Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims (39 page)

Katherine is there all the time, sleeping and eating on the bed next to him, only leaving to seek the privacy of the privy. Each time she leaves, Richard panics and tells her that she should use the pot in the room. Each time she tells him that she has eaten or drunk something that has poisoned her guts, and she makes a joke of it.

A week later they can smell winter in the air. Martinmas has been and gone, the winter wheat is planted, the pigs slaughtered and singed, and now cold winds strip the last leaves from the trees. There are flurries of snow in the sky and skeins of geese wing south. Every face Thomas meets in the village is pinched and fearful; the winter dread is on them all.

But a month passes, and it is almost Christmas before they receive the bad news from a travelling friar.

King Henry’s wife, whom the pardoner once called a she-wolf from France, is raising an army in Scotland, just as that cookshop owner in London had foreseen, and the Duke of Somerset, her most powerful ally, is back in England, having been ejected from his castle in Guisnes. After Northampton he had promised the Earl of Warwick he would never take up arms again, and yet now he is gathering his forces just across the river in Hull. The friar, a Dominican with a powerful thirst, has heard it said the Earls of Devon and Northumberland have joined him there, along with Lords Clifford and Dacre, with enough men to march on London.

‘They’ll come down on you like locusts on the fields of Egypt,’ the friar says, drinking deep. ‘They’ll take everything they can, spoil what they cannot. I should be gone, were I you.’

His gaze rests on Goodwife Popham, and on Liz, until Geoffrey bundles him on his way. Afterwards Thomas and the rest of the men spend their days in the butts, enduring rain and hail and sleet, sometimes snow, sending flights of arrows whipping into the leaden skies.

‘We’ll never be able to stop ’em, you know,’ Little John Willingham says. ‘There’ll be too many of ’em. Our only hope is they pass us by.’

‘They won’t do that,’ Richard says. ‘We’re five miles off the road from Hull to London. Our only hope is that Warwick sends an army up north.’

‘Whatever happens it won’t be till spring, anyway,’ Geoffrey reassures them. ‘No one puts an army into the field in the winter. Hardly enough food as it is, let alone to feed ten thousand archers.’

They walk back to the hall just as the sleet starts in again.

‘Never known worse weather,’ one says. ‘It’s as if God means to flood us out.’

On the road they meet a messenger on a skinny sway-backed horse coming the other way. He has been to the hall, he tells them, with a message from Lord Fauconberg. Sir John has been ordered to take fifteen archers and ten billmen and to proceed to Sandal Castle outside Wakefield. There he will find the Duke of York and the Earl of Salisbury and he is to join with them to go north in answer to the threat posed by the army of the Queen and her magnates.

‘But it is Christmas in a week,’ Dafydd says. ‘No one fights during Christmastide, not even the bloody Scots.’

When they reach the hall Thomas drinks a mug of ale and goes up to see Katherine. Sir John is awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, his wasted legs hanging on the floor, loose skin hanging in swags from his old bones. Katherine looks exhausted, but happy – pleased with herself, even.

‘Thomas!’ Sir John cries. ‘Just in time to help an old man take his first steps in many a day.’

With Katherine taking his other arm they support Sir John as he walks up and down his chamber four or five times. The old man tires quickly but for the first time in years he walks with no pain. After a few moments’ rest on the bed, he asks them to help him dress and take him downstairs.

‘Sick of this chamber,’ he says. ‘Sick of the bed, sick of the view. Sick of those bloody dogs, to tell you the truth. Put me in front of the fire with some hot wine and a mutton pie and God will reward you even if I do not.’

They take him down to the hall and help him to the table in front of the fire.

‘I feel a new man,’ he says. ‘I feel I can accomplish everything and anything. Within a week I shall be back in the saddle, I tell you. We shall ride to Sandal together.’

‘So,’ Richard says, placing his cup on the table and swinging his long leg over the bench. ‘We have been summoned. Fauconberg wants us. Now we have to decide what we are going to do.’

Sir John looks pained, as if this is not the way he’d hoped to celebrate his return to the hall.

‘Do?’ he asks.

‘Do while Riven remains in Warwick’s favour,’ Richard answers.

‘I don’t understand you, my boy.’

‘It is only that while Riven is in Warwick’s affinity, and while we are too, there’s no chance of asserting our right to Cornford, is there?’

Sir John shakes his head sadly.

