Guy drifted off again, but woke with a start, unable to bear the recurring nightmare any longer. He was terribly cold and hungry, but he didn’t complain. He was sure every man on that field felt much the same. He turned to Hugh. His brother appeared unhurt, but his face was gray with fatigue and his breastplate was smeared with blood. His dark hair was matted, and three-day stubble shadowed his jaw. Hugh’s eyes flew open as though he felt Guy’s gaze on him.
“Stay with me,” Hugh commanded. “Do you hear me, Guy?”
Guy nodded. “I’d find it easier to stick around if I had something to eat.”
“Walter will have a devil of a time finding even scraps of bread. There are hundreds of men here, and they are all hungry. I doubt the villagers have much left to spare. The sooner we leave, the better.”
“Are we going home?” Guy asked. He found it hard to form the words due to the roar in his head, but had no desire to go back to sleep and face the demons with bloodied swords and empty eye sockets that sprang back to life to fight on and on.
“Aye, we are,” Hugh replied. “We must bury William, and you’re in no condition to do any fighting in the foreseeable future.”
“Walter said Edward has gone to York.”
“And a pretty welcome he’s going to receive,” Hugh replied with grim humor. “Last I heard, Edward’s father and brother’s heads, as well as that of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, still adorn Micklegate Bar. A gruesome sight for any man, let alone one whose family’s remains grace the gatehouse. There’ll be hell to pay, I wager, especially if Warwick has any say in the matter.”
Guy thought on Hugh’s words. The death of Richard Plantagenet, the Duke of York, in battle and the subsequent murder of his son, Edmund, the Earl of Rutland, at the hands of Sir Clifford had changed the course of the war once and for all. Even loyal Lancastrians referred to Sir Clifford as ‘The Butcher’ after he killed the unarmed seventeen-year-old on Wakefield Bridge in cold blood, despite pleas by his own soldiers to let the boy live and take him prisoner instead. Sir Clifford had wanted to avenge the death of his own father at the battle of St. Albans, but his vengeance wasn’t honorable, not by any standards of combat. Had he killed Rutland in battle, it would have looked very different for him.
Richard Plantagenet’s death had left his eldest, Edward, first in line for the throne. Despite rumblings that Edward was nothing more than Warwick’s puppet, his popularity had proved to be all his own, and he had succeeded where his father had failed in attempting to take the throne. The Earl of Warwick might have been the one to proclaim Edward king, but it was Edward’s skill in battle, his youth, his bravery, and his charm that had paved his path to the throne, reminding the people of all that was missing in their current monarch, Henry VI, a man suited to ruling England about as much as a nun was suited to running whores.
Guy had seen King Henry from a distance several times, riding a docile mare as he wasn’t a competent rider, an empty scabbard at his side. The man dressed in simple peasant clothes with his hair shorn close to the scalp. But it wasn’t the manner of his dress that distressed his followers; it was the vacant look in his eyes, and the silly half-smile that played about his lips, as if he weren’t quite sure where he was or what he was doing there. His wife, Margaret of Anjou, was the power behind the throne, but without the active support of her husband, she was fighting a losing battle, and a costly one.
“It isn’t over. Not by a long shot,” Hugh said, shaking his head. “Somerset will regroup, and Margaret of Anjou will launch a new offensive. She’ll never give up, not as long as there’s still breath in her body. She’ll see her boy Prince Edward of Westminster on the throne if that’s the last thing she does, despite the Act of Accord.”
“It likely will be the last thing she does,” Guy replied quietly. Prince Edward was quiet, pious, and utterly oblivious to the conflict he’d created through his lack of strong leadership. Some said he suffered from bouts of madness, but Guy had never come close enough to His Royal Highness to see for himself.
