An Honourable Estate (25 page)

“A sentiment I can only agree with,” said Mabel as she looked
across to the open door of the manor house.

“We have scrubbed everything, my lady,” said Edith,
“especially the bedchamber.  And the bed is made up with all clean
coverings,” she reassured her.

“Thank you,” said Mabel.  “It’s good to be home.”

She took the girls inside and as Edith had promised all trace
of Peter Lymesey had been removed.  The shutters had been opened despite
the chilly weather.  The floors had been swept and fresh rushes laid and
there was the aroma of baking bread from the bake house oven and stew from the
kitchen, prepared with meat that Sir Edmund had sent from his own stores.

“Dinner is almost ready,” said Edith.

“I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble,” said Mabel.

“It’s a homecoming,” replied Mistress Palmer.  “What
better cause for a celebration?”

After they had eaten, all sitting together at the trestle
table in the hall, Mabel put on her cloak and walked out in the drizzle to
thank her villagers for their support and forbearance during Lymesey’s tenure,
but also to discover their opinions on the subject of the new bailiff. 
His name was Fossard and he had come from Edmund Neville’s own estate at
Middleton Hall.  When Sir Edmund had introduced him to her, Mabel had,
despite her misgivings, taken a liking to the short, red-faced man who looked
as if he would have been a plump and jolly character in better times.  As
it was, he had been deferential and assured her that he would take good care of
the manor, but it was the opinion of her villagers that Mabel valued most on
the matter of the man’s capability.

“It’s good to see you, my lady,” they told her at every house
as they plied her with food and drink which they could ill afford to
share.  And at each table Mabel took a little, knowing that a refusal
would offend them.

“How do you find the new bailiff?” she asked each one and was
reassured that, although they expressed the opinion that no one could better
Harry Palmer and that they would be glad when both he and Sir William came
home, there were no complaints and the man seemed fair and knowledgeable.

Later that night as she lay once more in her own bed and
listened to the steady breathing of her daughters as they slept nearby, Mabel
tried to convince herself that things were improving.  Lymesey and his
entourage were gone and, although she could see no immediate way out of her
agreement with Sir Edmund Neville, she decided that she would refuse to wed him
until given absolute proof that William was dead − in the hope that her
husband would return.

Mabel
and the girls were sitting in the bedchamber sewing when they heard the horses
approaching.  As always, Mabel hoped that it might be William and she put
aside her work and went quickly to the door.  In the courtyard were Sir
Edmund and two of his men.  He handed the reins of his horse to one and
came across to her.

“My lady,” he greeted her, taking her hand and kissing it.
“You are well, I hope?”

“I am well,” she replied as she watched him, suspecting from
his solemn expression that this was more than a courtesy visit.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said, pleased that he had asked her
permission rather than taking it for granted that he would be admitted.

He followed her into the hall and, as was his habit, he stood
and took off his gloves to warm his hands at the fire even though it was not
particularly cold outside.

“I have more news concerning the attack on Sir Peter
Lymesey,” he told her after a moment.

“Oh,” said Mabel, looking towards the bedchamber where she
saw Bella straining to overhear their conversation.  Sir Edmund followed
her glance and silently indicated that she should close the door.

“I think that what I have to say should be for your ears
only, my lady, for the present time.”  He hesitated again.  “Perhaps
you had better sit down,” he said, and catching the note of concern in his
voice, Mabel’s heart raced.  He spoke like a man who was the bearer of bad
tidings.

She sat down on William’s chair, clutching the arms until her
knuckles showed white as she waited to hear what Sir Edmund had to say.

“I have two outlaws in custody,” he began, without meeting
her eyes.  “Their names are Stephen Scallard and William Tegg.  Both
were tenants of the rebel, Adam Banastre.  Do you know them, my lady?” he
asked, looking directly at her.

“No.”  She shook her head as she held his look to
convince him that she spoke the truth.  She knew that Tegg was the man who
had killed Sir Henry Bury and that William had hidden him in their barn. 
She was sure that her blatant lie would be obvious on her face, but Sir Edmund
seemed to believe her.  He looked away again, studying the flames intently
and she wondered what was to come.  That the men would be found guilty and
would hang seemed without question, but she felt that there was something more
that he was about to tell her.

“I have interrogated them,” he went on and Mabel gripped the
chair more tightly.  “They have both admitted to the murder of Sir Henry
Bury, and of my two guards on the road to Lancaster, and of the attempted
murder of Sir Peter Lymesey.”  Mabel released one hand to cross herself
and she said a silent prayer for the salvation of their souls.  “They
swore an oath that everything else they told me was also true,” he said. 
“I’m sorry, my lady, if this is news that will distress you.”  He paused
again and Mabel watched his face as he hesitated, seeming to be unsure how to
phrase what he wanted to say.  “The men both swore that your husband, Sir
William Bradshaigh, is dead.  I am sorry, my lady.”

Mabel heard herself gasp and, as Sir Edmund continued to
study the fire, she began to pace the hall, not wanting to believe what he had
said, but not knowing how to argue against it.

At last she stopped and clung to the back of the chair,
almost able to see William sitting there with Calab at his feet.

“How did it happen?  What did they tell you?” she asked
as she felt hot tears begin to flow down her cheeks.

Sir Edmund looked uncomfortable as she wiped her face on her
sleeve.

“They said that he did not survive the battle at Preston, my
lady.  They said that he was knocked from his horse and died soon
afterwards.”

“And his body?” she asked, hearing that her voice was
shaking.

