Ludovic thought of the whispering ghost in the shadows, and raised an eyebrow. “A friend? In this place?”
“Indeed.” Gerald sighed. “It seems poor Edward, the young Earl of Warwick, is housed in the apartment directly above him. Warwick’s been imprisoned ever since Tudor forced his way to the throne. They’re both kept in the Lanthorn Tower you know, and have discovered a way of speaking through the grills and passing messages up and down through the bars of the windows. Even the prince’s guards are sympathetic it seems, and help him keep his sanity that way. No plotting or planning to escape, just two desperate young men eager for friendship. They can’t see each other and they can’t touch, but they can whisper and write.”
“What a vile and miserable end,” Ludovic murmured. “Is that all life can offer the innocent?”
The earl interrupted softly, a hand to Ludovic’s shoulder, smiling at Gerald. “I honour your cares and intentions, my child, but we have very little time. You must leave this prince of yours to his own devices now, and think of yourself.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been thinking of little else for some days,” Gerald said, looking down again at his feet, shifting the rusted iron rings around his ankles and adjusting the weight. “I’ve made my last testament, and the priest has it in hand, though I’ve little to leave.” He looked back up at his father, his expression suddenly defiant. “What little I have goes to young Edward, Jennine’s child, my lord. He won’t need it, since eventually he’ll inherit everything, the title and Sumerford itself. But I want him to have something of mine, and remember me through that, though he’ll never know me in person.”
The sudden pause lengthened, each man looking to the other.
Eventually Ludovic said, “Your son?”
Gerald nodded. “Jenny was frightened that poor Humphrey would seed a child like himself. She asked me – just before the wedding – but there was nothing salacious I promise. I’m not ashamed of what I did. Indeed, I’m proud my son will become the earl, and perhaps be a greater man than I have been. And don’t blame Jenny, or say anything to any of the others, I beg you. Naturally Humphrey doesn’t know. I respected Jenny for insuring a fitting heir, but still insisting the title remain truly within the family.”
Ludovic frowned. “It had to be. Without red hair and a family likeness, each one of us would have suspected the child’s parentage.”
“I think she wanted you at first, Lu.” Gerald smiled somewhat ruefully. “I saw the way she looked at you those first days. Well, you’re the handsome one among us after all. But you’d have none of her. You’ve proved yourself stronger than me in many things, little brother.”
The earl interrupted again. “My dear child, I promise you I will keep your secrets and respect your choices but I fear the guards will come at any moment. Now, I have something of my own to say.” Gerald looked up as the earl leaned over, clasping his hand. “I do not find it easy to speak of love, my son. I have never known the words to express feeling or intimacy. But before I go, I must tell you that I love you. I have always loved you. And I shall continue to do so, even though you will not be present in my life. You have often been absent, and it has never affected the love I feel for you. It will not do so now. You will remain alive in the hearts of your family, of your prince, and of all those who have known you. I have permission to take your body back to Sumerford for consecrated burial, and prayers for your soul will be said daily in the castle chapel. You will never be forgotten, my son, and I shall continue to keep holy remembrance in your name each year until I myself die.”
They walked slowly across the inner ward to the Chapel of St. Peter Ad Vincula where the block was set, surrounded by straw. It had been well scrubbed and seemed strangely diminished, insignificant beneath the pale spring sunshine. Ludovic was in considerable pain and needed constant support. He leaned heavily on the earl’s shoulder and used his stick to help swing his legs, taking no weight on the joints. After managing to control his breathing, he said quietly, “Did you know of the child, sir?”
The earl sighed. “I did not. I had no reason to question Humphrey’s virility. His brain is weak but his body is strong.”
“Perhaps,” said Ludovic, “it is no bad thing. It is still in the family and the child comes from a better father than I thought.”
“It is of no matter,” said the earl quietly. “For the child is already dead.”
Ludovic bowed his head.
