by Alexa Aston
“Thank you for your time. You have been most helpful.” Ancel left the man and collected his horse from the stables.
At least he’d learned that her probable lover came from Kent. How ironic that the man lived in the very area where Lady Marian had gone when she left Waudum to wed. Ancel rode back to York, wondering if Kent should be his next stop. But with so little information, he didn’t see what good it would do. Then it came to him.
The silver pendant.
Lady Marian had received the gift from her lover here, before her marriage. York, being a sizeable town, would be the logical place to purchase such an intricate necklace.
Ancel decided to visit every jeweler throughout the city to see if any of them remembered creating such an unusual piece—and the man who commissioned it. He urged the horse on, eager to begin his search.
Chapter 22
Ancel arrived back in York and decided to purchase parchment and ink in order to draw what he remembered about the pendant. It would be better to show the design to jewelers rather than try to describe it. He returned to the inn and dined on a meat pie and small round of cheese, washing it down with a decent ale. Remaining at the table after a serving wench cleared the meal, he made several poor attempts to replicate the necklace on his own and gave up in frustration. He pushed the parchment aside, mumbling under his breath.
“Having some trouble, my lord?” the innkeeper inquired.
“I am no artist,” Ancel admitted, “yet I need to draw something important.”
“Would you be willing to pay?”
“Of course. Do you know of someone who can draw?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye, Bartholomew. He’s a bright lad. Comes in here often to eat. Let me bring you another cup of ale and I can watch for him.”
Less than an hour later, a young man with hair more orange than red entered the public room. The innkeeper immediately spoke to him and then pointed out Ancel.
Approaching him, the newcomer said, “You have need of someone to capture something on paper for you, my lord? ‘Tis what the innkeeper tells me.”
“I do, Bartholomew, and would be willing to pay you for your time,” Ancel said.
“Then let’s get to it.” Bartholomew seated himself across from Ancel and picked up the parchment. Studying it, he said, “Your sketches aren’t bad but I think I can do better. Tell me what I need to draw. Describe it in as much detail as possible. In fact, close your eyes, my lord, and see it in your mind’s eye.”
Ancel did as requested and saw Margery wearing the necklace. As he explained what it looked like, he heard the scratching of a quill against the parchment. Deliberately keeping his eyes closed, he continued speaking until the sound ended.
Opening his eyes, Ancel gasped. “That’s the pendant,” he said excitedly. “Bartholomew, you have drawn it in great detail and you’ve never even seen it.”
“What you said made it easy for me. You are familiar with the piece. Between looking at your attempts and hearing your words, it was easy to figure out what to draw.”
Ancel slapped the freckled young man on the back. “I cannot thank you enough.” He pulled out a gold coin from his purse and placed it on the table.
Bartholomew’s eyes went round. “Nay, ‘tis too much, my lord,” he protested.
“Keep it,” Ancel insisted. “You have done me a great favor.”
“Thank you.” The lad pocketed the coin and left and Ancel realized the task had taken up the entire afternoon. No shops would be open now.
He called over the innkeeper and asked him about any jewelers in the area. The man knew of two and a possible third one. Ancel would start early tomorrow and hope he would locate the man who had crafted the necklace.
After a restless night, he broke his fast and then visited the two jewelers the innkeeper had mentioned to him. Neither had seen a design remotely like the one he showed them. Once he awarded a coin to each, they had sent him to fellow jewelers nearby. By late afternoon, Ancel had almost exhausted his list. Only two men remained. He pushed away the rising anxiety and rode to the next shop.
Upon entering, a jovial man of two score greeted him with a wide smile.
“Welcome, my lord. What can I do for you this fine day? A bauble for a sweetheart? Or mayhap a ring for your wedding?”
“I have a design to show you,” he said, coming to the counter the man stood behind and unfolding the parchment. “Might you know the man who crafted this piece?”
The jeweler looked at it a moment and nodded to himself. He lifted the page closer and nodded again, his eyes twinkling.