There were some who believed that Henry VI’s son with Margaret of Anjou had been fathered by the Duke of Somerset’s father, since the notion of their pious, simple-minded king bedding his fiery queen and begetting a son was incongruous and highly improbable. Few dared to say the words out loud, or lived long enough after making the insinuation to tell the tale. Margaret adored her son, and had fought like a lioness to safeguard the throne for him—a quest that had been declared virtually impossible with the Act of Accord of 1460, which allowed Henry to remain on the throne for the duration of his lifetime but disinherited his son, stating that the Duke of York would be next in line for the throne after Henry’s death. Not a man in the kingdom believed that Margaret of Anjou would accept such a ruling. It had been a thinly veiled declaration of war. And now Edward of York was king, and Margaret of Anjou was on the losing side of history, as were the de Rosel brothers.
Chapter 7
July 2014
Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland
Quinn pulled her hand away from the sword and leaned back in the chair. The Wars of the Roses had never been one of her favorite historical periods. The series of bloody conflicts that had claimed thousands of lives wasn’t an uprising against tyranny or a defensive stance to protect England’s sovereign borders; it was an endless struggle between vain, power-hungry individuals who were too fixated on the ultimate prize to do what was best for the country and the people they claimed to love. The conflict between the House of York and the House of Lancaster had spawned the sort of treachery one would only expect to find in a novel, with some of the main players changing sides more than once and sacrificing their loved ones for the promise of the throne. The Wars of the Roses were the original game of thrones, and few of the players walked away unscathed, or walked away at all.
Gabe could trace his family all the way back to the Norman Conquest of 1066, so it stood to reason that his ancestors would have been involved in the conflict that had divided the nation, just as it was to be expected that they would be loyal to the House of Lancaster. The north had remained staunchly Lancastrian, even after Edward IV won the throne and the Yorkists imprisoned Henry VI in the Tower of London. Had Henry’s wife, Margaret of Anjou, accepted defeat, many lives would have been spared, but Margaret had fought on, spending most of her life in exile and mounting rebellion after rebellion until her son, Edward of Westminster, was killed at the Battle of Tewkesbury in 1471, putting an end to her longstanding campaign.
Many historians argued that the conflict was spurred by Henry VI’s mental instability and inability to rule, but there were others who believed that the wars were caused by the very structure of the feudal system, sometimes referred to as Bastard Feudalism, which forced the gentry to support their liege lord rather than their king, and take up arms in support of whichever contender their liege backed at the time. The liege lords didn’t have standing armies. They called on their retainers when they required military support. Some of the more powerful lords could raise a small army that consisted not only of knights, but of all vassals, who had no choice but to answer the summons of their overlord.
Quinn glanced at the beautiful sword. She knew that Gabe came from a distinguished family, but she hadn’t realized the de Rosels had been titled once. Only sons of noble families, those not destined for the Church, had gone on to become squires and knights, and only wealthy families could afford the cost of armor, weapons, and destriers required for knighthood. Quinn was actually surprised that none of the three brothers had taken Holy Orders, but perhaps William de Rosel, who’d become Baron de Rosel upon his father’s death, had decided to keep his brothers together after the loss of their parents.
Quinn reached for the bag containing the rosary. Perhaps it had once belonged to Lady de Rosel and had been buried with Guy de Rosel for protection, given that he hadn’t received a Christian burial. Why would a warrior not be buried in consecrated ground? There were only a few reasons a person in
the Middle Ages would be denied a Christian burial, the most common being suicide. Had Guy killed himself?
Quinn opened the bag and allowed the shiny beads to spill into her palm. Perhaps the rosary would tell her.
Chapter 8
April 1461
Holystone, Northumberland
Kate stepped out of the barn and stopped in her tracks, mesmerized by the glorious sunrise that painted the sky in breathtaking shades of crimson and gold. The sun shimmered as it made its ascent, its belly skimming the trees as it sailed slowly into the cloudless sky.
