Sir Howarth grunted. “Watch the watcher. I am not a vindictive man, Nicholas, at least I hope I’m not, but I really want that dog to get his day. Oh, I almost forgot.” He produced two sheets of parchment. “Sir John Finett asked me to give you these. It’s an outline of the play and your part in it.”
Nicholas groaned. “As if I didn’t have enough to worry about.”
Sir Howarth’s expression became grim. “The King has long arms, and they can reach and strike far, even in our little inconsequential neighbourhood. Remember that.”
***
In the courtyard, amidst jesting and mirth and the barking of excited hounds, a gallant assemblage of dames, nobles, and gentlemen, were waiting for the hunt to begin. The horses seemed impatient to be off, for several had already started to sweat.
The King mounted a black charger and raised an arm. The royal declaration was received with cheers and the cavalcade set forth.
Trumpets sounded from the battlements as the King passed through the gateway, and the crowd shouted and waved as he trotted down the hill. It was at this point that Sir Roland’s carriage was seen approaching the Tower. Nicholas glanced at Richard, and was alarmed to see that his face was pale and his cheeks red like fever. Then, before anyone could stop him, Richard rode forward and spoke to the King.
“Sire, I entreat you not to prejudge Lavinia. On my soul she is innocent!”
“The King prejudges no-one,” said James in a tone of rebuke. “He sees with his own eyes and hears with his own ears afore he forms conclusions.”
“That is all I ask, sire,” replied Richard, realising that he’d probably broken a dozen rules of protocol.
At a signal from the King, the carriage stopped and Sir Roland went forward. He dismounted, opened the door, and Lavinia, head held high, climbed out. “By our troth,” murmured the monarch, “she is well-favoured in her looks, but Satan is all deluding and we must resist his snares.”
Lavinia was formally presented to the King by Sir Roland, who was a middle-aged gentleman with handsome features and stately manners. Richard, hardly daring to breathe, sat perfectly still in the saddle, too afraid that any movement on his part, no matter how slight, might be interpreted as some sort of signal.
“Your Majesty,” said Lavinia with a perfect curtsey.
“Charming. You are a rare example of nature's handiwork.”
“Your Majesty is too kind,” said Lavinia, who had been hastily coached in etiquette by Lady Eleanor.
James eyed her narrowly, all amiability seemingly forgotten. “We understand that thy mother, Alice Nash, is missing.”
During the journey, Lavinia had coaxed sufficient information from the coachman to guess why she’d been ‘invited’ to the Tower. Though nervous and frightened, she had drawn courage from Richard’s love, and was determined not to disgrace him or herself.
“I thank Your Majesty for your interest in my family.”
“We don’t deny having heard to her disadvantage, but your own looks go far to contradict the reports.”
“Place no faith in the reports, sire. They are as false as those who uttered them.”
“Perhaps, but we canna forget that the devil himself can quote scripture to serve his purpose. You hold in abhorrence the crimes laid at your mother's feet?”
Lavinia raised her chin. “Utterly and without question.”
“I see ye are proud, but no natural feeling should be allowed in such a case.”
“Not even compassion? My mother's welfare would be best served if she underwent spiritual reformation, which she is more than willing to embrace.”
“Then why does she not surrender?” said James impatiently.
“Because…” Lavinia stopped.
“Because what?” he demanded.
“Forgive me, sire, but I cannot answer. Whatever concerns myself or my mother I will freely answer, but I will not compromise others.”
“Aha! So, there are others involved. We thought as much.” The King’s eyes seem to bore into Lavinia as he asked, “Tell us, lassie, do ye pray?”
“I will answer that, sire,” interposed Richard, unable to remain silent. “Lavinia prays daily for her mother, sometimes with such zeal that she injures her health.”
“Your Majesty,” said Lavinia, “I beseech you to believe that I would give my life to atone for my mother.”
“In good faith ye stagger me,” said James, his high forehead wrinkling in indecision. “I must look into the matter more closely. You are far different from what I expected. Now, ye must join us at the hunt.”
