Rowan's Revenge

by June Francis

  ‘I’ve heard the tales,’ murmured Owain. ‘I especially like the one of how he fell in love with the beautiful Ximena and made her his wife.’

  Nat sighed expressively. ‘What wouldn’t we both give for wives with money, beauty and love for only us, eh? Alas, I always knew my wife was happiest when I was away on my travels.’ He came to a halt in front of a door in a whitewashed wall, turned the handle and led the horse into a courtyard. He cocked a quizzical eye up at his young friend. ‘When are you going to settle down, Owain? Now my kinswoman, Marguerite, is widowed—have you any plans to visit her in Caen? God willing, I will be at her house, myself, in a couple of weeks or so.’

  ‘Such a visit has no part in my plans,’ said Owain in clipped tones.

  ‘Lady Catherine then?’ persisted Nat. ‘Any chance of a marriage there?’

  ‘Patience, friend,’ drawled Owain, glancing about him as he dismounted.

  Water tinkled from a fountain and the sweet smell of roses and gillyflowers scented the air. Colonnaded terraces occupied two sides of the courtyard and, on the third, was stabling. ‘You do fall on your feet, Nat. What are your dealings with this business acquaintance?’

  ‘What do you think? The finest woollen cloth on my side, and wine and almonds and the occasional horse for my father to improve his stud on theirs.’ Nat winked. ‘See to Merlin while I have a tub prepared for you and afterwards you can taste the wine.’

  Two hours later, the two men were seated on a marble bench on one of the terraces, drinking a Rioja wine and sharing a dish of salted almonds while the servants prepared their evening meal.

  ‘A fine wine, is it not?’ said Nat, holding the goblet aloft and peering into its glowing ruby depths.

  Owain agreed that it was indeed extremely palatable. ‘I’ll put in an order once I’m settled in Lancashire.’ His tone was light.

  Nat started and wine spilt like drops of blood onto the marble bench. ‘You jest!’

  ‘I’m not wanted at home, so I have to make my own way,’ rasped Owain. Nat opened his mouth to protest, but Owain added swiftly, ‘Forget my family. How long since you were last in England?’

  Nat hesitated and then his ruddy face screwed up in thought. ‘Eight or nine months. I visited my father’s manor in Yorkshire. We discussed the flocks and cloth and the unrest in the north.’

  There was a brooding expression on Owain’s face. ‘Have you heard that the King has lost his wits?’

  Nat frowned. ‘I hoped it was but a rumour.’

  ‘Nay! It is true. If he had been a stronger king, then the disasters in France would not have happened. His father would never have allowed Dunois, Bastard of Orleans, to take Bordeaux in ’51, and the King knew that. Hence his determination to try to retake territory that had been part of the kingdom of England these last three hundred years.’

  ‘I heard the French were not too considerate of the local sensibilities when they took Bordeaux.’

  Owain smiled grimly. ‘Reason enough why the gates were opened to our army under the command of Sir John Talbot in the autumn of ’52. I organised the supply of horses so I saw it happen. Naturally Charles of France was not going to allow things to rest there and spent the following months raising an army with a plentiful supply of field guns and men with the military knowledge to use them. Fortunately I had returned to England before battle commenced.’

  Nat shuddered.

  ‘In July 1453,’ murmured Owain, his eyes bright with unshed tears, ‘a force of eight thousand men under the command of Talbot and his son, Lord of Lisle, marched out to meet Charles VII’s army, still expecting their English archers to gain them victory…but the French had learnt much about warfare since Agincourt. Their guns decimated the front lines of our army and more were killed in cavalry charges. The remnants were driven back and either surrounded or drowned in the river. Talbot and his son were killed and the French entered Bordeaux in October. Of all the wide Plantagenet lands only Calais remains.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I had many comrades in arms who met their deaths…and no wonder Henry has gone a little mad. The Duke of York is Protectorate of England now.’

  Nat sighed. ‘Terrible. What else do you know? If you are in Sir Thomas Stanley’s employ, then you must know more, since he’s in control of the King’s troops in Lancashire.’

