‘So that’s who told him about Hastings.’
‘The fucker,’ Foulmouth John says.
‘I’d best go and see what he wants,’ Thomas says, though they can all guess. Thomas’s heart has risen to make his throat ache, and he is trembling. It is not fear, but bitter, bitter disappointment. He puts on his coat and goes out to meet Wymmys, who has reined in his horse at the head of the track and is waiting.
Jack comes with him.
‘I told you I’d be back, Brother Thomas,’ Wymmys says.
The mist seems to cling to his nose, beading on it. Thomas ignores him and instead addresses the soldier at his side.
‘Who are you?’ Thomas asks.
‘This is Sir John Brougham,’ Wymmys says.
Brougham nods. He’s a lean-faced older man, with a level gaze from blue eyes that look as if they’d not even be startled by the crack of doom.
‘God give you good day, sir,’ Thomas says. ‘I do not recognise your livery?’
‘It is a molet argent with streamers charged with another molet azure,’ he says, holding the badge out with one eyebrow cocked. ‘I am retained by John de Vere, my lord the Earl of Oxford.’
Thomas has heard of the Earl of Oxford, but he is not local, so it is only in the same way he has heard of any of these sorts of men. He tries to remember whose side he is usually on. Or has most recently been on.
‘The Earl of Oxford? And he – he has more influence with King Edward than does Lord Hastings? The Lord Chamberlain?’ Thomas asks. He is checking, really, since he has no clue. Perhaps influence is irrelevant anyway, when you are but six men, four women and two babies facing fifty armed men.
‘Ah.’ Wymmys smiles. ‘That depends on which king you are talking about.’
Even apart from Brougham and the men at his back, Wymmys obviously has another advantage.
‘Which other king is there?’ Thomas asks.
Wymmys snickers.
‘Last time I was here,’ he says, ‘you took some pleasure in showing me that the intelligence – such as it was – on which I was relying was out of date, do you remember?’
‘I do. You suggested my lord of Hastings was no longer my goodlord, and yet, oddly, he has this last month stood godfather for my daughter.’
Despite himself Wymmys is impressed.
‘Well, you are to be congratulated, brother. There can be very few canons of the Order of St Gilbert able to claim such a connection.’
‘None, I would imagine,’ Thomas agrees.
‘Hmmm! And yet! And yet!’
‘Get on with it, Wymmys,’ Brougham barks.
‘You also gave me an excellent piece of advice,’ Wymmys tells Thomas. ‘Which I’ve followed, as you see.’ He gestures to the men behind him. Thomas glances at them. He is given blank, bored stares, the stares of men on duty.
‘To bring more men?’
‘Exactly. My lord of Oxford has done me the honour of providing me with these men—’
‘To come and harass an innocent man out of his property?’
‘To enforce the long-neglected law of the land.’
‘But you can’t do anything while King Edward is still on the throne.’
‘Ah, but that’s just it. It is as I was saying. He’s not, you see? The Earl of Warwick is even now back in the country, and the whole of the west has gone over to him, and Kent too. And London will at any day, and within a week we will have the rightful king on the throne!’
Thomas has the sensation of everything sliding: not just Wymmys, but the horses, the men, the trees, the buildings. Everything is moving downwards and to the right, as if the earth were tipping over like a chessboard and they, its pieces, were sliding off.
‘So my lord Hastings’, Wymmys goes on, ‘has very much more to be doing than fussing around making sure you are housed with a roof over your head and a fire to warm your hands. He must look to his own skin.’
Thomas looks around for Katherine. Jack comes down to stand by his side.
Brougham speaks again.
‘Listen,’ he says, half to Thomas, half to Wymmys. ‘My lord of Oxford has – for reasons of his own – sent us well out of our way to assist you in this matter, bailiff, but we must be in Leicester by sunset tomorrow, and the sooner we start the better for all, so I am not interested in hearing you two bicker over the rights and wrongs of this. Get on with what you must do, and do it as humbly as you may.’ He turns to Thomas. ‘You, sir, must see that we outnumber you many times, and you must know that we know you have women and children in your hall, so if you do not wish to endanger them, then for the love of all that is holy put yourself in this man’s care and be done with it.’