Kate watched the sunrise every morning, but she could never take its beauty for granted, especially on a glorious spring morning that heralded a gorgeous day to come. She balanced the milk pails in her hands and walked toward the refectory. Milking was her first chore of the day, followed by Prime. After breakfast, she worked in the stables or the laundry until Sext. Kate performed most of her chores alone, but she didn’t mind. Even when she was in the company of the nuns, there was little idle talk. The Augustine order at Holystone Priory was not a silent one, but the sisters only spoke when something needed to be said or in prayer. They didn’t require endless verbal intercourse to feel supported, understood, or cared for. Kate had never felt as accepted and cherished as she had since coming to the priory.
She delivered the milk pails to the kitchen, nodded to the sisters who were busy baking their daily bread, and was about to walk out when the other postulate, Mary, swept into the room. Mary was a girl who did everything with the maximum noise, even when her tasks were silent in nature. This morning, her sabots slapped loudly against the stone floor and she huffed as if she’d just run the entire length of the corridor. Mary’s cheeks were stained with the rosy glow of excitement, and her wide brown eyes shone with curiosity.
“Catherine, the abbess wishes to see you right away,” Mary blurted.
Kate longed to be addressed as Sister Catherine. She still thought of herself as Kate in her private thoughts, but she couldn’t wait to be officially part of the order, a milestone that would take place in a fortnight when she would take her First Vow. Mary still had a year to go, but Kate had been at the priory for two years now, and her time as novice was finally at an end. Perhaps the abbess wished to discuss the vow-taking ceremony.
Kate’s hand subconsciously went to her veil as she made sure no stray hair escaped the postulate’s white headdress, and she followed Mary out of the refectory and toward the chapter house, where the abbess’s office was situated. She’d only been there once, when her father, Lord Dancy, had delivered her to the convent two years before. Lord Dancy had not been happy to turn his only daughter over to the nuns, but it was his wife’s greatest wish that Catherine be allowed to take the veil. Lord Dancy had three fine sons to carry on the family name; he had no need of a daughter to further his interests, Lady Dancy had insisted.
Kate had been fifteen at the time, an age when most girls began to contemplate marriage in earnest. She wasn’t at all sure that she wished to devote her life to God, not when she could marry a fine lord and become the lady of the manor. The prospect of having her own home, lovely gowns and jewels, and servants to command was an appealing one, but her mother had won her over after a time. She hadn’t explained her reasoning right away, but when Kate had proved stubborn and wouldn’t entertain her mother’s wish with due seriousness, she had finally revealed the truth and begged Kate to reconsider.
“Kate, you’re very young and naïve and have romantic notions of marriage, but the reality is quite different. I was wed to your father when I was fourteen, only a year younger than you are now. Your father was twenty-one at the time, but he’d had little experience of women—or genteel women, I should say. He had no notion of how to woo a terrified young bride, nor did he bother to try. I don’t wish to frighten you, but what happens to a woman in the marriage bed can be brutal, and I wish to spare you the indignities I’ve had to endure,” Lady Dancy had said, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I’ve given your father seven children, and I consider myself blessed to have four who survived, but losing a child is not something a woman ever comes to terms with. I still grieve for your siblings every day, and pray for their immortal souls. A woman’s life is not one of pleasure and comfort, it’s a life of pain and suffering, no matter her station in life. I only wish to protect you, my dove. You will be happy with the nuns, and safe.” Lady Dancy had taken Kate’s hands in hers and smiled gently. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, Mother,” Kate had replied, her own eyes welling up.
She had only a vague notion of what her mother was talking about, but she’d heard Cook say that her brother Martin took liberties with the female servants, and being the heir to their father’s title and estate, did what he wished, seeing the serfs in his father’s employ as his for the taking. Kate didn’t understand or ask too many questions. What Martin did was his business, and if their father didn’t object, then it certainly wasn’t up to her to pass judgment. It wasn’t until she accidently walked in on Agnes in her travail that she finally understood what Cook meant by ‘taking liberties,’ and what those liberties led to.
Agnes had hidden in the barn when her time came, equipped with only a knife to cut the cord and a blanket to wrap the child in. She begged Kate to leave, but Kate couldn’t abandon the poor girl, who was only sixteen, when she was frightened and in pain. Kate sat with Agnes for hours and brought her water to drink when the labor went on and on, leaving Agnes exhausted and weak. She’d never forget the agony Agnes endured to bring a baby girl into the world, a girl Martin refused to even look at or acknowledge as his own.
