The Exiled

by Posie Graeme-Evans

  And his stupid brother George — once more the catspaw for Warwick’s ambition; he was in on the plot, nothing more certain.

  Unconsciously Richard sighed again, more deeply, as he strode on. The two of them, George and Warwick — what stark sadness that they’d become hornets with poisoned stings, attacking ever more fiercely, however hard one tried to clean their buzzing, heaving nests.

  He was near his lodgings now. He would eat, then he had urgent dispatches to write about the situation hereabouts, which must be encoded for the king’s benefit before they were sent south.

  ‘My Lord?’ A figure stepped out of the shadows and Richard just managed not to break stride, or jump in shock as reflex brought sword out of scabbard in one sliced-off second. Fear made him furious.

  ‘Guard! Guard! To me, to me!’

  The duke was ringed by men two heartbeats on, all with drawn swords, white-boar badge clear in the torchlight, as Richard pressed his own blade against the man’s unprotected throat.

  Terrified, the child — guttering light from a guard’s torch showed the duke that he was dealing with a boy barely into his teens — tried to fling himself to the ground to embrace the duke’s legs.

  ‘Mercy, mercy, please God.’

  In that small moment of chaos, the duke detachedly noted that his heart was hammering in his chest. As always. Battles he’d fought in, sorties he’d led — even so young as he was — and it all made no wit of difference because to relax was death. And there were many who wanted him, and his brother the king, dead.

  ‘Enough.’ Richard re-sheathed his sword as he waved his men away. Fearfully the boy looked up from his position on the cobbles.

  ‘What do you want?’ The duke’s face was impassive.

  Terror had done two things to Michael of Holmpton: it had deprived him of speech and it had made him piss his breeches, and he dearly hoped the men would not see the wet he’d made. But one of them began to laugh and pointed: steam was rising from between his legs into the cold night air.

  ‘Well?’ The duke’s hard tone choked life out of the laughter.

  Shaming tears burned Michael’s eyes, though he did not let them fall. ‘I have papers, Your Grace. From Bishop Hardwell. Urgent papers.’

  The duke grunted and signalled one of his men to take the flat leather pouch the boy was offering as he stood, semi-crouched, trying to cover the dark stain spreading from his groin.

  ‘Take him to the kitchen. Food, he’ll have had a cold ride. And a bed.’

  The duke held out his hand for the pouch and was already turning away to more pressing business when the boy dared to speak again in a wavering voice.

  ‘My master asked me to wait, Your Grace.’

  The duke turned back, perplexed. ‘Wait?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. Wait for an answer, then I’m to ride back tonight.’

  The duke just shook his head and nodding at one of his men, stalked on towards his own private quarters in one of the towers of the inner ward.

  ‘Come on, lad. I’ll take you to the kitchen. And find you some breeches.’ It wasn’t unkindly meant — Pikeman William Fuller wasn’t much older than Michael himself, but Michael had had enough humiliation for one day and found a bit of truculence. He didn’t work for Henry Hardwell for nothing.

  ‘Take your hand away, oaf. I must have an answer and ride back tonight.’

  William Fuller sighed. Why was it that country lads were so above themselves these days? No manners at all. With a well-placed blow he swatted the side of Michael’s head, not so hard as to knock him out, but hard enough to lift him off his feet.

  ‘Listen lunk-head, if the duke says you’re to go to the kitchen, that’s where you go. Now, are you coming or d’you want to freeze your balls off out here when the piss ices over?’

  Sulkily the boy got to his feet and, nursing his ringing head, stumbled after Pikeman Fuller until they both disappeared into the bowels of the building under the great hall.

  The duke himself was having his wet and muddy riding boots pulled off in the privacy of his own sleeping chamber. He was weary, bone weary, but his working table, lying in the shadows, had a visible pile of work on it and now this. Urgent, the boy had said. Everything was urgent and all he wanted to do was just close his eyes, even for a moment ...

  ‘Next foot, Your Grace.’ Snapping his eyes open, Richard raised his other boot to his valet as he ripped the wax sealing the back of the vellum document he’d been handed in the inner courtyard.