“I haven’t seen this in many years but I am familiar with the design. I last saw it, oh, at least a score ago. Mayhap longer. ‘Twas silver and inlaid with garnets.”
Ancel’s heart pounded rapidly. “Can you direct me to the jeweler who created it?”
“Of course. ‘Twas my uncle who designed and crafted this pendant. My aunt had nothing but girls, so my uncle asked my father if I could apprentice with him. I had only been here a few weeks when a knight came in and told Uncle Oliver he needed a special piece made to give to a special lady.”
“May I speak with your uncle now?” Ancel asked eagerly. “It’s most important.”
“Uncle Oliver’s joints became inflamed a few years ago. The fingers on his hands are curled up and keep him in constant pain. ‘Tis why he no longer owns this shop nor works at it.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He lives at Saint Leonard’s Hospital here in York. Besides nursing the sick and caring for those who have been orphaned, the Augustine canons also take in the elderly. You will find Uncle Oliver there.”
Ancel asked for directions and hurried from the shop to his borrowed horse. The sun had begun to set when he arrived at the entrance to the hospital. After securing the horse, Ancel entered the building and was greeted by one of the canons who was passing by. He gave his name and then asked the priest about Oliver, regretting that, in his haste, he had forgotten to obtain the man’s last name.
“We have only one Oliver here, my lord. Oliver Metcalfe. He is a good-hearted man. I can take you to him if you wish.”
“Please, Father. I would be most grateful.”
They wound their way through several corridors and arrived at a large room filled with dozens of cots. Men sat or lay on some of them, while others gathered around tables scattered about the room.
The canon said, “Oliver is the second man over there.” He excused himself, saying he was needed to help finish preparing the evening meal for the residents.
Ancel took a calming breath and made his way over to the aging jeweler. “Oliver Metcalfe?” he asked.
The thin man with sparse white hair looked up. “I am Oliver Metcalfe, my lord.” Gnarled hands rested atop the table. Ancel could see why Metcalfe could no longer practice his craft.
“I am Sir Ancel de Montfort. Might I speak to you for a few minutes?”
“Of course. I am glad for your company since my only visitors are my nephew and his family.”
“I come from him. He is the one who told me that I could find you at Saint Leonard’s.”
“I am most curious, my lord. Please, continue.”
Ancel set the parchment on the table and opened it. Pointing to the design Bartholomew had drawn, he asked, “Your nephew recognized this. He said you were the jeweler who designed this pendant many years ago.”
Oliver broke out in a grin. “I most certainly am. ‘Twas one of the most difficult pieces I ever crafted. The knight who sought out my services was most particular. In fact, not only did I produce the pendant for him but he wanted something of a comparable design for himself.”
The jeweler’s words triggered something in Ancel’s memory. He remembered seeing something similar, made from silver and garnets, on a cloak of someone at court. The piece had stood out against the dark material. Ancel had only spotted it in passing and couldn’t remember the name of the courtier sporting it or even if
he had seen the man’s face as he walked by.
But Oliver Metcalfe might know who wore the jeweled piece.
“Do you remember the name of this knight?” Ancel’s voice sounded neutral to him but blood roared in his ears.
Metcalfe rubbed his hands together. “It’s been many years, my lord.”
“Take your time,” Ancel urged.
The former jeweler closed his eyes. “I can see him. He was tall with dark hair. His brown eyes were surrounded with flecks of gold.”
Ancel’s heart quickened. Those were Margery’s eyes. He sent a prayer up to the Blessed Christ for this man to remember the name.
Metcalfe opened his eyes. “The knight fostered with a nearby earl. I do remember that. Wait. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” He drew in a breath and expelled it slowly. “Sir Myles. That was his name. I cannot recall the rest, though I remember him telling me that he loved the lady very much.”
Ancel finally had the answer. He knew immediately based upon the physical description and first name who Lady Marian’s lover had been all those years ago. Sir Myles had come into his title a dozen years ago in Kent. Margery’s father had become Lord Myles Peveril, the Earl of Mauntell, an adviser at the royal court.
