In response to Lady Anne’s enquiry, Cicely’s brow furrowed. ‘Is there any wonder I look pale? It has done nothing but rain lately, I have barely left these apartments for weeks, and Richard has been absent during all of Lent inspecting the border garrisons.’ She glanced at the duke enquiringly. ‘Did the council agree your plans for strengthening them, my lord?’
Richard of York was rarely defeated in council: he was a man in his prime, thirty years old and toned in body and mind. It seemed that today had been no exception, the ruling Normandy barons and captains of the council had agreed. ‘And wisely so,’ remarked Richard, ‘for they knew I would deploy reinforcements anyway, whether funds are forthcoming from the royal exchequer or not.’
‘Has there been any word from the king?’ Cicely’s question was laced with concern, as well it might be, I thought. While the duke ruled his own council with a rod of iron, he was constantly frustrated in his attempts to garner financial support from the king’s council in England.
His face clouded but an initial scowl was hastily replaced by a look of resignation. Richard did not like to be seen to lose his temper. ‘The king sends copious letters but no gold. As usual it is all promises with Henry but no delivery. No matter, ’twas ever thus, as you know, sweetheart. Humphrey suffers from this as well, does he not, Anne?’
Lady Anne hesitated for a split second before replying. ‘Reinforcements were sent to Calais in order to tackle the pirates but no funds to pay them,’ she admitted. ‘My lord was obliged to open his own purse, and it was an expensive campaign, but well worth it.’
‘No doubt of that.’ Richard nodded. ‘But like Humphrey, I find defending Normandy a constant drain on my own exchequer, when it should be royally funded. I hold the Earl of Somerset responsible. I suspect that the king wishes to compensate Somerset for the thirteen years he spent as a French prisoner and all available funds are being diverted to his campaign in Aquitaine. I confess I look forward to discussing ways to tackle this situation when Humphrey manages to get here.’
‘But meanwhile we neglect our duty as hosts, my lord,’ Cicely said reproachfully. ‘My dear sister has not come to Rouen to talk tactics and finance. Cuthbert, since I have sent my chamberlains away would you be kind enough to pour some wine and serve the wafers? We dine at sunset but you must both be hungry and thirsty and I am sure my lord is too, after all that talking in council.’
I had been eyeing the platter of delicious-looking cakes laid out on the buffet and so I was more than willing to oblige. Lady Anne partook readily before remarking, ‘Cicely is right, my lord duke, I have not come here to discuss our mutual grievances with King Henry. I have come to help her bring a strong child into the world.’
‘A strong boy-child,’ emphasized Richard, carefully wiping crumbs from his fingers with a kerchief. ‘And I hope you can allay your sister’s fears about his chances of survival, my lady. I see no reason why God should deny us a healthy son when we have founded churches, endowed chantries, supported monasteries and furnished chapels to His glory, all in the hope and expectation of His mercy. Cicely must have faith.’
Cicely smiled wearily at her sister. ‘Richard and I do not agree on this, Anne. I cannot believe that faith is some divine business arrangement, where we have merely to purchase enough indulgences or endow the right shrine to sway the celestial scales in our favour. God deals with us as He sees fit and since I have not produced an heir in eight years of marriage it is obvious that I must have grievously offended the Almighty. I pray constantly that He will reveal to me how I should atone for my sins so that my lord may be granted the son he so richly deserves.’
For the duration of this confession Lady Anne was shaking her head. ‘No, Cicely, that cannot be right. You have a healthy daughter – my namesake Anne, who I hope to see very soon – and there is no reason why you should not have a healthy son. Besides, if children were only granted to those without sin then there would be no bastards born since they are, by definition, conceived in sin. Sin is no barrier to bringing new life. We have our magnificent brother Cuthbert here to prove it.’
