by Candace Robb
Alice sat back on her heels. ‘You little fool. You do not understand your fortune. I know what it is to be an orphan. I know the uncertainty.’ Her parents had died of the plague the year Alice was born. Until her uncles had devised the plan to educate her and call in favours to establish her at court, she had been brought up by a merchant and his wife, whose own children oft reminded Alice of her temporary status in their home. Alice knew all about uncertainty. She took Mary’s hands in hers. Cold hands. The child was not eating. ‘Trust me, Mary. I want what is best for you. And I can give it to you.’
‘Then help me be with Ned. He loves me and I love him, Mistress Alice. He will take care of me.’
Alice dropped Mary’s hands, rose. ‘For pity’s sake, think, Mary. He has no money but that given him by Lancaster. No house, no land, no name.’
Mary sat up straight, chin jutting forward. ‘Townley is a fine name.’
Heavens but the child’s heart was loyal. Most inconvenient. ‘You are not so simple as that, Mary. You know what I mean. The name brings nothing with it.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘No, not now. And why should you? But you will care soon enough – when the babes come. They must be fed, clothed, kept warm and safe.’
Mary folded her arms across her chest. ‘I shall marry no one but Ned.’
Alice shook her head at the girl’s stubbornness. ‘We shall see about that.’
‘You would treat me as your uncles treated you? You would make me a whore?’
Alice slapped Mary’s face. ‘You do not win an argument with insults. Now get to your chores. I cannot abide slothfulness.’
A whore. Did Mary hear nothing? Alice meant to find a good husband for Mary, not a royal lover.
It was early evening, a time Mary saved for chores that required either thought or space, as Cecily and Isabeau accompanied Mistress Alice to the great hall for supper. The silence of this time of day was a particular blessing. Cecily and Isabeau could not abide silence; they filled any room they inhabited with incessant chatter and the rustle of their lovely clothes as they paced, fidgeted, rearranged, fussed. Ned had often kept Mary company during these quiet hours while she completed her chores, entertaining her with tales of his life of action. Mary must not think of that now, for thoughts of Ned churned up the sea of emotion she was trying to ignore while she finished her work.
Tonight Mary was rearranging Mistress Alice’s gowns and shifts in the wide, shallow chest that allowed the gowns to be laid flat. The contents had shifted when the chest had been moved a few days before. Mary shook out the shifts and shawls, folded them with care and stacked them on a bench; then, one at a time, she lifted the gowns of softest wool, silk, and velvet out of the chest and arranged them on Mistress Alice’s bed. Then one by one she returned the gowns to the chest, lovingly smoothing them with her hands. On top she placed the folded linens, shawls, and stockings.
All the while Mary had been thinking about her plan. Now she knelt down and prayed for courage. It was a brief prayer. She must not dally, else Mistress Alice might return before she was away.
Mary gathered some clothes and sundries and put them in a leather pack. She moved quickly with an efficiency born of Mistress Alice’s frequent impulsive decisions to leave court and move to her house in town. For protection, Mary took the knife Ned had given her, an elegant weapon with an ivory hilt that arched into the neck of a swan. She tucked the knife into her girdle; she wanted it quick to hand in case of trouble. Tonight she was travelling only the length of the King’s castle, but it was dark, and Daniel’s death was on her mind. Best to have a weapon handy.
Now she was ready. Donning her cloak, she bid a silent farewell to her comfortable life and slipped out into the dimly lit corridor.
As she left the protection of the building, Mary pulled up the hood of her cloak and hugged her pack to her for extra warmth. The knife pressed against her hip, giving her a sense of security. Her plan was to stay concealed in Ned’s old room until dawn, then hide near the gate and wait for a party of servants or merchants to mask her departure through the castle gate. She had once thus escaped the castle to meet Ned down on the Thames; it should not be difficult. There was nothing about her appearance to call attention to herself. The journey beyond Windsor would be more difficult, but it was her only hope – to make her way to Lucie Wilton’s apothecary in York, where she knew she would be safe until Ned returned.
