For Anne’s part, the physical similarity that George had to his elder brother was deeply disconcerting. If she half-closed her eyes, if she listened to the timbre of his voice, it was almost possible to believe they were the same man. But then he spoiled the impression by letting his eyes flick too clearly to the breast of her gown — he was entirely unsubtle, something his brother never was — and by his loud laugh; a laugh with some similarity to a donkey’s bray.
As Anne took her place between the duke and the earl at the high board on the dais, a discreet buzz ran around the hall as all eyes focused on the trio.
The castle people were avid for gossip; they’d all heard how the girl had been rescued from kidnappers on the moor and were agog to see if she lived up to the reports of her physical attraction. George too was intrigued when the earl described the events of the day before. ‘Stephen Hardwell and his son? I’d not heard they’d turned outlaw? So how did this all happen, lady?’
Anne calmly told her story once more. ‘I was in York, transacting business on behalf of my partner, Sir Mathew Cuttifer, and myself, with Master Cohen of Silver Lane — we have wool-growing interests at Burning Norton, when Sir Henry burst into the house and abducted me. Later he was joined by his father.’ She shook her head, apparently deeply overcome by the terrible things she had suffered.
The earl, tut-tutting, patted her hand and finished the story for her. ‘And since we had received a report that a party of armed men was lose on my lands, I sent to find out what was afoot. Unfortunately, or fortunately for Lady Anne — who was tied into the back of a cart — my servants met resistance when they sought to question Sir Stephen and his son, and well, here she is, safe and sound!’
Certainly it was best to be economical with the truth in front of this witless, vain boy; best not to speak of the directive he’d given his men that all unfamiliars found on Neville land were to stopped and challenged in these times.
Unfortunate that his men had exceeded orders, unfortunate that Sir Stephen had drawn his sword before asking even one question — though the earl knew well his men were overzealous in their approach — but that was the price one paid for vigilance in these times.
The duke was astonished and outraged on Anne’s behalf. ‘I must speak to my brother, I really must! The kingdom is becoming entirely lawless if a lady is to be treated in this way. Tied into the back of a cart?! Outrageous, truly outrageous!’ The earl suppressed a smile at this unconscious hypocrisy from George. ‘For a lady of quality to be dragged from a private house and kidnapped in the full light of day is appalling.’
Anne closed her eyes quickly. She hated to lie and the image of Henry Hardwell, disembowelled as he lay dying in the cart beside her, was a horrible one. Quickly she said a silent prayer for the peace of the knight’s soul to Mary, the mother of his God, but she opened her eyes as a cold draft shifted the hangings behind the high table.
Warwick and Clarence, oblivious to the sudden chill, were talking of supplies for the men in the castle, but Anne felt the flesh of her arms prickle as she looked around to see where the icy breeze was coming from. The doorway into the hall was covered by drawn curtains but a hand appeared between them, a hand holding a plain, naked sword. A woman’s hand.
The curtains fluttered, blowing aside for a moment and Anne glimpsed a cowled figure behind them. The cowl dropped back from the face as the unexpected guest at the feast strode forward.
The Sword Mother advanced some steps and, staring full at Anne, took up a position standing guard at the entrance to the hall, both hands resting on the pommel of her sword as she grounded the tip on the flags.
Anne’s mouth was dry as she stared back.
‘Lady Anne? More bread for this excellent saffron sauce? You look quite pale. We must feed you well if you’re not to sicken after your ordeal.’ The duke smiled encouragingly at Warwick’s charming guest as the busy servants came and went, adding more and more food to the table.
‘Thank you, Your Grace. Yes, strength is just what I need.’
Only Anne saw the Sword Mother smile as the chill wind sighed through the hall. And Anne smiled back, smiled at the empty air and then at the duke as she dipped bread into the saffron sauce on their shared pewter trencher.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
‘What does she look like, your son’s mother? Her hair, for instance?’
Edward stirred the meagre fire with the toe of his riding boot. ‘I’m not telling you, Richard.’ His brother was persistent, although ordinarily the king liked that.