Lavinia was now so overwrought that she feared she might collapse. “Sire, I pray you dismiss me. I have never had any taste for the hunt. With your permission, I will continue to Stewart Tower.”
“And I beg Your Majesty's leave to go with her,” said Richard.
James wagged a finger. “Oh no ye won’t, laddie. You will stay with us. Sir John Finett will escort her.” He gestured to the Master of Ceremonies to come closer. “Sir Finett,” he whispered in his ear, “see that a special watch be kept on her and all the Faulkners. The devil is making us dance like puppets, and we must discover which of his servants is pulling the strings.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Feast
The hunt was hot, tiring, and bloody. The King claimed nine kills though in reality it was six. Upon their return to Stewart Tower, Sir Roland announced that the feast would begin in an hour, thereby giving the hunters time to wash and change. In addition, knowing of the King’s irascible temper, the hospitable baronet wanted to keep the festivities in motion, thus not allowing tedium to set in.
Elbowing his way through the crowd on his way to the feast, Nicholas felt a firm tug on his sleeve. It was Nancy Redfern, and there was something in her manner that spoke of importance. They found a deserted tack room where she began to talk fast.
“I have important information for ye. The Ashmores are here, all three of them, and what’s more, they intend to assassinate the King.”
“The devils!”
“Aye, and there’ll be the devil to pay unless their plan be thwarted.”
“That can be easily done,” replied Nicholas. “Tell me where they are and they’ll be arrested at once.”
“No, not yet, you must bide your time.”
“What?” Nicholas was confused. “If you don’t tell me I’ll have you arrested instead.”
“No you won’t,” she replied in a tone of good-humoured defiance, “and for two good reasons. Firstly, because you’d be harming a friend who wants to repay a debt, and secondly, because if you raise a finger against me, I’d deprive you of speech an curse you. When the moment is right you shall strike but not before. I am as anxious as you that the Dymock brood should be wiped out, and they shall be if you’ll leave it to me.”
“Hmm…” Nicholas was thoughtful. Without a location, he was impotent. “Are you aware that Lavinia is here?” he asked presently.
“Yes, I saw her when she arrived.”
“Did she see you?”
“I don’t know. But, in regards to the others, they are in disguise. Give me your word that even if ye recognise them you will not act. Please, Nicholas, it’s important that you wait.” Her use of the familiar was impertinent but Nicholas was not offended. Given the circumstances, to stand on ceremony now would be petty and ridiculous.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked.
“It depends on certain circumstances. Someone else has a vested interest in this, and no, I can’t tell you who it is. All I can say is be prepared.”
“Speaking of being prepared, have you spoken to Sir John Finett about your part in the play?”
She suddenly smiled, and she had never looked less like a witch. “Yes. The other two virago’s browbeat him into giving them parts. It should be a lively performance. Now, I have to go. Be on your guard and wait for my signal.”
Nancy exited first and was soon lost in the milling crowd. Nicholas, consumed by t
he intelligence he’d just received, proceeded to the feast. Neither of them saw the rear door to the tack room, which had been slightly ajar, open and expose the figure of Horace Twissleton. Not even thoughts of his time with Catherine Ashmore, and he had certainly made her suffer, alternating between threats and seduction, could have increased the ecstasy of his smile.
***
The banqueting hall was magnificent. Panelled in lustrous black oak, illumination was by stained glass windows emblazoned with armorial bearings, while the predominant décor consisted of banners, pennants, and trophies of the chase.
Three long tables, each set with silver vessels and cups, sat upwards of a hundred, while the array of servants and pages, the majority in the yellow and red livery of Sir Roland, outnumbered the guests. As if the yeomen of the guard, with the royal badge - a rose, crown, and thistle, embroidered in gold on their doublets, was not enough to proclaim the royal presence, the dais at the far end featured the canopy of state.
Once again Sir Roland had spared no expense with the bill of fare. Amongst the many dishes and pies were chines of beef, haunches of venison, gigots of mutton, geese, capons, turkeys, hare, gammon, and especially for the King, a baked swan and roasted peacock.