‘It certainly looks that way,’ he agrees. He glances at Thomas and Katherine standing there, and for a moment Thomas thinks he ought to excuse himself but both have spent so long with Sir John and Richard in the solar upstairs while the old man has been recovering that there doesn’t seem much point. Sir John gestures for him to pour themselves a drink and sit.

‘So we have two options,’ Richard says. ‘The first is to try to create a schism between Riven and the Earl of Warwick.’

Sir John nods.

‘How might we do that?’

‘It is difficult. We do not know enough about Riven’s interests: where they might rub up against Warwick’s. I do not think they have any neighbouring properties.’

Sir John tries to think of something. His brow creases. Eventually he shakes his head.

‘I cannot think of any way at all. Warwick has shown that he will forgive anyone anything if it suits his needs.’

‘The other option then is to take an arrow from Riven’s bag.’

Sir John frowns.

‘What do you mean? Simply go in there and steal the castle? With fifteen of us and a boy with half an ear?’

‘No,’ Richard says. ‘We change our allegiance. We do not march to Sandal, but instead we find the Duke of Somerset. To join his affinity.’

There is silence at the table for a moment. The thought of joining Somerset is startling. Sir John is the most astonished.

‘And fight for him against Warwick and the Duke of York? And old Fauconberg?’

‘Yes,’ Richard says. ‘So long as we support Warwick in power, we support Riven’s occupation of Cornford.’

Now Sir John is pink with anger.

‘But I am indentured to serve my lord Fauconberg,’ he tells them. ‘And through him, the Earl of Warwick, or the Duke of York, or whomsoever Fauconberg pleases. God damn it, Richard! You can hardly have me change my allegiance!’

‘Plenty of others have,’ Richard replies, raising his voice. ‘Ruthyn, for one, and Riven himself. He stood for Buckingham in the morning, by midday he was Warwick’s man.’

Sir John bangs a fist on the table. A month ago the cups might have jumped but now it is no more than a dusty pat. His fury is real, however.

‘Do not compare me to Riven,’ he barks. ‘Do not say I am like that.’

Richard sits back.

‘I am only suggesting options, Father,’ he says. ‘I was not accusing you of being a turncoat.’

‘Good,’ Sir John says. ‘That avenue is closed to us, d’you hear? Let there be more options, options that do not involve the sullying of the Fakenham name.’

There is a long silence. A log collapses, sending up sparks.

‘What of the daughter?’ Katherine asks.

They turn to her. She has proven her worth so often in the past that her counsel is taken as equal.

‘Which daughter?’ Richard asks.

‘Lord Cornford’s.’

‘She is betrothed to that bastard son of Riven’s, the one with the gammy eye.’

‘How I pity her,’ Richard says. ‘Fournier says the wound will not stop weeping pus and the smell of putrefaction is strong enough to curdle sheep’s milk.’

Thomas cannot help but smile. Katherine avoids catching his eye. No one says anything for a moment.

‘But they are not yet married?’ Katherine asks.

‘No,’ Sir John says, looking around for confirmation, his eyes narrowing. ‘We would have heard, surely?’

‘But, then,’ Richard says, ‘why hasn’t he?’

Sir John frowns.

‘I confess I have tried not to think about it since the summer,’ he says. ‘But it is a good question.’

‘Can it be that he does not have her?’ Richard asks.

‘He must do, surely? He is her guardian.’

‘But he only came to that post after we came from Northampton. Only five months ago. She might have slipped away in the meantime.’

Sir John nods.

‘And d’you remember that story John Willingham was telling us?’ Thomas ventures. ‘About his mother seeing the boy on his way north? He was looking for someone. I think it might even have been a girl.’

None can recall that detail of the story.

‘I thought you were telling me that Riven was moving north,’ Richard says. ‘But can it have been they were looking for Margaret? No. No. It is too far-fetched.’

‘But all the same . . .’ Sir John says.

‘How old is she?’ Katherine asks.

There is another silence. Richard looks at his father. Sir John is hunched forward, his elbows on the table. He cups his beard in the palm of his hand.

‘I recall she was born on the Epiphany,’ he says. ‘I remember sending old Cornford a barrel of wine in commiseration she wasn’t a boy, and then I heard the mother never recovered from the birth, and it didn’t seem so funny.’

‘When was that?’ Richard asks.

Sir John waves a hand.

‘It was the same year your mother died,’ he says. ‘Year of Our Lord ’46.’

