Contents
Historical Foreword
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
About the Author
Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
All Rights Reserved, no part of this book may be
Reproduced without prior permission of the author
except in the case of brief quotations and reviews
Cover design by
It’s A Wrap
Created with Vellum
For
Jeanne and
Wendy
who have both given wonderful support
and invaluable help
Historical Foreword
My first love was always medieval mystery, crime and romantic adventure. This all started with a fascination regarding the events and living conditions of 15th century England. With great enthusiasm, I began researching this period when I was just a young child.
When I started writing some years ago, I set the books during that time, I quite quickly made the choice to translate my books into modern English. “Thou art a scoundrel,” just didn’t appeal, and no one would have wanted to read it. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to write it. However, this leaves the author with a difficulty. Do I use entirely modern words, including slang, or do I create an atmosphere of the past by introducing accurate 15th century words and situations.
I made the choice which I continue to follow in all my historical books. I have been extremely strict concerning historical accuracy in all cases where I describe the background or activities. I do not, on any page, compromise the truth regarding history.
Wording, however, is another matter. For instance, all men (without titles) were addressed as “Master ----” But this sounds odd to our ears now. Only young boys are called master now. So I have adopted modern usage. ‘Mr. Brown,” has taken over from ‘Master Brown”. It’s just easier to read. I have used some old words (Medick instead of doctor for instance) but on the whole my books remain utterly historically accurate, but with wording mostly translated into modern terminology, which can be understood today, and hopefully allow for a more enjoyable read.
I was once criticised for saying that something had been bleached. (I didn’t imply that they went to the local supermarket and bought a plastic bottle of the stuff, paying on credit card). But yes, in that age bleaching was a common practise. They used various methods including sunshine and urine. But it was bleaching all the same.
Indeed, nowadays most writers of historical fiction follow this same methodology.
I would love to know your opinions on this, so do please get in touch.
Introduction
The silence of secrets in attic slumber. Death, now carpeted in dust and mummified oblivion. The threat of forgotten menace.
Each shadowed corner had become a womb of cobwebbed silks, each finger-print lost beneath quilted clouds of collected grime. The tented roof beams within the dark vault, were looped in spiders’ webbing. No furniture cluttered the space. Too low ceilinged for living, too small for storage and too insignificant even for notice, the roof’s inner cave had long been entirely abandoned.
But a use for the little cavity had once been found, and somehow thought ideal, although with a purpose both unusual and unannounced. For three small figures had long taken residence, and occupied the deepening shadows, locked in silent shame. The mould had not reached them. Tucked beside the last rise of the chimney breast, their blanket against life’s cruelty, shrunken knees squeezed under drooping chins, they squatted patiently, cuddled dry and protected against the bitter miseries of a life once endured.
The roaring flames from huge fires lit three storeys below, spiralled upwards through repeated winters, spitting heat, shuddering and belching, finally exploding out in a stench of black smoke from the tall chimneys of the roof. These echoes of warmth insulated the attic where the three girls crouched, their wizened cheeks to the brick. Warmer now, perhaps, than they had ever been when life itself had filled their lungs.
No guess could be attempted at time passed since their deaths, for they were naked and no clothes could whisper of fashions outworn nor some clue as to identity or wealth of station. Unclothed, eyes closed behind lashless lids, shrivelled, skin now discoloured, they were nameless, forgotten, and unloved. But safe in secrecy they sat, waiting through the long quiet years until, perhaps, discovery might one day bring their names to men’s lips once more.
Insubstantial fingers of a London summer floated between the ceiling cracks, and danced in a dither of soft golden dust. July slipped into August. The fires no longer raged in the hearths below, and the chimney breast was cold. But the little figures sat on without complaint or dream, and smiled as their skin shrank back from gumless teeth.
Chapter One
One quick skip forward, two steps to the left, then a sudden lurch backwards. The swish of silk and a peep of linen chemise. But nearly tripping and out of breath.
The trick feint failed. He had seen it coming and laughed at her. Her wrist was sore but she kept a tight grip on the hilt, twisted her hand, avoided the clash of blade to blade, and stepped once more with a quick turn to the right. Yet as her steel again missed its aim, it clattered instead against the legs of the table, scratching the carved surface.
“Don’t know why I bother,” Peter Hutton objected with an exaggerated sigh.
She stopped abruptly and lowered both arms, shoulders slumped in failure. Her hair was loose and dishevelled and her skirts badly creased. The sword dropped to the floor boards. “You’re not bothering enough. Don’t just play with me, Peter. Teach me to kill people.”