‘Can we first ask the priest?’ Wymmys asks, gesturing to the men Thomas had assumed were friars. ‘To make certain.’
Brougham flaps a hand from his pommel. Very well.
Wymmys has something else planned.
‘Why?’ Thomas asks. ‘What are they even doing here?’
‘To see if you are indeed Thomas Everingham.’
‘I am Thomas Everingham. That is not the point here.’
‘Give me strength,’ Brougham mutters.
But Wymmys is gesturing at one of the friars who is craning his head to peer at Thomas, and is getting off his horse to come and have a look. He’s in a black cloak. He is not precisely familiar, and Thomas has not seen his face yet, but suddenly and without a fleck of doubt he knows who it is, and it is as if the last seven or eight years have not passed.
‘Brother Barnaby!’ Thomas cannot help himself.
And Wymmys shouts with a high-pitched laugh.
‘The fool is condemned out of his own mouth!’
The man staring at Thomas is Brother Barnaby. Thomas has not seen him since he left the Priory at Haverhurst so many years earlier, still out of his wits, and in such fraught circumstances that he can hardly remember them. Part of him wants to hug the man; part of him wants to kill him.
Brother Barnaby shakes his head slowly. He has aged. He looks mortified.
‘I am sorry, Brother Thomas,’ he says. ‘I would have said it was not you, as God above, and all the angels, saints and martyrs too, will witness. I would have lied.’
‘So you are a canon?’ the officer asks. ‘You don’t look like one.’
‘I was a canon, but – I am no longer.’
Wymmys makes a dismissive noise.
‘You still made your vow, Brother Thomas, and unless you can provide the dispensation from the Vatican then you are occupying this land by no right. More than that, you are absconded from your priory, an apostate, as is proved by Father Barnaby here, who used to be your prior.’
Thomas has many questions for Father Barnaby, but they will have to wait for another time.
‘So what, Wymmys? What is it you want?’
Wymmys seems to think it is obvious.
‘Your pretence of ownership of these lands is an offence against God’s Church,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that right, Father Barnaby?’
Father Barnaby reluctantly nods his grey head.
‘And you only bring shame on the Order of St Gilbert,’ Wymmys goes on, ‘with your roving about these acres just as if you owned them.’
‘I do own them.’
‘No you do not. You can’t. And anyway, that is not the point. The point is that you must return to orders.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Thomas tells him.
Wymmys smiles.
‘Sir John? Would you explain?’
Brougham leans forward in his saddle.
‘My lord of Oxford has asked me to assist this – this man in any way I can,’ he says. ‘And I am to evict you and ensure you return to orders, willingly or not.’
Wymmys smiles, but Brougham goes on.
‘Now I don’t exactly know who you are, master’ – he looks Thomas in the eye – ‘but you seem to me a good man, and there is something I do not like about this scheme, so what I propose is that we meet halfway.�
��
‘Halfway?’
‘You are free to go, but go you must.’
‘Go?’
‘Aye, from here.’
‘Never,’ Jack says.
Brougham cocks an eyebrow again.
‘Carter,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘Shoot this man.’
Carter has a crossbow, braced, and he thumbs a quarrel into the gutter.
‘No,’ Thomas says. ‘No!’
He stands between Jack and this Carter, who looks the sort who might be a good shot, and who might happily send a quarrel through anyone who annoys him, or his captain.
‘But, sir—’ Wymmys starts.
‘Shut up, bailiff,’ Brougham says. ‘Carter, if the bailiff says another word, shoot his leg.’
Wymmys closes his mouth.
‘So what will you do?’ Brougham asks, turning to Thomas.
Thomas can hardly think.
‘Let me – let me talk to – let me tell my wife,’ he says.
‘She’ll want to know,’ Brougham agrees.
Thomas turns.
‘Come on, Jack,’ he says.