  There was just enough light from the fire and one branch of candles to read the first few words, with difficulty, since the writing was crudely made. Richard grunted in surprise.

  ‘A spy? What?’ Unthinkingly he sat up, unbalancing the valet who sat down suddenly, taking the second boot with him to the floor.

  Unconsciously, unpretentiously, the duke reached down a hand to help his startled servant up to his feet again.

  ‘Warrington, I want that boy up here.’

  The valet de chamber was a man of some dignity and, normally, he’d have taken a little time, silently, to allow the duke to register he’d been thoughtless, but Richard’s tone put that thought from him. The duke was worried about something.

  ‘Certainly, Your Grace. Immediately. If I may just enquire ...?’

  ‘Yes?’ The duke was sounding quite dangerous tonight, which made Warrington nervous.

  ‘The boy, Your Grace? Which boy?’

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Anne and Joan spent their first night away from the convent in a barley-rick and, as they burrowed down into the barley straw, they were both grateful for the beauty and peace of the evening, for the stars, for the rising moon.

  It had been a good but tiring day.

  After taking it in turns to ride Brendan, Anne and Joan had made considerable progress through a sullen afternoon, bearing east as far as they could, and then north beside the coast.

  Keeping to sheep roads rather than cart-ways, they’d made sure to avoid all habitation, skirting homesteads and villages, yet trying to stay within sight and sound of the sea: the sea would be their guide. Follow the coast and they’d find their way to Whitby, eventually.

  Anne tired easily after all her privations, so towards evening, Joan had insisted Anne ride as she, Joan, walked. The nun, once she was over the strangeness, the height of the limitless sky, was enjoying herself greatly. She wasn’t even afraid — and if that wasn’t a miracle, then she didn’t understand the workings of God at all.

  Now, they both lay on the top of their chosen rick, having eaten a small meal and fed Brendan as much barley straw as he would take (Joan crossed herself and asked the Lord’s permission first because this was stealing another’s property) whilst they talked quietly and watched the moon rise out of the sea. It was close to full tonight. If they needed to walk at night over the next days, they’d have excellent light.

  ‘Good night, Anne. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘Good night, sweet Joan. I shall, knowing you’re here.’

  Very soon, even, gentle breathing told the nun her companion was sleeping. Joan herself planned to say her prayers just as she would have at the convent and, as quietly as she could, she sang vespers.

  Very soon though, she too was deeply asleep, wrapped in her cloak and covered deep in straw.

  She’d never had a softer, warmer bed. ‘Perhaps this is heaven’ was her last blasphemous thought before sleep claimed her.

  Triumph was a good feeling, a warm feeling. Especially since this little triumph was a demonstration to his father, the baron, that old must finally give way to young.

  Or so thought Henry Hardwell as he ripped open and read the dispatch from Duke Richard at dawn the next day.

  Michael of Holmpton stood, wet and shivering before his master, Bishop Hardwell, dripping onto the flags of the hall, so tired his legs would barely hold him up, yet filled with pride. Not everyone could say they’d ridden to York and back within an afternoon and a night, could they?
Now, if he could just have something to eat, and just a little sleep.

  ‘Michael, find Simon. Now!’

  Michael’s dreams of glory and reward from a generous master were gone like smoke on a windy day. The look in Henry’s eye said a kick in the backside was all the reward he’d be having unless he did as he was bid.

  Simon was at the manor’s mill — berating the miller on the suspicion of doing private business on the side out of the Hardwell family’s property — when the filthy boy found him.

  Poor Michael, this time all he got was a clip around the ear for keeping his weary horse out of the stable, but at least Simon said he could get breakfast from the kitchen.

  The reeve found his master’s son in the manor’s hall, pacing back and forth, back and forth, a fixed, frightening smile on his face — or rather his teeth, thought Simon. A nasty piece, Henry Hardwell, but an energetic man. Simon would go far with Henry, as opposed to his spendthrift father, who did not know the value of a good servant when he had one.

  ‘Read this! Tell me I’m right!’ Henry couldn’t read very well, but he’d seen enough to get the sense of the duke’s reply. Simon held the parchment up to the light of one of the east-facing windows in Stephen Hardwell’s hall and rapidly scanned it. Finally, he nodded.