Like a pig with it’s nose in the trough, the King did ample justice to the food, and it was several hours later when he gave his permission for the entertainments to begin.
In the interim, quite as much enjoyment was taking place outside. As soon as the feast had started, the huge roasted bull was produced. Expertly carved by three stewards, the only difficulty was the lack of trenchers. However, various and not to say extraordinary substitutes were contrived, which only added to the conviviality.
Considering the amount of ale consumed, the rabble were well behaved when the King appeared on a balcony above the drawbridge to watch the entertainment. All classes participated in trials of skill, strength, running, wrestling, and other well-known games.
A barge, bedecked with flowers and ribbons and driven by men tossing garlands into the crowd, was followed by troops of male and female dancers. Sitting regally on top of the barge was the character of Maid Marian, impersonated by a man, and unless Nicholas was mistaken, it was Davy Ashmore.
Enraged, he was about to seize the fugitive when he remembered Nancy’s entreaty. To add insult to injury, Davy received a royal wave of approval for his uncouth impersonation.
More dancers and outlandishly dressed figures followed, which seemed to be appreciated by the audience and the King alike, who laughed heartily at the coarse buffoonery. Next came the ‘plough and sword dance’, the principal actors being garbed as grotesque figures, some of whom were yoked to a plough.
As Nicholas later reflected, it was at this point that Fate set her unchangeable course. He had not told Richard about Nancy’s warning, and during the feast, the lovelorn youth had taken advantage of the noise and activity to sneak out and visit Lavinia, who had been confined to a secluded chamber.
Now watching the players in the dance, and though her disguise was good, Richard discerned the face of Elizabeth Ashmore. He was about to raise the alarm when a harsh voice spoke in his ear.
“Move and you’re dead.” Richard recognised the voice of Davy Ashmore. “I’d kill you where you stand but it would attract too much attention, so instead, I’ll relieve you of this…” and he wrenched the emerald ring off Richard’s finger. “It will compensate me for all the trouble your accursed family has caused me. Make no mistake, Faulkner, we will meet again,” and so saying, disappeared into the crowd.
It was a few minutes later when Nicholas noticed his cousin’s stunned expression. “Dick, what ails you?” Stammering and somewhat incoherent, Richard explained. “The bastard,” said Nicholas forcibly. “We must call the guards at once,” but he was checked by Nancy’s voice in his ear.
“Let them be. Soon, Nicholas, I promise. A few more hours that’s all.”
Nicholas did not turn around. Instinct told him that there was no point. Nevertheless, he needed to placate Richard. “On second thoughts, if Elizabeth and Davy are here then Catherine won’t be far away. You go that way and I’ll go the other and perhaps between us we can find her. If you do happen to see her, don’t do anything. We want to take them all together.”
They separated accordingly. Nicholas knew it was a pointless exercise, but giving Richard some hope, albeit false, was better than doing nothing. A short time later, Sir John Finett called him for costuming and a final run-through of the play. Nicholas was grateful for the latter. What with hunting and feasting and consorting with witches, he’d barely glanced at the script.
***
The banqueting-hall having been cleaned and cleared during the outside entertainments, the tables now groaned with pastries and sweetmeats, and the King had consented to quit the dais in order that a makeshift stage could be erected. Torches and lamps, aided by the moonlight that poured through the windows, provided adequate illumination.
The waiting audience was full of merriment, while the King delayed proceedings somewhat because he couldn’t decide which fur cloak to wear, not that it was cold enough to warrant a wrap. He was conducted to his seat by his host, but the royal gait now being unsteady, Sir Roland was obliged to offer his arm.
Standing to the side of the stage, Sir John Finett called for silence. The huge assembly fell comparatively quiet, though now and then a half-suppressed titter or smothered scream of delight would ring out. Unfortunately, the King could be heard amidst the silence, and his coarse language, lewd comments, farting and belching, provoked severe comments from the elder patrons, and giggling from the junior.