Mary stood uncertainly in the dark courtyard of the upper ward, wondering how best to sneak down into the lower ward. To her right loomed the motte and bailey of the Round Tower and the gate through which she usually passed; the gatekeeper knew her and might question her carrying a pack at this time of the evening. She remembered that at the opposite side of the ward, farthest from the river, the builders had cleared a narrow path between the wall and the edge of the ditch, just wide enough for one person pushing a cart of bricks or timber. It was dark there, made darker still by the huge earthwork that blocked out any light from the inhabited parts of the castle wards. Mary shivered as she chose the dark path. It frightened her, but for her plan to succeed she must not be seen.
Early the following morning Sir William of Wyndesore made ready to depart for the Scottish border, where he was to assist in protecting the Marches. Alice did not know why Sir William must leave now, before Easter. She had looked forward to watching him joust. He was impressive in his fearlessness. She could imagine him on the battlefield. Tall, steely eyed.
This morning his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Mary’s had been yesterday. Impetuous Mary. Where could she have gone? Alice had sent Gilbert out at first light to search the castle precinct for her. So far he had found only Mary’s dagger in the lower ward.
‘You are gathering wool, Mistress Alice,’ Wyndesore said.
She shook herself. ‘I am indeed, Sir William. I am remembering a certain strong knight, the firelight reflected in his eyes.’ She handed him his stirrup cup with a smile. ‘Your eyes betray your late night. Perhaps it is best that you leave court. You will get some rest.’
He grinned, took a long drink. ‘You are most generous, Mistress Alice.’
Alice looked round, noticed that Wyndesore’s squire was busy securing one of the pack-horses. ‘Sir William, I must speak to you privately.’
Wyndesore glanced round, nodded, drew her to the side of his horse away from the crowd, gave her waist a little squeeze. ‘Why did you not ask it last night?’
She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close. ‘I did not wish to spoil the evening.’
‘Spoil the evening? What is amiss?’
‘My maid, Mary – she disappeared last night.’
Wyndesore looked unconcerned. ‘She is off keeping a vigil for her lover in some chapel.’
‘No, Sir William. She took clothing. I fear she has gone in pursuit of Ned Townley. His party is far from the castle by now, I should think?’
Wyndesore drank down the wine, handed Alice the cup. ‘Too far for her to catch up, if that is what you ask.’ He gazed off in the distance for a moment, then nodded. ‘So you think she’s gone after him? I suppose it is the sort of thing she might do.’ He shook his head. ‘Poor, foolish girl. If she does not find him, she will find trouble instead.’ He touched Alice’s cheek. ‘I shall keep a watch out for her as we ride north.’
Alice straightened the brooch on Wyndesore’s cloak. ‘Nothing must happen to her, Sir William.’
Wyndesore took Alice by the shoulders, looked her in the eye. ‘She has removed herself from your protection, Mistress Alice. By her own free will. You cannot be to blame if aught happens.’
Alice shook her head. ‘By her own free will, perhaps. But she willed it because I told her that Ned was not good enough for her. I had ambitions for her.’
‘Then she is an ungrateful child. All the more reason why you cannot be to blame.’ Wyndesore touched the tip of Alice’s nose. ‘Forget her, eh?’ He suddenly frowned, cocked his head. ‘’Tis troubling, tho
ugh, her running away. You said Mary was loyal to you.’
Alice bristled. The touch on the nose was the gesture of a man to a child. ‘She is loyal to me.’
‘More so to Ned Townley.’
Alice shrugged. ‘She is of the age when love for a man blinds a young woman to all else.’
Wyndesore smiled. ‘I cannot imagine you blinded by love!’
‘You are a charmer, Sir William.’
‘And you, Mistress Alice, are not as clever as you think. To run from you is an odd way to show loyalty.’ Wyndesore flicked a finger under Alice’s chin, then moved away from her, prepared to mount.
‘Take care, Sir William,’ Alice said softly. ‘It is a cold, lonely road you travel.’
His glance told her he had heard. She smiled sweetly and waved.
Gilbert continued his search of the castle, asking for news of Mary. Alice waited on Queen Phillippa as usual, but her distracted manner concerned her mistress.
‘What is it, child? What troubles you?’ the Queen asked, leaning forward on her cane.