  Owain nodded his dark head. ‘The King is living quietly at Windsor, taking no interest in matters of state and showing no feelings towards his heir, this son for which the country waited seven years!’ He clenched his fist. ‘Sir Thomas says King Henry is incapable of making a decision about anything these days…which is not good news for me.’

  Nat swore, reached for an almond and popped it into his mouth. ‘It’s terrible news, but why is it particularly bad for you?’

  Owain tossed off the rest of his wine and reached for the pewter jug and refilled his goblet. ‘Some of this you might know, but let me tell it in my own way. It is rather complicated, so you’ll have to listen carefully.’ He took a gulp of the wine and swallowed. ‘Five years ago in ’49, the Lady Catherine’s father died and she inherited the manor of Merebury, which is near the Stanleys’ manor in Lathom. She was only fourteen, so immediately became a ward of the King. It was in his power to give the Lady and her land to a man of his choosing.’

  ‘Hoping to get something else in return from the man, I presume?’

  Owain nodded. ‘He had heard that Sir Roger dabbled in alchemy and that he was close to finding the means to turn base metal into gold.’ Nat snorted and Owain smiled grimly. ‘The King is a man of faith and not always wise in distributing his favours. Sir Roger assured him that with a little investment, he would never be short of money again…but that he needed a quiet place to carry out his experiments.’

  Nat groaned and shook his head as if in disbelief. ‘The poor lass. Hadn’t the king heard that Sir Roger was involved in the black arts?’

  ‘He must have heard rumours. As a youth Sir Roger accompanied his father to France and fought under the banner of the King’s uncle, Duke of Bedford and Regent of France. He was present at the burning of the Maid of Orleans, whom they swore was a witch. Perhaps that was when his interest in witchcraft and the devil began.’

  ‘Sounds feasible to me.’

  ‘Sir Roger was also a murderer and that’s what I was trying to prove when he died unexpectedly,’ said Owain, his blue eyes glinting with cold fire. ‘Died, I might add, in suspicious circumstances.’

  ‘A dagger in the back one dark night, was it?’

  Owain shook his head. ‘The day after his death, Lady Catherine disappeared from her manor, along with the Fletcher family.’

  ‘So the poor lass is suspected of his murder?’

  ‘Some definitely consider her leaving so soon as an admission of guilt.’

  Nat frowned again. ‘The Fletcher family? What have they to do with it?’

  Owain drank some more wine. ‘The mother was Lady Catherine’s wet nurse. She had a daughter of her own that she was also giving suck to at the time, so she and Lady Catherine are of an age. Mother and daughter are naturally close to the Lady and were of great support to her during her marriage, despite all that Sir Roger tried to do to break the bond.’

  ‘What about the Fletcher father?’

  ‘Richard Fletcher was an archer and fought at Agincourt, as did his Lord, Lady Catherine’s father. As a reward for his services, he was given a field to farm at an extremely low rent.’

  ‘Sir Roger did not care for that?’

  Owain shrugged expressively. ‘There was naught he could do. It was perfectly legal. Then Master Fletcher died in a fall a year ago. Sir Roger immediately demanded the heriot due to him as lord of the manor from the family, thinking to get rid of them.’

  ‘And did he?’

  Owain shook his head. ‘He died that day.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  Owain smiled sombrely. ‘I am still searching for answers. The Lady and the Fletchers seemingly disappeared. The Kin
g appointed Sir Thomas Stanley to oversee the running of the manor in the Lady’s absence. He also promised the Lady’s manor to the man who could find his missing money and solve the mystery of Sir Roger’s death.’

  ‘God’s blood! You, I presume, consider it a prize worth risking your life for? You consider the Lady and the Fletcher family responsible for his murder?’

  Owain twisted the goblet between his long, strong fingers. ‘I believe they can help me in my search for the truth and for that reason I need to find them. I have plans to breed horses in Lancashire and, if the Lady is innocent, I am prepared to wed her.’

  Nat stared at him, agog. ‘So what is this mystery surrounding Sir Roger’s death?’