The play was about a cuckolded man who escaped to an alehouse to avoid his nagging wife. Nancy and Nicholas played the lead roles, and much to the latter’s relief, his dialogue mainly consisted of ‘yes dear’, ‘no dear’, and, ‘I need a drink’. He caroused with his two sweethearts, each of whom he declared in private to be the favourite. Nicholas played it to the hilt, and to do them justice, the two viragoes and Nancy were far from inferior. Moreover, there was a reality in their jealous quarrelling that added zest to the performance.
The scene then changed to a forest, where an array of imps, fairies, and a representation of ‘the green man’, sang and danced around a fire. Other mythological figures then appeared, and it was during this that Nancy took Nicholas aside.
“Look over there.”
Nicholas looked in the direction indicated, and amongst the revellers, saw the figure of a monk. “I don’t recall a monk in the script.”
“No, there isn’t. He is invisible to every eye except ours. He has come to tell us that it’s time to act. The ‘green man’ is Davy, and the woman wearing the gorgon mask is Elizabeth.” Nancy looked into his eyes and said earnestly, “No matter what happens in the next few minutes, you will not die.”
With startling clarity, Nicholas suddenly realised who, or rather ‘what’, the monk was, but when he looked again the ghost was gone. “What has he to do with the Ashmores?”
“He is their fate,” said Nancy reverently, and Nicholas suspected that her tone was borne from triumph rather than religious respect. “I have been acting under his orders,” she went on. “Now, let’s get them.”
“Wait. Where’s Richard?” They scanned the sea of faces, but the crowd was so dense that he was impossible to discern.
“I can’t see him and it doesn’t matter,” said Nancy impatiently. “Come on, there’s no more time. Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” and holding hands, they bounded onto the stage.
They were still in costume, and the audience, anticipating more fun and frolics, greeted them with hearty cheers and applause. Nicholas seized the gorgon round the neck, and consigning her to Nancy, caught hold of the leafy frame in which the green man was encased. A moment later, Nicholas stood in stupefaction. Now devoid of his headdress, the man bore no resemblance to Davy Ashmore.
“’Ere, what you think you’re doi
ng?” he thundered, pushing Nicholas away.
“Get off me ya cow,” screamed the woman, whose natural features, by no stretch of the imagination, could have been mistaken for Elizabeth Ashmore.
Nicholas was utterly perplexed. He looked to Nancy for an explanation, but she too looked baffled. Meanwhile, the audience was in uproar, and amidst a hurricane of hisses and catcalls, several of the actors demanded to know the meaning of the strange and unwarranted interruption.
And then Nicholas saw it. “Hold up her right hand,” he shouted to Nancy, who promptly obeyed. The little emerald ring sparkled in the torchlight. “It’s the love token Lavinia gave to Richard.”
Nancy turned and smacked the woman across the face. “Bitch!” She waved a hand in the air, and a moment later the woman became Elizabeth Ashmore.
An officer of the guard, accompanied by several halberdiers, mounted the stage and seized the Ashmores. Davy, his costume falling apart as he struggled, yelled out, “Aye, I’m Davy Ashmore, and I accuse that woman, Nancy Redfern, of being a witch. She and her kin have long held a grudge against me and my family. She is the granddaughter of that notorious hag, Fanny Craddock, who was recently consigned to the flames, thank the Lord.”
Nicholas chuckled. “And which ‘lord’ would that be?” he asked as a guard stepped forward and took Nancy by the arm. Nicholas was about to say something when he caught a look in the man’s eye. Though the dress was different, the face was the same. It was the monk.
“I care not,” said Nancy boldly, and with a last meaningful look at Nicholas, was led away by the ‘guard’.
Nicholas knew that all he had to do was shout an order and she would be arrested. But he didn’t. What would be the point? Trying to stem the tide of witchcraft was like trying to hold back the sea. Besides, as with Aunt Alice, perhaps Nancy’s collaboration with the monk had been a form of redemption. He certainly hoped so.
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 26