‘Mary, my maid, disappeared last evening.’
The Queen smiled indulgently. ‘Now, Alice, it is a grand castle and such a dreamer as Mary might lose her way.’
‘I thought of that. But Mary packed clothes, Your Grace. I fear she is running after her lover.’
Now the Queen’s kind face registered concern. ‘Young hearts can be too fond. Too fond. What has been done to find the girl?’
Alice told her of Gilbert’s search and Sir William’s promise to look out for her on the road north.
‘Who is her lover? Where is he?’
‘Ned Townley, one of the men headed north to York on the King’s business.’
The Queen shook her head, her eyes sad. ‘And the child could not stay put. What does she think, that she may travel with her love on the King’s business? Foolish girl.’
Alice dropped her head. ‘I am worried, Your Grace. They argued bitterly over the young man who drowned. What if her lover now rejects her?’
The Queen rested a swollen hand on Alice’s head. ‘My poor child. We waste time. I shall order a full search of the castle and the town.’ The Queen chucked Alice under her chin, kissed her on the forehead. ‘You have a good heart, sweet Alice.’
Oh no, not a good heart. That had been put to rest when Alice’s uncles had taken her from her foster parents and announced that she was to be their key to riches. A good heart would not have come so far, would never have reached the Queen, would never have usurped her in the King’s bed. But sweet Phillippa, born far above Alice’s station, had no need to understand such things.
Six
Matters of the heart
Jasper burst through the shop door, his flaxen hair darkened with sweat and clinging to his flushed face. ‘Mistress Lucie! They are here! The King’s company!’
Lucie caught him by the shoulders before he slid to a stop against the shop counter. She forced a smile as she smoothed back his damp hair, tweaked his nose. ‘The King’s company is here? How do you know that, love? Your errand should not have taken you near Micklegate Bar.’ Holy Mary, Mother of God, let him be mistaken.
‘Master Merchet called out to me as I passed the tavern,’ Jasper said, his eyes shining.
‘Ah. Well. If Tom Merchet says it is so, it is indeed.’ Lucie tried to hide her disappointment. She understood Jasper’s excitement. His friends had been much impressed when they’d learned that Owen was to lead a company of the King’s men to Fountains Abbey. He had already asked and received permission to hand Owen his stirrup cup at departure, which would guarantee that he met the men when they were in full gear. The boys would later hang on Jasper’s every word as he described the company’s dress, their weapons, their speech, and Owen’s part in the expedition.
Owen’s part; that was what troubled Lucie. The company’s arrival meant Owen’s departure was imminent. And despite her confiding to Bess that Owen was driving her mad with his litany of worries, that she prayed for a respite, Lucie did not wish him to go. If this was the answer to her prayers, they had been misinterpreted. She had meant to pray that he would realise their little family was as safe as any family in York, not that he would leave the city.
Already she missed him, thinking of the cold bed, the nights when she needed his ear and must write instead, the countless possible dangers he might encounter that would haunt her throughout her days and nights while he was gone: Scotsmen on the road – they were not wont to observe the King’s peace; packs of wolves – folk said they were hungry after the hard winter and moving in larger packs than usual; men jealous of Owen’s favour with the powerful John Thoresby who might cause an ‘accident’ in order to take his place; even such mundane matters as spoiled food, and no one with her skill with physicks to care for him if he should fall ill. When Owen was at home Lucie did not fret over such things, but the moment he rode out of the city her imagination betrayed her. She had thought it would be easier to part with him in time, but instead it grew worse. He was more and more a part of her. And now there was Gwenllian. She was growing so quickly. He would miss so much while he was away.
‘Will they come here directly?’ Jasper wondered, climbing up on to a stool with Crowder in his arms. The ginger kitten swatted at a fly that buzzed past. Jasper lunged to catch the unbalanced kitten and they both crashed to the floor, the stool following with a clatter. The kitten squirmed out of Jasper’s grasp and hissed at the stool. Jasper lay on his back and giggled.
Lucie stood there, hands on hips, knowing she should caution Jasper that Crowder was safer tumbling through the air than clutched tightly, but too thankful for the boy’s laughter to bring herself to chide him. ‘I doubt they will come here directly. They have ridden a long way and will wish to rest.’