Although her comment was made with an apologetic smile in my direction, I could have wished the countess had used another example for her sister’s encouragement. I had not found bastardy an easy burden to bear and her remark, though kindly meant, brought back memories still painful to me of events at Cicely’s mother’s funeral. An encounter redolent with ugly prejudice and a woeful misuse of seigniorial power that would live with me for ever …
13
Raby Castle November 1440
Cuthbert
Lady Joan Beaufort, dowager Countess of Westmorland, had not died in her eponymous tower at Raby as perhaps she might have wished but at Howden on Yorkshire’s border with Lincolnshire. Her son Robert was bishop of Durham and possessed of a splendid episcopal palace on the River Ouse at Howden, the southern capital of his sprawling diocese. She had been visiting him there when, at the age of sixty-one, she died suddenly of a seizure.
As soon as word of her death reached him, the Earl of Westmorland sent his brother, Sir John Neville, galloping from Brancepeth to take seisin of the Raby castle and lands in accordance with the will of the old earl. Such haste might have been thought to show a lack respect for the deceased dowager but from Lord Westmorland’s point of view it had been a wise precaution because Sir John and his troop of Brancepeth retainers had arrived only hours ahead of the Earl of Salisbury, who had led his personal army in a forced march over the high moors from his castle at Penrith with exactly the same aim. Had the order of arrival been reversed it might well have resulted in a siege, but as it was, Hal had been obliged to recognize the rule of law and back away, achieving only permission to send in servants to pack up Lady Joan’s personal belongings and make arrangements for her body to rest in the castle chapel after it arrived from Howden. Denied a welcome in his childhood home, he was obliged to seek accommodation down the road at the college of priests his father had established alongside the church of St Gregory in Staindrop.
I too had been refused entry. I was escorting Cicely’s closed and cushioned litter, but when we reached Raby I was told by the captain of the guard: ‘Only blood relatives of the late countess are to be admitted to the castle. One personal servant is allowed; all other relatives and retainers must find their own accommodation.’
When I relayed this news to Cicely she demanded that the captain approach her litter. ‘Who is responsible for this lamentable state of affairs?’ she enquired in her most ducal tone.
‘The c-constable, if it please your grace,’ he replied, visibly quaking.
‘My mother’s constable would never have given such an order.’ Cicely was fixing the captain with such a basilisk stare that I began to feel quite sorry for him. ‘Her instructions were that all weary travellers should be admitted and in view of her reverence for the Virgin Mary she would especially be hospitable to expectant mothers and their company.’
‘The Earl of Westmorland’s constable is in charge now, your grace – Sir John Neville. It was he who gave the order.’
The change in Cicely’s expression was extraordinary. Her face drained of colour and all sign of belligerence seemed to vanish. There was a tense pause and when she spoke again her voice had lost its stridence.
‘Convey my greetings to Sir John and tell him I will enter the castle with my companion Hilda Copley. I will require accommodation in Lady Joan’s Tower and access to the chapel where I wish to keep vigil over my mother’s coffin. My brother Sir Cuthbert of Middleham will accompany me with a small guard for our personal security. We will not stay longer than necessary and will not interfere in any way with his command of the castle. He has my solemn oath on that.’
Having digested this message the captain disappeared back through the sally port in the main gate. Hilda stepped down from the litter and I dismounted to speak to her. ‘We cannot wait long, Cuddy,’ she warned. ‘For her baby’s sake we must have warmth and shelter tonight. W
hat shall we do if her ultimatum is refused?’
The expression in Hilda’s troubled brown eyes stirred in me the deep feelings I consistently held for her. I yearned to draw my sword and fight my way into the castle to save her from anxiety, but all I could do was try to reassure her. ‘We will wait until we hear the chapel bell ring for the next Office but I have sent harbingers out to find alternative accommodation, just in case. Even though he held her hostage once, I do not believe Sir John will risk public censure by turning Cicely away now.’
Hilda shrugged. ‘She seems confident of that too but she is still praying to Our Lady for her intervention.’
I gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Well, it must be owned that she knows Sir John rather better than we do,’ I said.
On the first clangs of the bell for the afternoon Office, the heavy portcullis juddered off the ground and the gates behind it began to grind back on their runners. The luxurious York litter was waved through the gatehouse arch with Cicely and Hilda inside. Most of the escort trotted off in the direction of the village while I followed the litter on horseback with a contingent of six men-at-arms. The knot of tension in my stomach eased but, even as I put up a prayer of thanks to the Virgin for her intercession, I did not know that I was riding into a personal nightmare.