And she had met the nobleman in passing when they gained their audience with the king a few weeks ago. Mauntell had accompanied Michael de la Pole and Sir Christopher Heron as the noblemen exited the royal chambers. The earl had been the third man in the trio who had helped to negotiate a bride for King Richard. The men had finished meeting with the king and spoke to him and Margery briefly.
Margery’s father was alive. At court. Or had been. He might have returned to his home in Kent for the Christmas season but now Ancel knew his identity and could easily track him down.
“You have been very helpful to me,” Ancel told the old man. “I do know Sir Myles.”
Metcalfe wrung his misshapen hands together. “I am glad to have been of service to you, Sir Ancel.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked.
“Nay, my lord. The good canons at Saint Leonard’s take care of my needs.”
“Could I provide a donation to the hospital in your name?”
Tears welled in Metcalfe’s eyes. “That would be most kind of you, my lord. There are so many children here who have lost their parents. They always need clothes. And the priests could use money for more blankets or candles.”
Ancel placed a hand on the jeweler’s shoulder. “Consider it done.” He rose. “Many thanks to you, Oliver. If I am ever in York again, I will stop by and see you and tell you how this tale ended.”
“Happily, I hope, my lord.”
“’Tis my greatest hope. Good evening.”
Ancel left as one of the priests came in and announced it was time to eat. As the group began exiting the room, he caught up to the priest.
“Father, who is in charge of the hospital? I wish to make a donation.”
“Father Cedric leads our group of Augustine canons. I can take you to him now.”
Ancel met with the priest briefly and gave him almost every coin in his purse. The holy man thanked him profusely. With that, Ancel retrieved his horse and rode back to the inn. He would spend one more night under its roof before returning to search for Lord Myles Peveril, Earl of Mauntell.
*
Ancel pondered on where he should go—London or Kent? He wanted to find Margery’s father as quickly as possible. He racked his brain as he rode south, trying to remember if Mauntell usually stayed at the royal court or returned to his home in Kent during the Christmas season. Ancel couldn’t remember the nobleman being in London the past couple of years, so he decided to skirt the city and ride straightaway to Kent, hoping Mauntell would be at his estate. Ancel arrived early on the afternoon of Christmas Eve and easily gained entrance to the castle grounds once he identified himself.
He rode to the stables and asked if he could place Storm in a stall and have oats and water brought to the horse. The head groom brought a bucket of feed, which Storm gobbled greedily. Ancel rubbed the horse down and learned that the earl had returned from London two days ago.
“Good. My business is with Mauntell. I’ll return for my horse shortly,” he told the stable hand.
Ancel made his way to the keep, brimming with confidence. A servant admitted him and took him upstairs to the solar.
“Wait outside a moment, my lord,” the servant instructed. He knocked and entered, closing the door behind him.
Ancel paced nervously in the hall until the man emerged.
“Lord Myles will see you now.”
“Thank you.” Ancel collected his thoughts and went into the solar.
Myles Peveril sat next to a blazing fire. “Good day to you, Sir Ancel. Your visit is a surprise to me. I hope the king is well?”
“I haven’t been to London since I last saw you outside the king’s chambers but I hope he is in good health.”
Peveril frowned. “Then if you aren’t from King Richard, what business do you have here?”
“Something that concerns you, my lord. And your daughter.”
Peveril shook his head fiercely. “I have no daughter, Sir Ancel. You are mistaken. I have no children at all. No son. No daughter. Never a daughter,” he protested.
“What of your daughter with Lady Marian?” Ancel boldly asked.
The color drained from the nobleman’s face. “I haven’t a clue what you speak of,” he stuttered. “I know of no Lady Marian or any supposed daughter.”
“What about—”
“I must ask you to leave, Sir Ancel, and never speak of such a rumor again.”
“’Tis no rumor, my lord, but fact. You loved Lady Marian and she found herself with child.”
“Nay. I deny this!” cried Peveril.