“My father would kill me if he saw me now.” The young man reached down, retrieving the heavy blade. “Look at you, all tangled and tousled. Go and fight your own demons, and leave me in peace.”
Jemima scowled. “Your father wouldn’t kill you. He wouldn’t care at all. He’d laugh.”
“Perhaps. But my step-brother would kill me.”
“Oh – him. Well I suppose he would from what they say. Dickon the Bastard. Is he really a bastard? Does he hate you?”
“Richard doesn’t hate people. He doesn’t like people either. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even notice that people exist. But he’s not a real bastard, of course. My mother wouldn’t ever – she was a saint. Almost.”
“I may not be the perfect pupil. Alright, I
’m a girl and not respectable.” He grinned, nodded in agreement, and she blushed. “But you’ve been learning to fight and learning to joust and learning all the martial arts since you were seven. I started a week ago.”
He shook his head. “A bit late, wouldn’t you think, then?”
“Alright, I won’t learn to kill anyone after all.” She stared, “But life is vile and my cousin is vile and I have to do something – violent. It helps.” Jemima paused, slumped again and leaned against the table. “So teach me happy things instead.” In an abrupt swirl of cerise silks and a glimmer of pearls, Jemima pointed both little blue leather toes and turned back to curtsey, then peeped up, smiling. “I’ve been learning the Pavanne. Or trying to. Until – you know what. But now – since I no longer have a dancing master – ”
“That’s typical of you, Jem. First violence then suddenly flirtation.” Peter Hutton slid his sword back into its scabbard and adjusted his baldric. He watched the young woman for a moment, and then frowned. “I don’t think I should teach you anything anymore. Not self-defence, And certainly not dancing. Too tiring and too personal. Dickon would kill me and my father would probably make me marry you.”
“No one’s here to see you except me and I wouldn’t marry you even if you were handsome and rich, which you’re not.” She twirled, one toe kicking back the swing of her skirts. “So dance with me, Peter. I’m so desperately bored. I have to do something. And dancing is supposed to be a pleasure, isn’t it? Better than fighting? Just unbuckle your scabbard and make sure your codpiece is well tied.”
“Stop flirting, Jem.”
“That was good advice, not flirting.” Jemima collapsed in a sudden heap beside her father’s sword which still lay where it had fallen. “I’m not respectable, remember!” She gazed up into his frown. “Oh, run off home, Peter. I prefer to be bored alone. You’re more boring than staring into the shadows.”
“Just because you’re peevish, and annoyed about having to leave your home and go off somewhere dull, don’t take it out on me, Jem. I came to commiserate, not to be asked to teach you stupid things and then get shouted at.”
“I didn’t shout.”
“You shouted and then you whined.”
Jemima Thripp stood up again with a scramble, and straight backed, she glared at her friend. “When your mother died, I was sympathetic. I cared. I tried to help. Now my father’s died, but you have as much understanding as wet frogspawn. And at least you still have your father. I have nothing left and my beautiful home’s being snatched away by my vile cousin.” She couldn’t hide the sniff.
“But I loved my mother. You didn’t love your father.”
“Didn’t I? Of course I did, stupid boy.” She groped for the sword. Peter put his foot on it, clamping it tight to the floorboards.
“You hardly ever saw him.”
“Go away,” Jemima yelled at him. “I loved him when I saw him and now I’m homeless. And I never want to see you again.”
It was after he had left that she started crying, and found she could not stop. Hating her own self-pity, Jemima huddled, hoping neither her page nor her maid would enter and discover her so lost and pathetic. But she cried until she felt sick.
The house would have to go, of course, and almost all the furniture too. She had a few belongings she might swear were personally her own. She might even convince her cousin that the bed was truly hers, that the huge gold candelabra had been a gift from her father, and that the money in the small coffer upstairs was promised to her as a dowry. Her cousin was unlikely to believe her, but then he’d never believed anything she said. She might insist that she had two legs beneath those long red skirts, and he wouldn’t believe that either.
It was late on a sunny September afternoon and the autumn breezes were rattling the casement window lattice, playing hide and seek outside amongst the two huge oaks beside the stable block. But Jemima ran to her bedchamber, and to the great four posted bed through the familiar shadows. There she crawled into the curtained darkness, and continued to cry.
The page had seen young Peter Hutton to the door, closed it softly behind him, and crept back up the creaking treads of the main staircase. Jemima had left her bedchamber door open. Hearing the sobs and careful of disturbance, the page hovered, unsure. He regarded his mistress and because she hadn’t noticed him, said softly, “Master Hutton has left, mistress. T’will be twilight soon enough. Shall I light the candles, mistress?”