Cicely appeared calm when Sir John Neville stepped forward in the inner courtyard of the castle and greeted her with a bend of the knee. They had not met in the seven years since she had escaped his clutches at Aycliffe Tower and their conversation was brief and stiff. As I stood a good few yards away I could not hear what passed between them but when Cicely turned to make her way to her accommodation in Lady Joan’s Tower, I kept a close eye on Sir John’s expression. I had expected it to be hard and soldierly but instead, to my surprise, he looked benign, almost protective.
Having left a guard on the entrance to Cicely’s chambers, I made my own way to the Baron’s Hall by passages and stairways still familiar from my days as a Neville henchman. As I expected, the long room was busy with servants attending small knots of barons, knights and squires, all soberly garbed and recognizable as relatives, tenants and vassals of the Neville affinity. Black hangings covered the brightly coloured tapestries which normally enlivened the walls and only Lady Joan’s personal banner with its royal lions and Beaufort portcullises hung from the rafters, festooned with black rosettes. Food and drink were laid out on trestles at either end of the room, each the focus of a distinctly separate group, and the atmosphere was charged with tension rather than the quiet sadness of a house in mourning. There was a noticeable gap between the groups, as if two sides were gathering for a game of camp-ball, a sport I had never seen played without it degenerating into violence and injury.
In the gap a table had been placed for two clerks who were to register the funeral attendees. Seated between them, in a high-backed chair that signified authority, was the man I least desired to encounter under any circumstance, Sir Gerald Copley.
When he saw me approach the table, his lips stretched in a mirthless smile and his voice rang out in the hushed chamber. ‘Ah, the Bastard of Middleham has arrived.’ He turned to one of the clerks, keeping his voice at the same volume. ‘He is neither Neville-born nor blood of the deceased. You can list him under “others”.’
With an effort I ignored the insult and smiled at the flustered clerk, whose quill hovered over a vellum scroll held open by weighted rulers. ‘I am known as Sir Cuthbert of Middleham, Master Clerk. That is how I am listed by the King of Arms.’
Sir Gerald pushed back his heavy chair and stood up. ‘But still a bastard, whatever gloss you put on it, Sir Cuthbert.’ He laid mocking emphasis on the knightly title.
Still I kept my anger in check. ‘And I am proud to carry that baton on my Neville coat of arms, Sir Gerald. Some men are born bastards and others are born brutes,’ I said, looking straight at him. ‘I know which I would rather be.’
Copley’s face contused with a rage he could not contain but there was a table between us and, unable to launch himself across it to reach me, he shoved it so hard that the clerks’ inkhorns tipped and spilled, spattering their scrolls with blots. Their yelps of dismay and scrabbling movements to right the horns destroyed the calm of the chamber and the grouped guests erupted into surprised oaths, making a general movement towards the source of the alarm. It might have been enough to kick off a ruckus if a loud shout had not risen above the general hubbub.
‘My lords and gentlemen, order please! Let us remember why we are here.’ The tall figure of Sir John Neville had emerged through the privy door onto the hall dais and his voice carried clearly over the heads of the gathering. ‘As I am sure you are all aware, Raby Castle is now in the stewardship of the Earl of Westmoreland and he has appointed me his constable.’ Sir John’s choice of apparel was carefully neutral; brown doublet and hose rather than black as he was not related to the deceased by blood, and he wore no evidence of affinity other than a small hat-badge showing a red enamel and silver saltire, the ubiquitous Neville device. He stepped down into the body of the hall and pushed his way through the crowd to the table where Sir Gerald was still huffing and puffing and glaring at me murderously.
Sir John addressed me directly. ‘Sir Cuthbert, I trust my deputy constable has explained the rules and procedures for the dowager countess’s funeral,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Sir Gerald Copley is known to you, I am sure. I have made him responsible for assisting the steward with seating and accommodation arrangements. There is much strain on the castle’s resources but for a few days we must all make an effort to rub along together out of respect for the deceased.’