Ancel remained calm. “We are in the privacy of your solar, my lord. No one will know what passes between us except you and me. I know you fostered with Lady Marian’s father, the Earl of Waudum. That you went to York and had Oliver Metcalfe, a talented jeweler, create a silver pendant garnished with garnets, for Lady Marian to remember you by. She was to give the necklace to her unborn child someday.”
Peveril sank back in his chair, all the fight gone from him. He raised sad eyes. “How do you know all of this, Sir Ancel? I have spoken to no one of this. Ever.”
“I am in love with Lady Margery Ormond, the daughter Lady Marian gave birth to after she wed Lord Joseph Ormond. No other children resulted in the marriage. When Margery was five, Lady Marian became a widow and married for a second time at the king’s direction.”
“To Umfrey Vivers.” Peveril’s words came out in a whisper.
“Aye. Vivers was murdered in the recent peasants’ revolt, along with one of his sons. Lady Marian also perished at the mob’s hands.”
Peveril winced upon hearing those words but Ancel pressed on.
“The king ordered me to secure Highfield because of its close proximity to London. I did as he asked—and ‘twas there I fell in love with Lady Margery. She shared with me that moments before her mother lost her life. Lady Marian gave her a silver pendant inlaid with garnets and told her daughter that it was from her true father. Not Ormond. She didn’t name her lover but I have discovered that you are Margery’s real father.”
Tears streamed down Peveril’s cheeks. “We loved one another, Marian and I. I came to foster with her father when I was seven and she was four. We grew up together. Became friends. Fell in love.” He sighed. “I think I loved Marian from the first moment I saw her. We finally became lovers, despite the fact that we both had been betrothed to others at an early age.”
Peveril wiped his cheeks with the back of his hands. “We couldn’t help ourselves. We made love a handful of times shortly before we both left for Kent. Ormond’s estate was there and I was returning home to Bexley after taking my knightly oath. Marian and I both knew we would marry others and have to bury our love and never speak of it to anyone. I had the silver
pendant made up for her to remember me by and told her that if a child resulted from our times together, she should give the necklace to him or her when they came of age.”
The nobleman pushed his hands through his hair. “I had a matching piece made to wear on my cloak. I wear it still and think of my beloved every time I see it. We never laid eyes on one another again. And here I am a widower and Marian lies in a cold grave.”
He grew quiet and Ancel gave Peveril time to process what he’d just learned.
Finally, he looked up and asked, “Would she see me now? Lady Margery? Are you here to ask if I will attend your nuptial mass?”
Ancel answered, “There will be no marriage unless you intervene, my lord. We must unite, you and me, and rescue Margery from a dire situation.”
Chapter 23
Margery hated everything about her life. For ten days, Ancel had been absent from Highfield and she had never been more miserable. Not only did she feel as if a part of her had gone missing but gloom and doom had descended all around the estate, worse than when Lord Umfrey was alive. No one smiled anymore. Everyone kept their eyes down and their tongues still during meals in the great hall. The spirit of renewal Ancel brought had withered and then perished on the vine.
If only Thurstan Vivers would drop dead.
Her stepbrother had dragged her to London the very day he’d ordered the de Montforts off his lands. Thurstan said she was already packed for a journey and they had little time to lose since the Christmas season approached and courtiers often returned to their estates at that time. He was eager to see what price she would bring to his coffers.
But first, he had made her bathe him.
Margery understood part of her role at Highfield was to assist guests with their baths and she had done so willingly in the past. She pointed out to Thurstan that he was no visitor and could wash himself.
Her stepbrother had slapped her so hard that she’d been knocked to her knees. He began dragging her by her braid up the stairs as she pleaded with him, hating herself for doing so. Finally, he’d released her and told her to have water brought to the solar. She did as he asked and meekly assisted him, tamping down her revulsion as she scrubbed his hairy back and chest. He’d stood in the wooden tub and then had her clean his manhood. His shaft began to swell as her cloth touched it. Thurstan laughed as her face flamed before he finally sat again, insisting she bathe his legs and feet.