Everyone is still gathered watching in the courtyard, by the burned-out ruins of Nettie and Jack’s house. Thomas feels a stone in his throat. He has not felt so like crying since he was eleven years old and his brother killed his dog. There are actual tears in his eyes when he meets Katherine’s gaze. Her face is a mask of frozen watchfulness. She knows.
‘We must – pack up and go,’ he tells them all. ‘Leave Marton.’
‘No!’ one of them cries.
‘Why?’ another asks.
Thomas hardly trusts himself to speak.
‘I – I cannot own this land,’ he says. ‘What the bailiff says is true. I am – I was a canon of an order, and I made vows to forgo all claim to property.’
‘And all sorts of other things too.’ Foulmouth John laughs. ‘Not going to put Rufus and Alice back up Mistress Everingham, are they?’
His father bats the back of his head.
‘So – I do not know what is to happen to us all, but I must leave or face a return to orders.’
‘You’re an apostate?’
Thomas nods.
‘I am.’
Anne sobs suddenly.
‘Always too good to last,’ she says.
‘It will be all right, Mam,’ Joana tells her, but tears already brim in her eyes.
Katherine says nothing. A type of white-hot fury emanates from her.
‘No,’ she says. ‘No.’
And she starts to move towards the soldiers, her gaze locked on Wymmys, and Thomas has seen this before. He knows there is no way this can end well.
‘Katherine,’ he says. He takes her shoulder. She shrugs him off with a quick twist. He sees she already has her knife out.
‘No,’ he says, and he catches her wrist. She tries to surge past him but he has two or three times her strength and he towers over her.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It will only make it much worse. Much worse.’
She is scorching to the touch, her humours unbalanced. He pushes her back. The knife falls with a dull clatter on the stones at their feet. He shuffles her back into the courtyard. Then he holds her in his arms so that she cannot move but still she struggles.
‘It is not for ever,’ he says. ‘It is not for ever. We will find Hastings and we will be back. We will be back. I promise you. I swear on everything I hold dear. I swear on my life, on your life, on Rufus’s life and on Alice’s life. I will bring you back here. I will. I will.’
And – dear Christ! – he means it! Only there is nothing he can do to effect it now. Nothing. Nothing. He feels her taking long, dragging breaths. She is calming herself.
‘It will be all right, my love,’ he says. ‘We will be back in no time. No time at all.’
Everyone watches to see what Katherine will do. He feels her slowly unbend and it is as if the heat is going out of her.
‘Where shall we go?’ she asks very quietly. It is almost as if she believes him.
‘North,’ he says, ‘to find William Hastings.’
He feels her nod.
‘What will we do when we find him?’
He shrugs.
‘He will lend us men – if not for my sake, or yours, then for Sir John’s memory. He loved the old man.’
‘But if what Wymmys says is true? About Warwick taking London? It is the end of King Edward.’
‘No. No. He still has men loyal to him. He still has the Earl of Northumberland. He still has Montagu.’
‘What about us?’ Anne asks. ‘Are we to come north with you?’
The thought terrifies her. Thomas tells them they can if they want, but it would be better if they go back to their families in their villages. He tells them he will give them such money as he can afford, and they must take as much food as they can carry.
‘Wymmys cannot stop us doing that,’ he tells them.
There is a long silence. They troop back into the hall and the air within is dusty, as if the fire’s not drawing, and the others look on, shafts of watery light splashing their faces, their clothes. One of the lurchers whimpers. There are more tears, and the next hour passes slowly and miserably. Thomas takes Katherine up the steps to the bedchamber and he takes out from that coffer his brigandine, the spurs he bought in Ripon, the gloves he bought in Huntingdon and the archers’ sallet. He straps the sword in its beautiful red sheath around his waist.
He watches Katherine throw a few things on top: children’s linens; a few of her own clothes that come to hand. She hardly cares. He thought she would be angry and anything he says will only make it worse. He folds the blanket over their few possessions and he waits, watching her. She is shaking her head very slightly, a sort of quivering. She keeps gesturing, both hands outspread as if to say something is absurd, and starting but not finishing sentences. Through the window he can see Brougham is impatient to be gone, but he seems to blame Wymmys for any delay, and Wymmys is having to placate him. There is no sign of Father Barnaby. Thomas hopes he has gone.