I made him a bow of acknowledgement. ‘I understand completely, Sir John. Lady Joan was an important influence on my life and I will do all in my power to honour her obsequies. If Sir Gerald should need any assistance …’ I let the offer hang in the air as a derisive snort was forthcoming from the said knight.
Sir John frowned at his deputy then raised his head to once more address the gathering, whose loud exclamations had subsided into low murmurings. ‘Cool tempers and clear heads will be of most assistance at this time. Lady Joan’s immediate family will keep a vigil beside the coffin in the castle chapel but they would welcome prayer and support from those who wish to pay their last respects. Please enter the chapel in small groups; it is not large, as you know. The funeral procession to the church will begin at dawn the day after tomorrow, the feast of Saint Katherine of Alexandria, an appropriate day since Lady Joan desired and arranged to be buried beside her beloved mother Katherine, Duchess of Lancaster, in Lincoln Cathedral. The cortège will leave immediately after the funeral mass and make its first stop at Durham Cathedral where his grace Bishop Neville will lead another requiem mass for his mother. All those who wish to follow the catafalque should make their intentions known to the clerks.’
Having delivered his announcements, Sir John made a point of speaking to several of the senior knights at the Brancepeth end of the Baron’s Hall. I made for the exit nearest to the chapel but before I reached it Sir Gerald had swept past me and accosted me at the door. With him was a grey-bearded man wearing a furred merchant’s gown and a large guild-master’s chain around his shoulders.
‘Before you leave, allow me to make an introduction, Sir Cuthbert.’ There was something spine-chilling in the dulcet tone of his voice, a sudden contrast with the intense anger he had displayed only minutes ago. ‘This is Master Simon Exeley, a prominent member of the York Guild of Mercers, who is a very good friend to the Nevilles and a very good friend to me. Master Exeley, may I present Sir Cuthbert of Middleham – as he likes to be known.’
In the interests of peace-keeping I let pass the quip and bowed politely to the merchant. I knew little of the wool market, only that many of its merchants were extremely wealthy due to the flow of fleeces through the English ports to Calais, and the high quality of the woollen cloth returning from the looms of Europe. Everyone in the north above the rank of peasant wore clothes fash
ioned from the product of the York Mercers. Master Exeley was clearly a prominent member of his guild, judging by the breadth of the fur trimmings on his gown and the weight of the medallion on his chest.
‘God’s greeting to you, Master Exeley,’ I said, wondering why Hilda’s brother was making this introduction. I was not left long in ignorance.
‘Master Exeley is to be my brother-in-law,’ declared Sir Gerald with a triumphant grin, peering intently at me as if determined to relish the emotional turmoil his words would cause. ‘A contract of marriage has been agreed between him and my sister Hilda. The marriage will take place in a few days.’
I felt as if my heart would explode out of my chest and I think my eyes must have popped from their sockets as I stared, appalled, at the desiccated face of the merchant, who was showing what teeth he had left in a nightmarish vision of a smile. Clearly he expected me to congratulate him but my tongue simply would not form the words.
‘My first wife died last year, leaving my four children motherless,’ he cackled, as if that explained everything. ‘Sir Gerald and I have come to a very satisfactory arrangement.’
By which Hilda warms your bed, satisfies your goatish lust and mothers your ugly children while you pay off the vast debts her villain of a brother has accumulated! Those were the words I wanted to say but somehow, with Lady Joan in mind, I blurted out some bland phrase of felicitation and blundered away, clasping my right hand firmly in my left to stop it drawing the secret dagger from my sleeve and telling myself that a display of bad manners was better than the bloody murder I was contemplating.
In my distress, and not really knowing what my intentions were, I made my way to Lady Joan’s Tower. I was certain that Hilda must be unaware of the heinous pact between her brother and Master Exeley and as I felt my way along the dark connecting passages I formed a plan in my head that would save her from the dreadful future that her brother’s announcement had conjured in my mind. But when I reached the chambers where she and Cicely were lodged, the guards told me that they had eaten a meal and gone straight to the chapel to keep vigil beside the late countess’s bier. Temporarily defeated, I returned to the Baron’s Hall to make my own meal and endeavor to avoid all contact with Sir Gerald Copley or Master Simon Exeley.
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