Red Rose, White Rose (7 page)

Under her gracious azure gaze I blushed furiously and mumbled some words of gratitude, turning the new homespun hood which my mother had made for me round and round in anxious fingers. At ten years old I needed no urging to pledge my loyalty to this beautiful, fragrant, splendidly jewelled lady. I wanted to prostrate myself before her and let her trample me under her satin-slippered feet but instead I bowed my head and tugged at the fringe of hair on my forehead. ‘Oh yes, my lady, I will,’ I said and, true to my word, I had repaid her over and over again and was even now continuing to do so.

At Brancepeth a posse of Raby men-at-arms was now camped in the shelter of a tree belt, well back from any archers’ arrows fired from the castle walls. Hal had seen to that at least. As I was wearing no insignia that might be recognized from the battlements, I went to speak to the sergeant in command but I took care to remain in the shadow of the trees. He reported no activity at all that day and, with dusk fast approaching, did not expect any. This puzzled me as Brancepeth was not under siege, but my curiosity was met with a shrug from the sergeant; his instructions were to keep out of arrow-range and log any activity. I took myself off to the village where I hoped to find looser tongues.

In the main street I promised a halfpenny to a loitering lad to mind my horse and he directed me to the alehouse, identifiable by a desiccated evergreen bush hung over its door. It was the usual low-roofed, smoke-filled, mud-floored hell-hole; a meeting place for unmarried local villeins with a farthing to spend, thirsty black-faced colliers from the nearby mines and weary travellers from the west who could not quite make it to Durham before curfew. I hoped it would be assumed that I fitted the last category. There was no room near the fire so I took a seat on a corner bench beside a man wearing the Neville bull on his jacket and signalled the pot-boy to bring me a mug of ale.

‘You must be a local resident, sir,’ I said politely, indicating my neighbour’s livery badge. ‘That is the Neville bull, is it not?’

The man’s grin revealed only three or four blackened teeth. ‘
Brancepeth
Neville, sir. The other lot, with their fancy sailing ship, do not show their faces here.’

I affected ignorance of Neville business. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together with a knowing look. ‘Family feud, sir, over land, coin and castles. Rich men’s pickings.’

The pot-boy arrived with my ale in a banded wooden mug and I tossed him a farthing. ‘You seem very knowledgeable about the lord’s affairs,’ I prodded, taking a long gulp of the thin liquid. It was stale but not unpleasant.

He puffed out his chest. ‘Well I should know something since I work at the castle.’

With teeth like his I doubted if he worked in the private apartments but I decided flattery would aid my cause. ‘You must have a senior position, sir, if you can leave after dusk. When I rode past the drawbridge was up and the portcullis well and truly down.’

The man pressed his finger to the side of his nose. ‘There’s more than one way in and out of that place,’ he confided. ‘If you know the guards you can slip out the back. The lord’s brothers went that way very early this morning. I was returning from plucking a nice plump hen last night, if you get my meaning, and I saw them leave.’

I tried hard not to show my surprise at this information. ‘Off hunting vixen, were they?’ I suggested with a smirk.

He pursed up his lips, looking doubtful. ‘I reckon not. They had some skirt with them. There’s been a mystery woman staying and they fired one of the gatehouse canons at a troop from Raby which arrived this afternoon. Something to do with the family rift it seems. I work in the stables and one of the countess’s palfreys was missing from its stall but Lady Westmorland is still in the castle.’

Now the hair rose on the back of my neck. Was it possible that Cicely had been moved from Brancepeth and, if so, where had they taken her? Or had she persuaded her kidnappers to let her go and if so, again, where was she? I downed the rest of my ale hurriedly and stood up, excusing my hasty departure. ‘I need to get back to my horse before the lad I left it with realizes it would fetch more than I’ve promised him. Thanks for your company, my friend.’

‘If you need a bed I know a nice clean widow in the village who would share hers with you for half a groat.’ A big wink and another gap-toothed grin accompanied this offer.

I shook my head. ‘Not tonight, regrettably, I am on a pilgrimage.’ I saw his eyes pop with astonishment as I turned away and fought my way through the smoke and bodies to the door. Outside I smiled to myself and breathed the fresh night air with relief. The boy was still holding my horse and scampered off with glee, biting at the half-moon of silver I had given him. My stomach urged me to eat before following up on the information I had just received, so I set off, leading the horse, to seek a place to let him graze while I raided the saddle-bag supplies Hilda had procured for me.

In a far corner of the Brancepeth churchyard, I hobbled my horse and let him loose, then settled down on a gravestone to enjoy a substantial cheese pastry in the light of the rising moon. The church was dark; not even the flicker of a votive candle showed through the leaded windows of its rounded arches. Either they were shuttered or else the priest was gone for the day.