  Owain leaned forward. ‘He was found in a room locked from the inside with not a mark on him to show how he died. According to the steward there was such a look of terror in his eyes, it was “as if he had seen Old Nick himself”!’ he quoted softly.

  Nat grunted. ‘I don’t like this talk of the devil. Superstitious lot in that part of the world. Besides, if the King’s run mad, who is to say you’ll get your reward?’

  Owain’s blue eyes clouded. ‘It is a gamble I have to take. He could recover. Besides, Sir Thomas is in charge of all and I have his support. When I find the Lady…if she is innocent, then I will woo her and ask for her hand. Hopefully she will look with favour on my suit.’

  ‘So why do you think the Lady is in Spain?’

  ‘I discovered that she took herself off on pilgrimage with the Fletchers to the shrine of St James. I’m presuming her plan was to take her time calling at different religious houses and shrines on the way so as to reach the city for the celebrations of the saint’s day this month. No doubt they also had to take into consideration the weather and the fighting in France.

  Nat grimaced. ‘I don’t like the sound of any of this. I’d return to Cheshire if I was you and forget her. You’re your father’s heir. He’ll be glad to have you home.’

  Owain’s face darkened. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll cut and run. You’re the eldest in your family, Nat. You will never understand what it was like being a second son. I loved Martin, but when he was killed in France in ’48, Father held me responsible. Me! He said I wanted him dead, that I was jealous of him.’ Owain’s voice cracked. ‘I would have given my life for my brother.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Nat, looking concerned.

  ‘It was not something I shouted abroad. I blame my stepmother. She seduced Father and now he believes everything she says against me.’ Owain made no mention of finding his father’s naked wife in his bed last time he was home, and how he’d barely escaped with his life.

  Nat said gloomily, ‘I never met her. It seems a great pity to me. Still, you know more than I do so I will not persist. Only be careful what you are about. Sir Thomas is a true Stanley and I doubt not that he would like more power and more land to add to that which the family already owns. You could solve this mystery and still end up dead.’

  Owain smiled faintly. ‘That’s a chance I’ll have to take. Besides, my life will be at no more risk than it has been these last few years. Thanks to my grandmother I have some money put aside and Sir Thomas is paying my expenses.’

  Nat stared at him and said slowly, ‘What if you find the Lady and discover she is guilty of her husband’s death? What then?’

  Owain sighed. ‘It’s an interesting question. Her reeve and tenants say she is very religious and good—a saint for putting up with Sir Roger’s behaviour.’

  Nat looked uneasy. ‘I like the sound of this less and less. When folk start talking about saintly women and Old Nick himself being involved in a death, it stinks. If she’s so religious, the Lady could betray you. Don’t let that chivalrous streak of yours get you into deep water.’

  Owain’s mouth set stubbornly and he slammed the pitcher down on the bench. ‘Sir Thomas is behind me in this. He is connected to many of the landed gentry, so that I could outdo my father in supplying all the great families of England with the finest breeding horses in Europe.’ His blue eyes sparkled. ‘Life is for living, Nat, not cowering in corners for fear of death.’

  Nat did not speak for several minutes; then, when he did, it was to demand what luck Owain had had in his search for the Lady so far.

  Owain stretched out his long muscular legs, and his face was empty of all expression. ‘I believe I might have met the Fletcher lad and so I will return to Santiago de Compostela. He tricked me, but I will find him again and he will lead me to the Lady. Why they have separated I do not know. I did hear that a number of pilgrims were killed and some robbed of all they had when crossing the mountains into Spain. Even so, he will have some information. Might I ask of you a favour?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Nat, as a serving wench appeared to tell them their supper was ready. ‘Name it.’

  Owain smiled. ‘If the Lady looks anything like Master Fletcher, then she will appreciate a change of raiment. A new gown in the latest fashion! What say you, Nat, to parting with one of those you purchased for your sister? I will pay you well for it.’

  Nat groaned, but Owain knew that he would not refuse him this boon, and surely it would work in his favour if he was able to present the Lady with such a gift. For what woman could not resist a new gown?