Sir Edmund took her arm and pushed her gently towards the
chair.  Then he crouched down in front of her and took her trembling hands
in his and held them firmly.  “Mabel, please believe me when I say that it
gives me no pleasure to bring you this news.”

“His body?” she sobbed again, watching his blurred face
through her tears.

“He must have been buried in the mass grave with all the
other dead.  I’m sorry.  If I had known I would have ensured that his
body was brought home for burial.”

Mabel was vaguely aware of him standing up and going to the
kitchen.  Then she felt Edith touch her shoulder and press a cup of wine
into her hands, steadying them as she drank.

“I will have to tell Bella and Amelia,” she said, wondering
how her daughters would cope with the news.  Like her, she knew that they
had believed that William was still alive.

“Later,” he said.  “When you are calmer.  For it
will do them no good to hear it from you like this.”

William, she cried silently as she rocked herself in his
chair.  William.  How can you be dead?  How can you be
gone?  What am I going to do without you?

It
wasn’t until later that evening, after she had comforted her distraught daughters
and seen them to their beds with a sleeping draft that would numb their grief
for a little while, that Mabel began to realise the full implication of the
situation.  Mistress Palmer had tried to press a draft on her, but Mabel
had refused and sent her home, only wondering afterwards if the outlaws had
also revealed the fate of her husband, Harry, and regretting that she had been
so embroiled in her own grief that she had omitted to inquire of Sir Edmund on
her friend’s behalf.

Now, as she sat on William’s chair and watched the embers of
the uncovered fire, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders for warmth, she
realised that it would be impossible to hold out against Sir Edmund Neville and
that when her period of mourning ended she would have no choice other than to
become his wife.  But as the night wore on and the bell of the church rang
out matins and then prime she thought of one last thing that she could do for
William.  She would argue that Sir Edmund must prefer to marry the widow of
a knight rather than the widow of an outlaw.  She would ask him to arrange
a pardon for Sir William before the marriage went ahead.

He came to visit her again the next morning and expressed
concern at her pale face.

“Shall I send for Father Gilbert to offer you some words of
comfort?” he asked.

“In a while.  I think that I may try to sleep a little,”
she whispered, having to admit that exhaustion was threatening to claim her
senses completely.  “But first there is a favour I must beg from you.”

“Tell me.  I will do whatever I can to comfort you in
your sorrow,” he promised.

“If it is true that my husband was not involved in the murder
of Henry Bury then can the verdict of the court that outlawed him for nonattendance
at the trial be overturned?” she asked.  “For how could he attend if he
was already dead?  Surely he can be granted a pardon now?”

She waited, hearing only her own breathing and the flow of
the blood past her ears as he considered her request in silence.

“Yes,” he said at last as he shifted his weight from one leg
to the other.  “I think that you are right.  Of course it is not
within my power to grant such a pardon, but I will present your petition to the
court and I am sure they will find in Sir William’s favour.”

“Thank you,” she said, looking up at him with genuine
gratitude. 

He smiled. “Try to sleep,” he said, “and I will send for
Father Gilbert.”

The sun was shining in through a gap in the shutters when
Mabel woke and pushed aside the bed hangings.  She could hear people
moving about outside the window and then the sound of soft voices from the
hall.  A moment later there was a tap on her door and Mistress Palmer
opened it slightly.  She smiled as she saw Mabel smoothing down her gown.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.  Father Gilbert has
come.  Shall I bring him to you?”

“Yes, please,” said Mabel as she plaited her long hair and
reached for a plain linen cap to cover it.  She pulled the hangings closed
around the unmade bed and was opening one of the shutters when she heard the
door open and close again as the priest came in.

“Mabel, my child, may God grant you succour in your loss,” he
said and made the sign of the cross over her as she knelt at his feet.  “I
will pray for William’s soul.”

Mabel covered her face with her hands in an effort to keep a
check on her grief.  She felt Father Gilbert’s hand rest on her head for a
moment.  “Compose yourself, my child,” he told her as he waited for her
sobbing to subside.  “Come, sit down and let us talk.”

The priest took her arm and helped her to stand and then drew
a stool nearer to her.  She sat down and he reached for another and seated
himself opposite to her, his long gown trailing onto the floor. “It was
expected,” he said at last, “but it is always a shock when word comes.  I
know that you were clinging to hope.”

“I never felt it, Father,” she said.  “I never felt his
loss here,” she told him as she clutched a closed fist to her heart.  “And
I loved him so much that I thought I should feel it if he had gone.”

“It is because his spirit survives and still watches over
you,” said the priest.

“But if he is watching over me how can I give myself to
another man?” she asked.

The priest remained silent as he met her eyes and Mabel could
see that he was searching for a reply that would give her some comfort.  “Mabel,”
he said at last, taking her hand between his.   “When a soul leaves
this world it ceases to be concerned with the physical and is concerned only
with spiritual wellbeing.  As William looks down on you from above,
 he will not be jealous that your body lies with that of another man, but
will be gladdened to see that you and Bella and Amelia are cared for and safe.”

“Is that true, Father?”

“Why would I tell you so if it were not?” he asked
gently. 

Mabel looked down at his hands
holding hers. “What must I do?” she asked.

“I have spoken to Sir Edmund Neville,” he said.  “He
tells me that he has offered to make you his wife and that you have accepted
him.  Is this true?” 

Mabel could only manage to nod her head.  She wanted to explain
to the priest how afraid she was of what would come, but could find no words to
adequately explain her fears.  She was, after all, no innocent virgin; she
understood well enough the duties of a wife and although she had feared
beatings at the hand of Peter Lymesey, Sir Edmund had shown her kindness and
consideration.