Gerald was escorted by two guards. He could walk very little, for he remained shackled and his knees and ankles were still much affected by the racking, but the guards had only a passing interest in his last remaining agonies. His chains rang as he stumbled. The priest walked ahead, reading aloud from his Bible. Gerald was led to the block.
The watching crowd was small. Some of the castle staff had stopped to witness the death of a traitor, and Ludovic recognised William of Berkhamstead, standing alone and forlorn at the back. It was not a time to wish for company or the greetings of friends. Ludovic did not acknowledge the young earl, nor was acknowledged in return. The sun was warming and gentle, a glitter catching along the white stones of the Keep, sparkling on the spread of the Thames and lighting Gerald’s red hair, uncombed, long and unkempt across his shoulders. He wore only shirt and hose, his father had given him coin to pay the executioner, and his boots and doublet would go to his guards. He struggled to stay upright, but on reaching the block and forced to kneel, he moaned. His knees were already much destroyed.
Gerald’s final speech was brief, and his voice was too weak for the sound to carry on the breeze. He spoke only of pride in his loyalties, of his belief in the young Prince Richard, true heir to the throne, and of Tudor’s shame in dubbing a royal prince with a false name and accusations of trickery. He asked God to have mercy on his soul, and he laid his head down on the block.
The axe man had been well paid and it took only one clean stroke to sever Gerald’s head from his body. Ludovic turned away, staring at the small passing clouds as they shrouded the sun. He did not watch, but smelled his brother’s blood. He made no attempt to lessen the sting in his eyes or the tears wet on his cheeks. He swayed a little, clinging to the wooden stick that supported him. He did not pray, but heard his father’s voice beside him, mumbling the Latin that absolved the soul of his son. Ludovic whispered his own private words of goodbye, and wished his favourite brother Godspeed and a safe journey to the great wide paradise beyond.
There was an interruption. The crowd had enlarged, and someone at the back was pushing to the front. There was sudden anger and a flurry of cursing.
The earl looked up, white lipped at the disrespect for Gerald’s passing, but a massing of guards hid the cause. Ludovic raised his eyes and instead looked, unwillingly but impelled, at his brother’s remains. The straw surrounding the block was soaked and dark. The head was already taken, carried off by its bright hair, as red as the slashed stump of its neck. The trunk remained, for Gerald had not been sentenced to quartering. When the king had answered the earl’s petition with a final pardon for the younger son, he had lessened the older son’s death warrant to simple execution, head to be spiked above the gate to the Bridge as all traitors were displayed as a warning to others, but the body to be given to the family for Christian burial. The earl’s own servants scurried quickly forwards with sheets, claiming the remains.
There was still shouting behind them, louder now, and a voice strangely familiar, interspersed with the clash of steel. More guards rushed forwards, running from the bastion of the Tower. Someone, just moments after Gerald’s death, was to be arrested there before the block.
A darker cloud had now smothered the sun and a pale drizzle misted the air in a sheen of inescapable tears. The earl took Ludovic’s arm. “It is time to go, my boy,” he said softly. “There is nothing more to be done here.”
The rain mingled with Ludovic’s misery, eyes blurred, smarting and salty, the bleak tears washed from his face. He leaned back against his father. For
a moment he thought he saw William of Berkhamstead running towards the guards, sword unsheathed, but he saw no more. The milling of the troopers closed tight, the cause of the confusion still unseen as the remainder of the crowd dispersed and the noise increased. Helped, hobbling but unconscious of all pain except Gerald’s death, Ludovic was taken to the covered litter and carried quickly back to the house in the Strand.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“He’s dead,” said the Lady Jennine. “Executed along with his brother, as you’ve known for days. Face it. You’ve driven us all mad with your silly sobbing, so now accept the inevitable, stupid girl, and the solution I offer. With him gone, it is now, after all, the only solution.”
Alysson clutched at the knot she had made of her livery apron, soiled now and creased across her lap. She lowered her eyes and shook her head. “It’s no solution at all. Merely degradation. You don’t even offer me any time for mourning.”