A long silence follows. The darkness has deepened. The yellow light of the candle makes Sir John look biblical. One of the dogs starts in its sleep.

‘But that means she’ll be fifteen at her next birthday,’ Richard says. ‘In less than a month. She’s Riven’s ward until then, but he’s cutting it fine, don’t you think? If he’s going to marry them against her will?’

‘It might not be against her will,’ Sir John points out. ‘She might have fallen for the boy.’

‘But how can she if Riven doesn’t even know where she is?’

‘We can’t be sure he doesn’t.’

‘It is the only explanation.’

There is another of the long pauses. They can hear Liz Popham laughing through the window in the yard where John Willingham is juggling apples for her entertainment. She’s been sewing patches on Geoffrey’s coat, red with green thread.

‘But then if Riven doesn’t know where she is,’ Katherine begins. ‘Who does?’

Sir John and Richard look at one another, as if realising something.

‘I don’t know,’ Sir John says at last. ‘She was at Cornford’s place in Wales before he was killed, but after that?’ He shrugs.

‘But I was betrothed to her!’ Richard goes on. ‘Surely you should know where she was?’

‘You
were
betrothed to her, Richard,’ Sir John says, patches of colour appearing on his cheeks. ‘And while you were betrothed to her, I knew where she was. Once I had been attainted and made a traitor, once I had been driven from my own house, my own estates, my own goddamned country, I had other matters on my mind, such as your welfare, the welfare of my men, the welfare of my people. Do you understand me?’

Richard lifts a hand. It is not clear if it is an apology, but it calms Sir John.

‘Would Riven know of Cornford’s place in Wales?’ Katherine asks.

‘Perhaps. The land came to Cornford through his wife, nothing but rough hill pasture, to hear him talk of it, and full of violent Welshmen stealing each other’s sheep and wives and confusing the two.’ Sir John laughs gently at his own joke.

‘Why did she stay down there then?’ Katherine goes on. ‘Why did he not bring her to live at Cornford?’

‘She was a sickly creature,’ Sir John says. ‘Something wrong with her chest and Cornford was supposed to be too cold for her. It is draughty, that castle, and the east wind comes straight off the sea.’

Richard tuts, disapproving of someone so soft, but Sir John goes on.

‘Cornford never got over the death of his wife,’ he says. ‘Used to dote on the girl. He was like that. It was why I liked him. He was the only one who understood why I didn’t send you off either, my boy, so before you start criticising, think on that.’

Richard raises his eyebrows but drops his gaze to his hands on the table.

‘I only met her once,’ Sir John goes on. ‘When she was about five or six, I suppose. The strangest accent you ever heard. Like Dafydd and the other boy – Owen, is it? Probably had it beaten out of her by now, of course.’

Goodwife Popham comes in with an armful of logs. She drops them on the hearth, and leaves the room again.

‘So she might still be in Wales?’ Katherine asks.

Thomas admires the way she can stick to a matter, to follow it to its heart.

‘I suppose she might,’ Sir John agrees. ‘Which would explain why Riven hasn’t found her.’

‘And she is Riven’s ward only until the Epiphany?’ Richard asks. ‘After that she may do as she wishes?’

Sir John nods. A gleam appears in his eye.

‘If my grasp of the law is correct,’ he says.

‘So do we pray he doesn’t find her before then?’ Katherine says. ‘Or is there a way we make sure he doesn’t?’

Sir John scratches his cheek. Richard is looking at her intently.

‘Ordinarily I would place my trust in God,’ Sir John starts, ‘and hope for the best, but with men like Riven perhaps it is as well to look into the matter ourselves.’

‘But how do we find her?’ Richard asks.

An idea strikes Thomas.

‘Dafydd,’ he says. ‘Dafydd used to serve Lord Cornford, didn’t he? He told me he was at Ludford Bridge when Riven killed Cornford, and for want of anything else to do, he fell in with the next company in the line, which happened to be yours.’

There is a moment of silence.

‘That’s right,’ Richard says, half smiling at the memory. ‘I remember. Couldn’t understand a word he said at first, him or his brother – still can’t really, but they can both use a bow, so.’

‘So get him in here, will you, Thomas?’

Thomas finds Dafydd in the barn playing dice with Owen and two of the Johns. He comes reluctantly, having been enjoying a winning streak, but is happy to be reminded of home.