  Chapter Two

  Kate stood ankle deep in the stream and laved her face and hands in the cool, sparkling water of the spring at Lava-colla. She would have enjoyed stripping off the hated homespun tunic and linen shift and bathing naked in the stream, but not only modesty forbade such an act. She had to keep reminding herself that she was supposed to be a youth. Instead, she washed as much of her body as she could reach beneath her shift with a scrap of linen taken from her scrip. After stepping out of the stream, she wiped her feet on the grass, before fastening on her sandals and hurrying after the other pilgrims up Monte del Gozo in the region of Galicia.

  From its summit, she gazed down at the spires of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela gleaming in the sun. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and she grieved for her Lady who, exhausted and emaciated with fasting, had eventually succumbed to a fever. There had been few moments of lucidity during her last days but, in one of them, she had begged Kate to complete the pilgrimage and pray for her soul at the shrine of Saint James. Kate had vowed that she would do so. Her Lady had, also, touched on other matters, but Kate knew she must not put too much reliance on what the dying woman had told her whilst her mind was in confusion.

  Since her Lady’s death, Kate’s concern as to how she would get back to England had increased tenfold. With no money in her scrip, it seemed impossible that she would ever be reunited with her mother and Diccon. Yet she must not give up hope. She thought of the man who had questioned her and, for a moment, misgivings seized her. What if she had been mistaken and he could have been a friend? Was she a fool to see enemies at every turn? Yet she was reluctant to trust anyone when her life was not the only one at stake.

  A tug on her sleeve and the voices of other pilgrims singing a psalm reminded her that she had yet to fulfil the vow she had made to her Lady, and the next moment she plunged down the hill towards the city.

  Once there the first task Kate performed was to go to the cathedral and touch the Pilgrim Pillar, made smooth with the hands of thousands of other travellers of the Way of St James. Then she paid her respects at the saint’s shrine and prayed for her Lady’s soul. She realised that to have her pilgrim passport inspected and stamped to obtain her compostelle she would have to visit the Cathedral secretariat as herself. If only she had thought of bringing Diccon’s passport with her. But the tunics worn by both male and female pilgrims were almost identical—it was her shorn hair that was the problem. If she concealed every curl beneath her hat, then perhaps she would pass muster. She had to have the compostelle because it entitled her to three nights’ board at the pilgrims’ hostel in the city and free bed and food at hostels on the return journey. Her heart plummeted at the thought of tra
versing that difficult road again—but at least she would not starve and would have a roof over her head once she had the compostelle in her possession.

  Fortunately, due to the press of pilgrims waiting to have their passports inspected and stamped, the secretariat scarcely looked at her as he did all that was necessary and provided her with a compostelle with no questions asked. Relieved, Kate went in search of a bed for the next three nights.

  Built by the Knights of Santiago, Kate found the hostel a depressing-looking building and in need of renovation. Yet it was conveniently situated, overlooking the vast expanse of the Plaza de Obradoiro where the festivities would take place on the morrow. That night she slept fitfully on her pallet, plagued by fleas and dreams that caused her to drag herself awake and to sit, hugging her knees, as she tried to drive the dark memories away.

  She was glad when morning came and she heard the sound of bagpipes and drums. Other pilgrims were stirring, so she rose and padded over to the window to gaze with pleasure at the people of Galicia, dancing down the Rua del Villar in the sunshine. She was surprised to see how fair skinned so many of them were. The men wore doublets of black and brilliant red sashes and the women were clad in the same colours; both displayed the white scallop of Saint James on their shoulder. Soon they would be joined by the dignitaries of the city and the hundreds of pilgrims who had come to celebrate this day. She would have to stir herself if she was to get a decent view of the festivities.

  She was just about to turn from the window when a rider on a chestnut horse came cantering into the square from the direction of the Monte del Gozo. For a moment she was reminded of the story of St James and how he had miraculously appeared on a great charger at the battle of Clavijo, carrying a red cross and intent on slaying the Moorish enemy. Then the rider lifted his face to the sun and her heart seemed to somersault inside her chest and hot blood stained her cheeks.