Jasper sat up, brushed himself off. Bits of dust and herbs clung to his pale hair. ‘I should like to see them come across the bridge.’ Eyes wide, smile eager, he willed her with all his energy to consent.
‘Why?’ Lucie teased, picking the debris out of his hair. ‘You have seen King’s men before.’
Jasper’s pale eyebrows came together; he stretched his hands towards her, palms up in supplication though she had not yet said no. ‘I want to see the men the Captain is going to lead.’
Lucie made a great business of whisking the last bits of debris from Jasper’s hair. ‘But surely you mean to be there to watch when they depart? You will see them then.’
Jasper’s shoulders slumped, his head drooped. ‘And I have work to do.’
Lucie could tease him no further. ‘You may go as soon as you tell me how fares Mistress Thorpe.’ Jasper’s errand had been to Gwenllian’s first godmother, the wife of Lucie’s guildmaster. Mistress Thorpe had taken a fall with a cauldron of hot washing water a few weeks past and had scalded her left foot. Jasper had delivered a second jar of salve for the terrible blistering.
‘Mistress Thorpe says that she has not awakened with the pain in two nights, which is a blessing. And she was most grateful you had sent the salve. She blessed you for knowing she had used the last of it this morning. She has the children helping with the washing and cooking and did not know when she could spare one to come to the shop.’
Lucie could tell nothing from that; Gwen Thorpe believed that to complain of pain was to criticise God’s judgement. Even when she had almost died in childbirth last year she had suffered the pain with a white-lipped, white-knuckled silence that had so angered Magda Digby, the midwife had threatened to leave the birth chamber, for how was she to help if she did not know the condition of her patient. But Lucie knew Jasper was a keen observer. ‘Did you see her foot?’
Jasper shook his head. ‘She did not show me.’
Still badly blistered then, else she would have shown him. It was time for Magda Digby to visit Gwen Thorpe. ‘All right. Off with you.’
Lucie stepped back into the kitchen to check on Gwen’s namesake and found Owen lounging on a bench, cup in hand. The cradle be
side him was empty. ‘Where is Gwenllian?’ The excited pitch of her own voice surprised Lucie.
Owen grinned. ‘And you call me a worrier. I am tempted to tell you a tale of Scotsmen crashing into the kitchen, but the truth is Tildy took Gwenllian out in the garden to watch the clouds. No harm will come to her.’
Lucie trusted Tildy; it was coming upon Owen unaware and remembering the separation to come that had tightened her throat, but perhaps it was better to let Owen think she was just a fretting mother. ‘Is it warm enough for Gwenllian in the garden?’
Owen sat up, handed Lucie his cup to taste. ‘You must trust Tildy, my love. She is very good with our child. You cannot do everything in this house, though I’m damned if I know how to keep you from trying.’
Lucie took a sip of the cool well water, handed Owen the cup. ‘It is Tildy who tries to do everything in the house. I worry that with cooking, cleaning, and tending Gwenllian she is overworked.’
‘Tildy will tell you when she has need of help, my love. When she fears that things are not as perfect as they might be.’ They both knew that Tildy would ask for assistance only if she felt the quality of her work was disappointing them.
Lucie studied her husband, so handsome, so much a part of her. He was sweaty and covered with a fine film of rich earth; he looked content. ‘The work is going well?’
‘I have one more bed to prepare. God help me, the rocks I dug out last year are back, and with a year’s extra growth.’ His damp linen shirt clung to his muscular chest and back as he flexed and stretched.
Lucie never tired of looking at him, such a fine man. Already she missed him so keenly that the quiet, companionable joy of the moment pained her. ‘Rocks growing indeed, Owen! I’ll ask you to hold your tongue with nonsense such as that or Gwenllian and Jasper will grow up with unholy notions of God’s creation.’ She could see at once that her effort to sound jolly had failed.
Owen’s eye held hers. ‘What is wrong?’
Lucie allowed herself to go to him, stroke his wiry dark hair. ‘The King’s company has entered the city. We’ve little time together before you leave.’