‘But why not?’
Edward laughed. He couldn’t help himself, and that eased the tension. God knew, after the last two days, that was a relief in itself.
The brothers were camped out on the moors two days’ journey from York with a small party of hand-picked men, and it was a cold night.
‘How long has the scout been gone?’
The duke shrugged. ‘Five minutes longer then when you last asked, Edward.’
He sat squatting to feed the flames with heather; it was wet, and smoke billowed into their eyes from a sudden gust of wind. Edward cursed heartily, ‘God’s bowels and arse! What’re you doing?’ Richard coughed and leapt up, eyes streaming.
‘It was going out.’
Edward turned away, choking, but Richard wouldn’t be swayed from his obsession. ‘You’ve got to tell me more about your lady love, Edward. How will I know her in the fight if you don’t describe her to me? We could end up with the wrong girl.’
Edward punched his brother hard in the shoulder so that the duke fell, arse-first, into a wet gorse bush.
‘Oy! Aaargh — get me out! Come on!’
‘That’s for being nosy. And I’m not letting you near her, fight or no fight.’ But the king reached down a hand and hauled his brother, half-laughing, half-snarling, out of the bush just as they both heard hooves approaching, at speed.
Geoffrey Luttrell reached the man first as he rode into the little camp, horse wild-eyed, man breathing hard. Geoffrey helped the scout from his horse and, throwing the reins to a bystander, hurried the man to Edward and Richard.
‘Therefore, tell me about Middleham.’
The scout, Walter Ferrars, made a sketchy bow as the words fell out of his mouth. The king was famously impatient before a battle and he didn’t want to provoke the Plantagenet wrath unnecessarily. ‘Stuffed tight with troops, liege. Too many of them — at least a thousand, I’m thinking.’
Richard had spent several years at Middleham, sent there as a boy by his father, the old Duke of York, to learn the civilizing arts from the Nevilles. He shook his head grimly. ‘Middleham can accommodate twice that number, if it has to. They’ll be primed and ready for a fight. We should have kept the levies by us, brother.’ Edward shook his head; that was all too late, now. ‘Well supplied, are they?’
The scout nodded. ‘Wensleydale’s alive with the talk. They’ve enough provisions, enough armament to survive a six-month siege. Warwick’s there. And it’s said he has a guest; a lady who answers your description, sire,’ Richard flashed an outraged look at his brother, who shrugged, ‘though she’s not much seen. Gossip says she’s not so much a guest as a captive. The earl’s family, though, is away at Warwick castle — or so I was told.’ The man guttered to a halt. Plainly there was more to say.
‘And? What else, Ferrars? What do you know?’ Richard stared so intensely at the scout that the man dropped his eyes, abashed.
‘Well, Walter?’ The king’s tone was calmer. No sense in making Walter feel as if his last day had come; it was not easy being the messenger.
‘The Duke of Clarence, sire. He’s known to be in residence with the earl.’
Richard made a disgusted noise, and glared savagely at the fire, now almost out thanks to his previous attentions. ‘There, look at that now! Wood! We must have wood — for the sake of Christ’s sorrows!’
Edward ignored his brother. ‘Thank you, Walter. Get some food; and you, Geoffrey.’
G
eoffrey Luttrell sprang to his feet. ‘Yes, sire?’
‘Wood. See if you can find some wood.’
The two hurried away leaving the king and Richard together contemplating the ruins of their wretched fire. ‘I didn’t say it was going to be easy, Richard.’
The duke said nothing, merely slung his cloak tighter around his body against the cold. An eloquent action which said — and so, what now?
The king sighed. ‘Listen, my hot, young friend. This has to be done and there’s more to it than you know, than I can tell you.’
The duke spoke furiously.
‘Don’t patronise me, Edward. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell? Why do we have to retrieve your doxy when there’s so much that’s important to do?’
Just the merest ghost of a smile touched Edward’s mouth, but he was grim, very grim. ‘My doxy, as you call her, has more of a right to the throne of England than I do. Or you. Or Clarence for that matter. That’s why.’