“No.” She looked up and carefully didn’t sniff. But candles were expensive and it wasn’t dark yet. “Do we still have good wine in the cellars? Then bring me a jug. A large jug and a clean cup.”
“The claret, mistress?”
“Whatever is best. I’m leaving not a drop to that pig Cuthbert. He can have the sweet malmsey that Papa was going to throw away.”
It was the following day and a tentative sunshine slipped through the mullioned window panes. The shadows remained, creeping into the back of shelves, across rolled parchments, leather enclosed folios and pots holding quills, ink and seals. It was a chamber that minded its own business.
Peter Hutton’s father hadn’t bothered knocking, although the door had been closed. He stared down at his step-son.
“The king is furious.”
Richard looked up with some reluctance. “That’s common enough.”
“This is an uncommon fury. That cherubic little pink mouth is tight pursed as an arsehole. The palace corridors shake to their foundations.”
“The queen, then.”
“Naturally the queen.
“In which case, my interest further diminishes.” Richard leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs beneath the table, and surveyed his step-father.
Sir Walter stared back and the entering sheen of sunbeams turned his small smile brighter. “And had it simply been the king’s problem alone, without involving the queen, your interest would have been considerable?”
After a short pause, “I make it a habit,” Richard responded quietly, eyes narrowed, “never to discuss his majesty. Even in private.”
“Don’t we all share that habit, my boy,” sighed Sir Walter. “Only a fool voices his preferences aloud. And only a greater idiot listens.”
“I am known as Dickon the Bastard,” his step-son replied, one finger tapping the papers piled neatly on the table before him, “not, as far as I know, Richard the Fool.”
“But you won’t even talk to me? I work for the man. Doesn’t mean I’m his spy.”
“What you are,” Richard informed him, “is your business, sir. I have my own business to absorb me.”
“You have no business at all, my boy.”
“All the more absorbing,” Richard replied, and returned to his papers.
Sir Walter, not easily rebuked or dissuaded, dragged a small chair over from the far side of the chamber, and sat. He exhaled loudly, staring over the table at his step-son. “You’re a damned difficult creature to get close to, you know, Richard,” he said with a disapproving click of the tongue. “Even when your dear mother died you hardly mourned. Not publicly. Well, I miss her too, you know. We got on mighty well for those eighteen years married. And I’ve been as good as a proper father to you since you were nearly ten. But you still talk to me as though I was an unpleasant smell in the privy.”
“I do not permit unpleasant smells in the privies, sir. My emotions concerning my mother’s death, however, I consider personal and private.” Richard’s voice remained expressionless. “And I have, as it happens, much appreciated your patience and the years of parental presence. You may, should you wish it, claim my friendship and my favours at any time in the future, whether that time be convenient or otherwise.” His gaze narrowed. “But confessions and confidences are not my style, sir.”
“So is there anyone you confide in?” demanded Sir Walter. “Anyone you care for even a silk button’s worth?”
This time the pause was more protracted. But Richard’s voice was as quiet as ever. “My secre
t wife perhaps, sir? My twenty five secret offspring? The ghost who inhabits my bedchamber, and naturally his majesty our beloved and kindly monarch during our secret meetings each morning?”
“Sometimes,” Sir Walter stood, with a scrape of chair legs and a loud sigh, “I wonder why I bother to visit you at all, my boy.”
“I frequently wonder the same thing, sir,” replied his step-son.
Jemima stood facing the long window, her back to her cousin. She stared out at the shining greenery of her own garden, which was about to become her cousin’s garden, and refused to turn around or look at him.
Beyond the neat clipped hedges she could see the hint of ripples in the mild sunshine, the glimmer of reflections on water and the splash of a gull diving for fish. Jemima blinked, but refused to turn.
The house was not spacious, only three floors and a cellar barely large enough for the pantry and wine store. Her father’s grand plans for extensions and enlargements to the building had never been realised. This was the smallest house in the whole grandiose stretch of The Strand, that most magnificent road which almost linked the city to the Westminster court, But the Thripp residence remained tucked in almost invisible ignominy between the huge and beautiful palaces of the privy councillors, archbishops and nobility. The grounds were less humble and a pretty maze of hedges and pathways sloped down towards the river. There, at its soggy drop into the brackish water, a little pier had been built to dock her father’s small trading cob, its mast lowered to the deck in order to pass beneath the Bridge. But the new larger ship had been too deep keeled to sail upriver and had never managed to reach the home constructed for its predecessor.
The Deception of Consequences Page 1
