter, at Powderham, although she and Bonny have not spoken for years. There’s his bastard, Kirby. I daresay he may come since Bonny provided for him.’

  When they were private again, Grandmother Bonville rejected Kate’s offer of a comforting hug, ‘No, no fuss.’ Astonishingly calm, she took a sip of the firewater. Kate poured herself some as well. She felt hollowed out, almost numbed by the horror of it all except…

  Except guilt was crawling into her mind like plague rats stealing ashore.

  ‘I expect you blame Richard for insisting King Henry be taken to St Albans, madame?’

  ‘No, child, what’s the point in blaming your brother, even if he’s still cursed green in strategy. Bonny will have made his own decisions. Stupid old fool.’ Her knuckles rose to banish the slow trickle of tears from her cheekbones. Then with a great sigh, she added, ‘You know, to have shown mercy would have become Queen Margaret greater than the victory. Maybe it’s her being French. Holds grudges. Why are you looking at me like that, Katherine Neville?’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, what to say.’

  ‘Pray, girl!’ An imperious hand beckoned. ‘For your brothers, that they keep their heads and for Bonny’s soul this night. I’m for the chapel. The Devil will be sharpening his toasting fork for my old fellow and if prayers can knock off a few years of Purgatory for the lot of ’em, it’s the least we can do.’

  St Michael’s Church in Shute hushed as the two widowed noblewomen walked up the nave in stately single file with their tiring women following. The only sound was the rustle of their mourning robes. Kate felt intensely uncomfortable at being on display. At least the dark lawn veil over her face gave her shelter from the watching eyes, but it also enabled her to notice all the grim faces as household servants, villagers and neighbours touched their foreheads in respect. It wasn’t just obligatory courtesy narrowing the men’s eyes but something more concerning. Uncertainty? Mistrust? Self-interest? What were they seeing? Two women
in charge after fifty years of one strong master and him now beheaded as a traitor?

  The news was spreading and so was lawlessness. The thirteenyear-old daughter of one of their tenants had been ravished by three men from Musbury, a manor belonging to Thomas Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Yesternight there had been a brawl in Axminster between men from Colyton and some Whitford farmers, one of the latter had been given a bloody nose and lost several teeth for saying that the earl was a greedy rogue. There was also word that the earl’s brother, Henry Courtenay, had come from Yeovil to make trouble. These woes and fears were laden onto the shoulders of villagers who had already lost kinsmen at Wakefield and St Albans.

  Kate grimaced. All her fault. It was she who had brought this disaster to Shute. If her father and Richard had not wed her to Will and drawn the Bonville lords into their treason, then…Oh, so many ifs…So many of her family dead and Richard fleeing for his life with every bounty hunter searching for him.

  With relief, she reached the bench reserved for the Bonvilles before the rood screen. Thank Heaven there were some privileges.

  ‘My ladies.’ Standing a row behind them, Master Gylle, newly appointed to replace Lady Bonville’s steward who had died at Wakefield, bowed with difficulty because of the wound in his shoulder. The poor man had a gash above his eye as well.

  Kate acknowledged him, glad of his survival. But there was his daughter, the beautiful Lovidia, brazenly standing between him and her mother with her babe asleep in her arms. She was not even churched, nor like to be with the child unlawfully begotten. The outrageous wench gave a curtsey and a smile that was either shy or…No, sly! Shy and sly with an annoying pale rose blush that made the men, close by, stare and stay staring.

  In ill temper, Kate almost tripped over her hassock. Master Gylle reached out his hale hand to steady her. Embarrassing. A pox on everything! Lacking a state of grace, she knelt, crossing herself, suppressing the childish urge to bawl her eyes out because life was not fair.