Jennine flounced to the settle and sat with a thud, stretching her legs and smoothing out her silks. “Stupid girl. Why mourn anyway? You could have had him, but you turned him down. Now you’ll take a different man and be thankful for him.”
“I’ve regretted my past decisions for the last six months,” Alysson whispered. “Even back when I thought he would return, and when I still thought you were my friend, I was a fool then. But I’m not a fool now. You can do what you want to me, but I won’t do it willingly.”
Jennine tittered. “Yes, I’ll do exactly what I want with you, and now there’s no one to interfere. I’d prefer your co-operation, and I’ve even offered inducements. But alright, now I’ll simply demand obedience. Remember your noble lover’s head is spiked on the gate to the Bridge, with those pretty green eyes pecked out by ravens and his tongue all swollen and black. And those lips that kissed you so passionately? They’ll be full of fly’s eggs and maggots crawling under the skin. The stink of it already makes the travellers gag as they ride beneath. Will the dear earl ride home that way, do you think, and pass through the arch where his two sons’ heads are mouldering in the sun?”
“You can’t make me feel any worse than I do already.” Alysson looked away. “I’ve thought of all those horrors and I can imagine the worst without your spiteful words. I’ve cried till I was sick, night after night. But being gone doesn’t make Ludovic any less beautiful in my mind, or any less lovable, any more than you can change what I really am even though you try and make me behave like a whore. You’re still a whore, Jenny, even though now you’re married and a titled lady, and as rich as I’m poor. The person inside doesn’t change just because of things that happen. Even a traitor’s death.”
The three chambers were small, but great efforts had once been made to ensure them comfortable. Limited by the restrictions on space high under the turrets of the eastern tower, each room led to the other, coming back upon themselves in a tight little circle. The dark and narrow steps outside led down to the Lady Jennine’s quarters, and up to the windswept stone above, but the doors to freedom were always kept locked. The windows, originally arrow slits, had been glazed some years back, and wooden shutters kept out the baleful moon at night. The damp ooze of the curved walls was hidden behind tapestry arras. The bed was wide, warm and feather filled, the curtains heavy lined and the coverlet thick velvet. There were chairs and a cushioned settle, a table, a wash stand, two large chests and a desk. The cold flagged floor was spread with Turkey rugs, though worn to the weft, and there was a small stone hearth, empty now, but still holding to its ashes.
It was not Jennine, but a strange man who eventually explained many things to Alysson about where she was, and why.
Dragged yelling and scratching from the lady’s chambers, with Jennine’s personal page scampering ahead to unlock and then lock the doors, the great red beast had bundled Alysson beneath one arm, and with little regard to her kicks and screams, had trundled her up to the small secret apartment at the very top of the tower. Then he had flung her to the bed, punched her heftily in the stomach when she rebounded back to her feet and tried to attack, and then sat hugging his knees on the ground while waiting for her to recover her breath.
She had recognised this man as Humphrey. Winded, shocked and terrified, she had stood gasping, heaving and staring down at him, understanding nothing but bewildered panic. At Jennine’s call, it seemed the Lord Humphrey, her own noble husband, had come puffing into the chamber and abducted Alysson by force, dragging her to the prison high in the eastern tower.
It was only after some minutes that Alysson realised it was not Humphrey at all. It was a man of similar size and identical colouring and the likeness was too remarkable for coincidence. He was perhaps somewhat taller than Humphrey, his shoulders wider and his face more rugged. The heavy jaw was hidden beneath beard and moustache as Humphrey’s was, but above it the nose was more pugnacious and the forehead higher. It was a larger face than Humphrey’s, the eyes less lost and more knowing with a flicker of cleverness, the mouth less loose and wet but firm lipped and determined. The mass of body was all bulk beneath the coarse doublet and shirt, but did not swell with belly fat around the middle, nor puff with soft flesh across the palms and fingers as Humphrey’s did. This was a man of muscle and intention. But the colour of him was the same, a rich red as threatening as blood, the hair silky over his head and curling into a fuzz of fire around his face. As she controlled her panic, Alysson knew immediately it had been this man who had attacked her several times in the past, and not Humphrey at all.
