There is nothing so sad as a burnt-out house. It had been a snug manor, not large or particularly grand, but handsome enough. It had been built some hundred years before, laid out on the usual plan: hall and stillroom, a solar, kitchen and buttery behind, and four rooms above. My mother had put glass in the front windows, made a knot-garden, added the luxury of a stool-room. All gone, now. The main walls still stood, and the chimneystack and the central beam of seasoned oak, but the roof and staircase had burnt away; only a shell was left. The outbuildings and stables had been of wattle and daub, and must have burnt like tinder. Of course our horses had gone, and the house cow, and Mother’s hens and the pigs.
Passing through what had been the front door, I shuffled through the ashes to the chimneypiece. There I moved a certain brick, and saw with a surge of triumph that the Lancastrians hadn’t found this hiding place. The little coffer was intact. Inside were a bundle of letters, my father’s emerald ring, my mother’s jewels and a purse holding five gold nobles and a handful of silver coins; finally, in a paper: a curl of fine baby hair which must have been my own. My inheritance.
I tugged the lacing cord from my shirt, threaded it through Father’s ring, and hung it around my neck. Then I hitched the coffer under my arm and let Father Anselm help me back onto the horse. I didn’t look back as we rode away.
~~~
Being on the road to Edward cheered me, for I had no idea how foolhardy the scheme was. Only a child and a naive country priest could have tried it, or had the blind luck to succeed.
But succeed we did. By evening of the second day our tired horse shambled into the outskirts of a market town, and it was clear that we’d found Edward’s army. The streets were full of men-at-arms in the Falcon and Fetterlock badge of York, or Edward’s Sun in Splendour. I’d never heard such noise: men shouting, horses whinnying, townsfolk crying their wares, bedraggled children screaming with laughter as they got underfoot, a man in half-armour swearing as he detailed a group of archers. There were a lot of pretty ladies about, and although my mother had worn a little face-paint on grand occasions I’d never seen such rouged lips or darkened eyes, or such vivid shades of blonde or red hair. One lady, sidling past in a gust of violet scent and bouncing bosoms, winked and said something about Half price for the Church, big boy. I thought it a very kind offer, whatever she was selling, but the back of Father Anselm’s neck went scarlet and he spurred the poor horse quickly on.
The problem now was to find Edward, but Father Anselm said that the thing to do was to ask at the best inn. ‘If Lord March isn’t lodging there, someone will know where he’ll be. Now sit up straight and don’t look about.’
The inn was not at all like our village alehouse. I looked in surprise at the handsome, spreading building with its timbered front. Light shone cheerfully from every window, and I heard singing and gales of laughter. We went into what the Father called ‘the ordinary’ – a room like a hall, with long tables and booths where men sat with more pretty ladies like those outside, and with the unexpectedly domestic touch of copper pans on the walls and settles pulled up to the fire. The entrance of a priest and a child brought a hush. Some hundred men stared blankly at us for a moment, and the ladies’ laughter stopped. A serving maid, her hands full of a dozen mugs, bobbed a curtsy, saying, ‘’help you, Father?’
‘I seek the Earl of March – the young Duke of York. Is he lodged here, or could someone tell me where to find him?’
A man who’d been warming his feet by the fire rose stiffly and came over to us. He wore a soldier’s leather jacket over a woollen jerkin bearing the York insignia. His face was square and kindly, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
‘You want His Grace the Duke of York? May I ask your business?’
‘It is private business, sir; a family matter.’
The man’s eyes moved with impatient courtesy from Father Anselm to me. A frown pleated his brow, then he snapped his fingers as at a puzzle solved. ‘Surely you are Sir Martin Robsart’s son?’ All my life people had remarked on how much I resembled my father. I nodded. Father Anselm murmured something, and the man said, ‘Yes, Edward lodges here. Look, we’d better speak in private. I’m Hastings, by the way, William Hastings, a friend of His Grace’s as well as one of his captains. Come through.’ He led us out into a staircase passage, gesturing kindly for us to sit on a bench. ‘Now, what has happened? What is Sir Martin’s son doing here?’
Father Anselm told him, and his tired face took on deeper creases. ‘That whoreson Lancastrian bitch – saving your cloth, Father; my pardon – we’re hearing this tale from everywhere. The Queen’s letting her army run riot, she’s treating England like conquered territory. You’d think she wanted to turn people against her, and against the King in whose name these things are done. They have even sacked and despoiled churches!’ Father Anselm exclaimed in shock. ‘Oh yes, Father, nothing is safe, nothing is sacred. Women – women and children killed, houses burned, towns pillaged... Martin, you poor boy, you have my sympathy; I knew your father well, and I believe I once met your mother.
‘Now, Edward is lodging here, as I said, but whether he’s come in yet or is still at the camp... Wait here, please.’
Tired, and content to have reached journey’s end, I leaned against the priest, and he had to shake me awake when Hastings returned and bade us go upstairs.