  ‘You’ve won, Sir Henry. The duke wants the girl brought to York.’ He smiled. ‘I would say that the use of the word “spy” was what did the trick.’

  Both men laughed. An unpleasant sound. In these uncertain times, paranoia spread easily. Implying the girl might be a spy for the French had worked: the duke wanted to question her as soon as possible.

  ‘Got them, got them both!’ His father and Mother Elinor could wriggle on the hook all they liked. Here, in his hands, Henry had the means to force the convent to give him the girl so she could be taken to York. And woe betide the convent for hiding a suspected spy, a threat to the realm!

  Henry held his hands up to the fire, to warm them. It was a cold day, but it was more and more promising. Influence with the duke, now that was a fine thing to have.

  ‘Ah, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Simon?’

  ‘What will you tell the duke when he finds the girl is not, actually, a French spy?’

  Once again that dreadful smile.

  ‘Well, I just have to get her out of that convent and away from my father, don’t I? How can I help it if she, the spy, tries to run away, en route, and so unfortunately dies an accidental death? So sad, but a dead spy is just as useful as a live one, wouldn’t you say?’

  They both laughed. Clever, very clever.

  ‘Any word of Ewan?’ Simon shook his head. ‘No, Sir Henry, your father’s man has been delayed in York, waiting for the archbishop to return. It seems His Grace is not expected back from a jaunt to Reivaulx Abbey until tomorrow at the earliest.’

  Simon was well informed — he was well paid to be. Henry relaxed and yawned expansively. ‘Then see to it that he’s even further “delayed”. Find me someone in York who’ll get his hands dirty for money — Ewan will be no loss to anyone but my father.’

  Even Simon was surprised at the extent of Henry Hardwell’s ruthlessness in pursuit of his own way — something to remember and consider when the time for choosing sides declared itself. However, whilst he was in high favour, all would be well and he’d be rewarded. He’d cast his lot with the son now, no point in holding back.

  ‘As you wish, Sir Henry.’ Simon bowed to his master, his real master, and hurried away to rouse Michael from the kitchen.

  Henry called after him, ‘I feel the need to pray, Simon. Return to me soon for we are both sinful men and it may be that the words of a certain holy abbess can be a comfort and a shriving for both our souls.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  It was evening of the following day and Duke Richard was furious. He’d just received word that the presumed spy had disappeared from the convent of Our Lady of the Sands. Angry too was the Archbishop of York, though his anger took a different form.

  The two men stared at one another. One was just older than a boy, the other a well-fed man in his thirties, younger brother of Earl Warwick and therefore, a covert enemy of the pup standing before his archbishop’s Cathedra daring to masquerade as a duke.

  George Neville saw with unvoiced satisfaction that his summons to Richard had made this stripling very angry indeed.

  ‘I am confused, Duke Richard. You instructed one of your vassal knights, Sir Henry Hardwell, to attempt armed entrance to one of my convents to abduct a girl in the care of the nuns?’

  The archbishop’s tone was freezing. Richard of Gloucester might be the youngest brother of the king, but church lands were sacrosanct, as were those who lived on them. In this incident, he would not deal with a boy, the issue was far too serious. Unfortunately his contempt for the young duke flashed over his face for a moment, one fatal moment.

  The duke’s impotent fury compressed sharply into something hard.

  ‘Be careful, Archbishop. Be very careful. I am my brother’s chief vassal in the north. If I am told that a spy for the French is hiding within my domain it is my duty, and yours, to hunt that spy down. To do else is treason to the king, my brother.’

  He could be as wintery as the other man when he chose. Gaze locked on gaze and an onlooker might have heard each man breathing as if at the end of a long race.

  The archbishop sucked in breath and spat his words back. ‘Treason, Duke Richard? I owe allegiance to a power greater than any king’s.’

  Richard bared his teeth and in that moment the archbishop felt fear. He’d known this boy’s father, the great Duke of York. This boy’s eyes were suddenly formidable.