Afterwards she was ashamed, remembering how frightened she had been. But for some time it seemed as though the world, already harsh and judgemental enough, was now gone quite mad. Then finally, because it was the only way to understand anything at all, Alysson sat quietly on a small chair and listened.
“Vymer,” said the man, watching her as intently as she watched him. “Master Vymer to you, wench. And I reckon you know me well enough, if you use your head and think, though not being a thing females can do as a rule. But I’m your master now, so be careful what you says.”
“You work for Jennine? Or for the earl? Or for Humphrey?” she had demanded, struggling to be calm and unclench her fists.
“Their lordships to you, trollop,” the man growled. “You’ll use respect in my hearing, or answer for it.”
Alysson shivered. “So which of their lordships has ordered my captivity?”
“I reckon it’s safe to tell you, since you’ll not be talking to no one else, not for a long, long time and maybe nor never again.” Vymer grinned. “And I reckon I can choose what I says, for I’m a Sumerford myself, I am, though took me ma’s name of Wapping seeing as I was born bastard, and not ashamed of it. Born in the village to my ma Mabel Wapping just a week before the Lord Humphrey saw the light, him being heir to the title, firstborn o’ the countess, and me being his half-brother. Was his lordship the earl was my father, and acknowledged me, he did, and done me right. Since I was born first by a week, if I’d come of a different mother then I’d be the next earl, and don’t you forget that. His lordship my father brought me to the castle when I was a little lad, to be tutored alongside Lord Humphrey, to be his companion and look after him. I was taken on as his page, but was more playmate than servant, and was treated decent by her ladyship from the start. His lordship made sure of that. I was happy then, and had a grand time as a little lad.”
Alysson whispered, “So you work for the earl?”
Vymer shook his huge head. “That I do not. Not no more, I don’t. I’m my dearest Humphrey’s friend, and look after him in every way. He’s my beloved brother and not my master, but now I takes my orders from the countess herself and none other, seeing as it’s her has the care o’ my Humphrey closest to heart.”
“That can’t be true,” Alysson said at once. “The countess would never order me prisoner, though I know she dislikes me. I’ve no particular liking for her either, but she’s a grand lady with a hundred servants or more and no need for another. What reason
could she possibly have to lock me up here? There would be no sense in it.”
“And what would a stupid trollop like you know of sense?”
Twenty nine years back, the existence of the earl’s illegitimate son had been accepted by her ladyship. A common enough situation, she had adjusted, and grown to trust the boy, in looks so alike to her own child. A useful servant and companion for the erratic legitimate heir, Vymer joined the schoolroom and shared some of the tutoring. When Humphrey had merited the lash or the cane, it was Vymer who had been accorded the punishment. And as Humphrey’s unexpected disadvantages and weaknesses had become more apparent, so Vymer had been kept closeted with his half-brother, learning to placate and comfort him.
Alysson hung her head. “I know the Lord Humphrey is, I can only say – difficult.” She was cautious and careful of her words. “But you speak of him – lovingly.”
“Because I loves him,” said Vymer simply. “He is my beloved, and I does all I can, in every way, to make my beloved happy.”
“I understand,” Alysson said, though she did not. “But please – what’s any of this to do with me? Why did you attack me before? And why am I imprisoned now?”
“’Tis the Lady Jennine as will answer them questions,” Vymer told her. He lurched up and stood, smiling, and preparing to leave. “She’ll be up soon, to see you and talk no doubt. But you’ll be seeing me again, never fear. And won’t be too long afore you gets to know me mighty well indeed. Intimately, you might say. And I shall look forward to that, though I don’t reckon you will, nor needs to.”
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