Lord Dancy sent Agnes away with nothing but the clothes on her back when she dared to speak the name of the man who’d taken her against her will and got her with child. He called her a liar and a harlot and threatened to have her whipped if she didn’t clear off. Kate overheard Cook telling the scullion that Agnes had been found dead in a ramshackle barn three days later. The child had still been alive, but died the same day, having been exposed to the elements for too long. And a blessing it was too, Cook opined, nodding wisely, since no one’d want the poor mite, especially it being a girl, which was of little use to anyone. Agnes and the child were buried in a pauper’s grave, with no one to mourn them or say a kind word in their memory since Agnes had been an orphan.
Kate observed Martin for days after Agnes’s death to see if he was aggrieved by the news, but he didn’t seem to care. Lord Dancy brought in a new serving wench from the village, and Martin laid his claim to her, telling his brothers to not even look at the new girl until he tired of her. Kate hoped that Geoffrey and Robert would chastise Martin for Agnes’s death, but they didn’t say a word, at least not within her hearing. Kate didn’t expect much from Robert, who was sixteen and worshipped his older brother, but she had hoped Geoffrey would come to Agnes’s defense.
At eighteen, Geoffrey was the kindest of her brothers, and the most affectionate toward her. He had entertained hopes of taking the Holy Orders from an early age, but their father repeatedly refused his request. Geoffrey had brought up the subject again after Agnes’s death, appalled by his father’s refusal to take responsibility for his son’s disgraceful behavior and see to the welfare of Agnes and her child.
“We’ve enough priests in this country,” Lord Dancy snapped. “’Tis not natural for a man to deny his needs. You’ll do much better to make a fine marriage and advance the interests of your family. Once I find a suitable bride for Martin, it’ll be your turn next. You’ll not speak of this foolishness again, boy. Not ever.”
Kate hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but now that she was of marriageable age she longed to know what was happening behind closed doors. Decisions were being made and alliances forged, and sooner or later it would be her turn, and she wished to be prepared.
Kate followed Geoffrey to the stables after his conversation with their father. She’d expected Geoffrey to look upset, but he seem
ed his usual self when she approached him.
“What are you doing here, Katie? This is hardly the weather for riding.”
A heavy snow had been falling for hours, blanketing the muck in the yard with a pristine guilt of pure white as an unnatural hush had settled over the outbuildings. Everyone had hunkered down to wait out the storm, even the dogs, who were warm and snug in the kennel. Geoffrey wasn’t going to ride either. He liked to go to the stables to be alone. They had grooms to take care of the horses, but Geoffrey enjoyed looking after his own horse, and spent hours brushing it down and exercising it when the weather was fine.
“I wished to speak to you,” Kate said.
“You could have spoken to me indoors.”
“I wanted to speak to you privately.”
“And what private business do you have, little lady?” Geoffrey asked, smiling down at her.
“Geoffrey, is it not a sin what Martin did to poor Agnes?” Kate asked as Geoffrey took a handful of straw and began to brush down his horse. He didn’t ask how Kate knew about Agnes, nor did he insult her by telling her that she was too young to fully comprehend the situation. Geoffrey’s hazel gaze looked pained at the question, but he answered her truthfully nonetheless.
“It is, Kate, but Martin is our father’s heir and can’t be encumbered with a serf’s bastard. Father will find him a bride soon, but until then Martin will sow his wild oats where he sees fit.”
“Will the Lord not punish him for his sins?” Kate asked, perplexed. She lived in eternal fear of sinning and incurring God’s vengeance, but her brothers didn’t seem troubled by the stern words they heard from the pulpit week after week, words that threatened God’s wrath for even a stray thought, much less a dishonorable deed.
The Forsaken (Echoes from the Past Book 4) Page 4