  ‘Ah yes. You are Earl Warwick’s brother after all.’

  This was a most direct insult, to him personally, and to his office, and for a moment the archbishop struggled to find suitable response. The ingratitude of this pup! As a boy he’d lived with the earl, at Middleham!

  ‘Viper! After all my family has done for ...’

  Richard raised his voice, shouting the prelate down.

  ‘Henry Hardwell was doing his duty when I asked him to enter that convent. These are desperate times, as well you know. We’ve had alarms from the French all year. And now the girl has gone. Fled. What does that tell you!’

  He roared out the last sentence — a bellow of rage and frustration distantly heard even by the monks in the cloister of the Minster’s Garth. In some things, he was like his brother.

  Fire with fire. The archbishop was only a man and he was sorely tempted. ‘This audience is over. Leave my palace! Your brother will hear of your insolence to the church.’

  ‘My brother, or your brother?’

  Richard was normally moderate and careful in all he said, but he had rarely been so angry. This archbishop had been a burr under his saddle from the beginning and never more so than now. But Richard, as Duke of Gloucester, was second heir after his brother Clarence to the throne of England, and he would find that girl; and when he did, the archbishop would be made to eat his own insolence, slowly and painfully.

  ‘This girl was in the care of the Church; if she fled it must have been in fear. From your thugs! Anathema, this is worthy of anathema!’

  It was a powerful threat and most men would have been cowed by the thought of the ultimate power the archbishop held: excommunication. But these last menacing words were delivered to the duke’s back as he stomped away from the archbishop’s throne without one look behind him.

  In a churning blur of rage, Richard rode away from George Neville’s palace towards his own, where Henry Hardwell waited. Angry as he was, the duke knew that having botched what he’d been given to do, the knight would be more than keen to prove himself in the task he was about to be given.

  Together they would catch that girl, his brother the king would expect nothing less.

  The prioress of Our Lady of the Sands had finally overplayed her hand and the mischief she’d made came home to roost with a
vengeance.

  ‘What did you tell the Hardwells?’ The Reverend Mother’s voice was sharp as she inspected Aelwin, prostrate on the flags in front of the altar, face down, weeping.

  ‘I was only trying to help us, Lady Elinor, help the convent.’

  The bald lie incensed the Mother Superior. Kneeling down beside her sister in Christ, she hauled Aelwin’s head up by the veil.

  ‘I want the truth, Aelwin. He wants the truth.’ She flourished a crucifix in one hand, so close to Aelwin’s eyes that the suffering, bleeding body of Christ seemed like a weapon. ‘If you do not tell me, then blood will be on your head and I shall thrust you out from these walls, naked. Tell me!’

  Aelwin wailed with terror. ‘I thought it was my duty. They’re our patron.’

  ‘God is watching and judging, Aelwin. Be careful, very careful for your soul. Did you tell the Hardwells where Anne went?’

  Elinor had Aelwin by the shoulders now, eyes burning like coals. Aelwin gave up with a gasp. ‘Yes’. Her eyes filled with frightened tears.

  Elinor was brutally direct. ‘For money?’ The other nun said nothing. ‘Oh Aelwin, Aelwin, they paid you to betray that girl.’

  Aelwin thought about speaking the lie, but here, in the chapel, in sight of the great rood hanging in bloody, tortured majesty above them — the nunnery’s chief treasure — she found she couldn’t do it.

  ‘Yes, Mother.’ Her voice rustled, wind through dead grass.

  ‘You have accepted money; you have therefore put their souls, the immortal souls of both father and son — and your own — at risk, if they find that girl. It will be your fault if anything happens to Anne or your sister Joan — or to the Hardwells. Judas was paid to betray Our Lord also, and he was cursed for all eternity.’

  Aelwin, with shaking hands, attempted to set her veil to rights, but did not dare get off her knees.

  ‘But, Mother, once Sir Henry had forced it out of me, I had to tell his father — I was so frightened for her. The baron said he would find Anne, and protect her from his son. I was terrified, too, that Sir Henry would burn the convent if he wasn’t told where she’d gone. I saved this place, Mother — and I was going to give the money to our treasury.’