When they come down Jack is there with his baby, and something to say.
Thomas already knows what it is.
‘You must stay with her, Jack,’ he says. ‘We’ll not be gone long.’
Jack nods.
‘I swore I’d never leave her again,’ he says.
‘Of course,’ Thomas says.
‘I’ll take John Stumps,’ Jack tells him. ‘Couldn’t manage without him.’
John Stumps tells him to fuck off, but Thomas knows he is grateful. The thought of a long ride with no arms and an uncertain end is too much for him. Thomas tells them to take the oxen, and come back for the sheep, the pigs, the geese as soon as they’ve found somewhere to keep them. He tells them to load up with as much food as they can carry.
‘Anything else too,’ he says. He gestures at the furniture in the room: the board and stools, the shelves for their plate, the few pieces of plate themselves.
Jack looks stern.
‘You don’t think you’re coming back?’
‘No,’ Thomas says. ‘We will be back.’
‘But not for a bit?’
Thomas shrugs and turns to help Anne and Joana and the others load misshapen sacks on to the backs of the oxen. Cheeses. Grain. The butter churn. The malt rake. Pans, the tripod, knives, spoons. These will be of use. The women are crying. Foulmouth John is repeating the same word over and over again.
At length they are ready, gathered in the courtyard, as if waiting a blessing, or a speech, and they look to Thomas to provide.
‘Marton is our home,’ he tells them. ‘It will always be our home. Christ, have we not suffered before? You, Jack? Do you remember the tower in Middleham? John? We have been in worst binds than this, and we have always come back and we will do again. We will find William Hastings, and we will return and take the place back and make it ours once more, better even, so touch nothing, harm nothing, break nothing. It was ours, is ou
rs and will be ours again. So let’s go, past that grinning devil Wymmys, with our heads held high, because our enemies may have the whip hand now, but by God we will have it again soon, and we will return to drive the bastards out. We may not be gentlemen, but let’s show them we aren’t crawling peasants ready to commit ourselves to the ditch. Let us go out as a force! As people to be reckoned with.’
He takes heart himself, or convinces himself he does, and some of the easier to persuade seem to draw some strength from his words – they’ve perhaps never heard a man speak for so long outside of Mass – but Katherine is still as sharp and disapproving as a hawk. Nevertheless, he nods the signal to ride out, and those with horses climb up on to them, while those without follow with the oxen and the donkey, which Bald John clips with his switch. They roll towards Wymmys and Brougham, who watches them come and then tugs on his reins and leads his horse off the track to let them past. His men do likewise, and so, eventually, must Wymmys. He does not look to be enjoying his triumph as much as perhaps he had hoped.
Brougham nods to Thomas as they pass.
‘I don’t want to see you again,’ he says. ‘If you come back, I’ll have to come back, and if I have to come back, then I’ll have to have you killed you. D’you understand?’
Thomas nods. He understands Brougham doesn’t want to have to come back, that is all. He looks at the star on the man’s livery coat, and he thinks he will remember it, not because he has any hatred of this man, or of Carter his obedient archer, but because he hopes that one day he may make the Earl of Oxford regret his supporting of Wymmys, whom surely he can hardly know, and regret his depriving men and their families of homes, just for some shabby and no doubt negligible advantage.
They walk down the track, watched by Oxford’s men. Some look regretful, some impatient, most bored and contemptuous. They are young men, Thomas supposes, harnessed, on good horses, with swords. Of course they look down on everyone.
As they pass Wymmys’s men, the skinny boy comes forward into the teeth of Foulmouth John’s ranting – ‘Fucking little shit-weasel’ and ‘I’ll cut you from bollocks to chops!’ he yells. The skinny boy is sobbing fat, desolate tears.
‘I am sorry,’ he bleats. ‘I am so sorry. They made me.’
Kingdom Come Page 24