Richard’s mouth hung open for a moment then he gulped. Edward was serious. ‘Well then, isn’t it time you told me the truth? Who is she?’
The Earl of Warwick was uneasy. He’d sent the letter concerning Anne to Edward more than five nights since, but as yet nothing, no word, had come from York.
He was puzzled; the king was still at York Castle with his brother — that’s what his trusted people, his intelligencers, were telling him.
Richard and Edward were seen at chapel, and holding some state together within the hall. True, they’d been closeted for the last two days or so within Richard’s rooms, but food was regularly sent in and consumed, clothes were dirtied and washed, audiences were held, with Hastings in attendance.
It was strange, therefore, most strange, that there had been no response. Then, thinking of the case, the earl brightened. Edward must dance to his own good pleasure for he, Warwick, was in possession of the girl. Like the spider on his web calmly waiting for the hapless fly to approach, that must be his course of action: watch carefully, and wait.
Meanwhile, there was chess to play with the charming Anne de Bohun.
‘Your move, Earl Warwick.’ There was a certain edge of triumph to that slightly husky voice — it gave him pleasure to hear it, though, of course, her certainty would not survive this next move.
‘Ah, yes, so it is. I think my bishop must move to take your castle, thus.’ His turn to smile into those long green-blue eyes. Really, if he were not a well-married man he might be tempted.
‘Ah, then my knight will take your bishop, so.’ She was smiling at him, damn her. Smiling quite saucily and, truth to tell, he had not seen the possibility of the move. He must concentrate, for this was not like him; he always won at chess!
She chuckled. ‘But I’m sure you always win, Your Grace.’ He looked at her sharply, but there was such innocence in her eyes that the odd timing of her remark dissolved.
He held her glance for one moment before she looked down modestly. He approved of that. Women who gazed at men boldly were nearly always overreaching trollops — as most women were, of course, at heart. Sisters of Eve, all of them, sisters of Eve, under the skin.
He studied the board. Had she trapped him?
‘Your Grace?’
‘Hmmm?’ He was distracted, finding it harder and harder to think his way out of the puzzle she’d set him.
‘I should like to ride out a little later today. I feel the need for exercise.’
He looked up smiling from the board, though a certain tension stiffened his spine.
‘Alas, I fear that all this rain would make the going difficult. Not safe, Lady Anne, not safe at all.’
She laughed. ‘But I ride very well, Earl Warwick. Come with me, if you’re so concerned. We’ve all been immured too long!’
‘Well said, Lady Anne. Excellently said!’
The earl swivelled in his seat, annoyed; Clarence had just strolled into Anne’s solar, arriving in time to hear her last words.
‘Fresh meat, cousin. I swear my teeth are coming loose from the lack of it after all this salt pork we’re eating. Just one or two bucks? The whole castle will thank us.’
Earl Warwick narrowed his eyes at the young duke and George felt suddenly uncertain. For a moment, it almost appeared as if the earl might hate him; then it was gone. George shook his head. He’d been mistaken; the earl was smiling broadly, after all.
‘Ah, you young people. You think of nothing but pleasure.’
Clarence was like a puppy now, so happy to be smiled at by his master he was positively panting. Yet Anne observed the unconscious contest between the two men dispassionately — she saw the rivalry between them, even if they did not. That could be, would be, useful to her.
‘Where’s the harm, cousin? Lady Anne, help me change his mind!’ Anne smiled graciously. ‘Indeed, Your Grace, there could be no harm, could there? Healthful exercise?’ The earl contemplated the chess board in rapt concentration, then, having essayed a move towards Anne’s queen — and rejected it — sat back and smiled a rueful smile.
‘Perhaps not. It might be good for us all.’ In truth, he too would be happy to get across a horse after days and days of voluntary incarceration. And there was no threat to Middleham; he’d made sure of that. His lands bristled with his affinity on careful, attentive patrol. Yes, they could hunt safely if he made sure the girl was well guarded as they rode. It might be a pleasant little lull before what must come, eventually.