The panelled bedchamber was full of light. Branched candlesticks stood everywhere, the light shining on the metal of armour, on the crimson-hung bed, on the golden hair of the man who rose to greet us. I had never seen him, but I knew him at once. He was just as I’d been told, his handsome face the image of his mother’s. He was the biggest man I had ever seen, a full hand-span more than two yards high, and with a deep, strong chest. We had interrupted his toilet, for servants were emptying a bathing tub, the ends of his hair were wet and he was fastening the buttons of a dark blue gown.
‘Your Grace – ’ Father Anselm began, but Edward hushed him with a gesture and knelt down in front of me. He put his hands on my shoulders, looking gently into my eyes. His were grey, with little golden flecks.
‘So you are Martin. Yes, you’ve a great look of both your parents, may God assoil them. Welcome, cousin.’ He kissed my cheek and then my mouth. And that did it – to my utter shame I burst into tears. Edward lifted me in his arms and sat down by the fire, cradling me on his lap. After a while he put a handkerchief into my hand, saying, ‘At Ludlow I had some practice looking after boys. Richard often spoke of you, he missed you when you left Fotheringhay. Do you remember him and George? And Margaret?’
‘Oh yes,’ I whooped. ‘I missed Richard too. All of them, but he was my special friend.’
‘So he told me. Come on, big blow then we’ll talk.’ I had a big blow, mopped my eyes, and babbled out the whole story. Edward had heard it from Hastings, of course, but he listened gravely, patting me from time to time.
‘A horrible thing,’ he said at last. ‘Never before in England have innocent people had to pay the price of great men’s quarrels. I’m sorry, Martin. There’s nothing I can say – except that your mother is in God’s keeping. Cling to that.’
‘Yes. Yes. But... Your Grace? Edward?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why did Mother say to the soldiers, ‘Not in front of the boy’? They took her inside then, what did they do?’
Hastings made a sound in his throat, but Edward said flatly, ‘Those men weren’t soldiers, Martin, except in name. They were cowardly brutes, they were scum who’d run from an armed man but can be very brave with a woman and a child. They wanted to rob your house, loot it and burn it. Your mother didn’t want you to see that.’
‘Oh, I see. Yes. Edward, I mean Your Grace, sir – ’
‘Oh no, cousins need not be formal, you shall call me Edward. What is it?’
‘The Queen’s men said my father was dead, and the Duke, your father... ’
I knew, of course; there was no hope left to die when he said gent
ly, ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is true. They were up at Sandal Castle, near Wakefield, you know? There was some sort of Christmas truce agreed between the Queen’s force and my father’s, but the Lancastrians swooped down on the castle when our men were out gathering firewood or something. Your father died with mine, fighting bravely like the good soldier he was. He is buried at Wakefield with all honour, that I do know.’ He swallowed, and tears filmed his eyes. ‘My father was killed, and my brother Edmund, and my uncle Lord Salisbury and his son Thomas. A royal fellowship of death.’
Greatly daring, I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. He returned the hug, holding me tightly, then set me on my feet.
‘You were right to come to me, and I thank this good Father for seeing you safely here. But I’m moving south tomorrow, the enemy army is reported not far away – I think I had better send you to my mother, hadn’t I?’
‘Oh yes please, Edward. If Her Grace won’t mind? I’ve no one else now, you see.’
‘Of course she won’t mind! Had she known, she would have sent for you; you’re our kinsman and your home is with us now. Well, let’s see. I’ll dispatch you tomorrow, with a troop to see you safe. And you, Father? Are you for London too, or will you return home?’ The priest looked wistful for a moment, but said he had to go home. ‘Tomorrow, then, and be sure I’ll send you with an escort. And I’ll take it kindly if you’ll allow me to make some small gift to your church? Excellent! Now, you’ll sup with me? It’s almost time.’
In fact the servants were carrying the meal in as he spoke, and with greedy eyes I watched the damask cloth being spread and the bread cut for trenchers. Despite winter shortages the town was doing its ducal guest well: there was a big raised pie, an almond soup, winter salad, fritters, a whole baked fish, braised beef, wafers, cheese. I hadn’t tasted demain bread, fresh and white, since I left Fotheringhay. I could have wolfed the lot, but for Mother’s sake I was careful about my manners, using my knife daintily and taking care not to drip juices in the spice-dishes. After one incredulous look at the food, Father Anselm too cast the sin of gluttony into the category of tomorrow’s penance and ate till his ribs squeaked.
After the meal Edward had the bathing-tub brought back, and I bathed there before his fire; long overdue, I may say, for I’d had no more than a cat-lick wash since Mother died. I had no clean clothes, but the squires wrapped me in one of Edward’s shirts, which came down to my ankles, and lent me a warm furry gown. Edward had carefully given me two cups of wine with supper, and I was sleepy and content when at last he rose saying he had to meet with some of his commanders. I managed to thank Father Anselm (both of him; perhaps I should have watered the wine), and say farewell to him properly and then the squires pulled out the truckle bed and I knew nothing more till morning.
Fortunes of the Heart Page 29