‘Very well.’ He rose and made a nonchalant little bow to the girl. ‘Let us hunt. Afterwards, perhaps I will think more clearly,’ he grinned as he nodded towards the board, ‘since you are such a very good strategist.’
Anne smiled at the compliment as George whooped with delight. ‘Oh ho, Lady Anne! You’ve bested him — that’s a first! So now, we must see if you hunt as well as you play. Who knows, you might even beat our host to the kill!’
The earl frowned quellingly at this unnecessarily noisy display before turning back to Anne. ‘Lady, we must see to finding you a hunting dress. I’ll get the housekeeper to give you something of Isabelle’s.’ The light stress he placed on the name of his daughter was enough to curb George. He fell into a sulk and didn’t bother to hide it as he stalked out.
Isabelle! It had been a month since Warwick had permitted him to see his daughter. For the life of him, he had no idea what game Warwick was playing at — didn’t the earl want him to marry his daughter? In token of his displeasure he slammed the door at his exit.
Anne suddenly found the view from her window immensely interesting, but the earl was unperturbed. ‘My daughter keeps a spare riding habit at Middleham, I believe.’ He sauntered to the door and smiled charmingly at his guest as she turned back to him. ‘I shall have it sent to you.’
The door closed behind Richard of Warwick and Anne counted to five deliberately, taking slow, deep breaths. If will could make her heart beat less fast, then she would will it so. She had a knife hidden, an eating knife she’d filched one night at dinner in the hall; she’d sharpened it well on the stone windowsill and she would bind it carefully to her forearm, just as she’d been shown by Ivan such a long time ago, it seemed, in Brugge.
Today she would find a way to use it, for this ride felt like a last chance to cut free from the politics she’d been caught up in. And she still had her ruby.
Freedom and her son, and Brugge, still beckoned and there was nothing — nothing! — she would not do to claim her life back once more.
Edward’s men had done very well to penetrate so deeply into Warwick’s lands without being spotted. Walter Ferrars had done his work carefully, guiding the king and his brother with their men up moorland streams — so that the horses left no trace for dogs — and taking little-known sheep-ways towards the Wensleydale hills; and now, at last, after a morning’s tough, concentrated ride, Edward and Richard could see Middleham below them on the plain.
‘A very fair castle, brother.’ Richard sounded wistful as he looked down from his perch o
n the fell beside his brother; he’d been happy there, as a boy. ‘Well situated, as you see.’
Edward grunted, studying the place. Unfortunately Richard was right. Earl Warwick was famously protected by massive, carefully built walls — some of the thickest in England — and the ancient, grim central keep was well defended by inner and outer wards, a formidable gatehouse and a moat.
The only way into Middleham was through the mighty East Gate and once through that, a visitor to the castle passed beneath a further two inner gates, each including a portcullis, each one guarded by its own troops.
‘And so?’
Edward gritted his teeth. What did his brother expect him to say? That they should just stroll down, knock on the door and ...
Edward laughed. Of course, that’s just what had been done on another celebrated occasion at Warwick Castle. Their brother Clarence had been staying with the earl, about to marry his daughter, though Edward and Hastings had interrupted that little liaison. And here, in this castle, George was once more keeping company with the earl. Did nothing change?
‘I’m game to have a go — just knock on the door and ask for breakfast?’ Richard sounded remarkably cheerful and that made Edward laugh as he slithered back from the edge of their eyre on his belly, followed by his brother. Once beneath the line of sight from the castle below, he stood up and joined the small group of men waiting for instructions.
‘We will watch and ward, relays of two men each: two hours on, two hours off. I’ll want reports of movement over the next eight hours: we’ll time by quarters of the sun. Duke Richard and I will watch first, you are to rest.’
Walter Ferrars had done his work well in finding this place — a small blind valley behind the summit of a high fell with, at its end, an abandoned salt mine which went some way back into the hill itself — an artificial cave, large enough for men and horses both.
‘Here, Geoffrey, take Mallon.’ The king tossed Geoffrey Luttrell the reins of his destrier and Richard did the same for his own stallion, Hautboys.
The Exiled Page 38