I could hear my horse munching his way around the graves and the occasional clink of his metal shoes as they struck a stone edge. I wondered what Cicely would be doing at that hour and where she would be laying her head. This would be the second night she had spent away from Raby. If she was no longer at Brancepeth would she even have a bed, or might she be confined in some cave up on the moors, or forced to sleep in a forest hut, hidden from prying eyes? If so, she would be uncomfortable and frightened but the worst aspect for her would be thinking that her family had entirely abandoned her. Cicely was not used to being belittled or ignored. Although she hated her brothers calling her Proud Cis, she was fiercely aware of her lineage and expected the deference due to a potential duchess. I wondered how she would have reacted if her ‘hosts’ had treated her with anger or disrespect. Might her removal from Brancepeth be due to them inflicting some form of retribution or inducement? A sense of the urgency of my mission escalated as I contemplated her position. I did not believe that the present earl would allow any physical harm to come to a female who was, after all, his close relative, but revenge could be achieved in many devious ways, particularly through damage to such a valuable young girl’s honour and reputation.

I consumed the last morsel of the pastry whilst considering what form that damage might take and disliking the turn my thoughts were taking, when my meditations were interrupted by the increasingly urgent sound of human copulation coming from the deep shadow of one of the church buttresses nearby. Copulation or rape, with a crescendo of climactic grunts coming from the male participant and what I took to be wails of increasing protest from the woman. I was in half a mind to intervene but held myself in check, conscious of my own invidious position. To become involved in any sort of incident in Brancepeth would inevitably destroy my anonymity and put paid to any chance I had of assisting Cicely – and might even lead to my own imprisonment.

Quashing feelings of guilt, I crept off to collect my horse and buckle on my saddlebag, but I had not made sufficient allowance for the woman’s distress. Hardly had I removed the hobble and re-bridled the courser when the grunting ceased, but to my dismay the protests of the unfortunate girl redoubled, and she crawled out of her dark corner into the moonlight, tugging her skirt down and screaming at her still-hidden companion.

‘You foul beast! You should be whipped. You promised me silver. Just a quick feel you said – then you force yourself up my arse! You are a liar and a pervert.’

By this time the moon had risen above the trees surrounding the churchyard and its soft blue light beamed down on the girl. She might have been pretty, had not her face been twisted into an ugly expression of hatred and anger. She looked no older than Cicely; too young, I thought, to be whoring herself in a churchyard, even for a shilling. I couldn’t help feeling compassion for her. Not only had she been cheated out of the promised silver, she had also been abused by a bully and a pederast. Her abuser, however, must have been brazenly confident of getting away with it, even to the extent of using the churchyard for his dirty work, when fornication and particularly buggery were carnal sins which could lead to the consistory court, a whipping and a public penance. Then the man himself stepped out of the shadows and my lip curled. It was my erstwhile bugbear, Hilda’s unpleasant and vicious brother, Sir Gerald Copley. I clenched my fists, itching to punch his teeth in, but he had not seen me and I wanted to keep it that way. Neither I nor the horse moved.

Gerald was grinning lecherously while adjusting the codpiece flap of his hose. ‘You stupid slut,’ he said and aimed a kick at his crouching victim, sending her sprawling. Her screeching redoubled and she scrambled to a gravestone and hauled herself to her feet as he continued to berate her. ‘You have the brains of a frog and the backside of a donkey. Why would anyone pay you a shilling to use that spotty arse? And why would any man risk getting a bastard by taking the front door? Bastards are the devil’s spawn. They should be strangled at birth.’

Sensibly the girl decided to retreat rather than risk another vicious kick. She gathered up her skirts and lurched off into the darkness, but not before she had aimed a gob of spit at him so large that I could see it glint in the moonlight. Gerald growled angrily and made as if to chase after her but took only a couple of threatening steps before stabbing the two-fingered witch sign at her and letting her go. From the deep shadow of the trees I watched him adjust his doublet over his sullied hose and saunter away between the graves to the churchyard gate. And I made a silent vow that if ever I encountered Gerald Copley in any kind of confrontation, whether on my side or the other, I would sink my dagger in one of his strutting buttocks. It would be in retribution for his remarks about bastards as much as for his callous mistreatment of a defenceless young woman.

From Brancepeth to Aycliffe

Cicely

M
y first night at Brancepeth had been short and sleepless. Seated at one end of Lord Westmorland’s high table I had forced myself to eat a little of whatever was offered to me but although I was hungry, I seemed to lose my appetite as soon as food touched my tongue. Rather pointedly I thought, the countess remained absent but the earl had attempted to engage me in conversation. However, as I felt no inclination to indulge him our intercourse had been brief and stilted and afterwards Sir John had escorted me back up to the tower chamber in brooding silence. As we climbed the stair from the bustling hall a sudden sense of loneliness engulfed me. Coming from a large family and a castle that teemed with activity like an ant’s nest, the prospect of a night locked away alone terrified me. There had been no response from Raby to Sir John’s ultimatum and the feeling of abandonment was overwhelming. All my life I had had someone to fight my battles for me, either my father, my mother or one of my brothers and now I had become convinced that the only way I was going to get back to Raby in time for my wedding was by using my own wits. The graunching scrunch of the key turning in the lock was a chilling reminder that there were daunting physical obstacles to be overcome even before confronting the twenty mile distance between Brancepeth and Raby. Seeing help from no other quarter, I threw myself on my knees beside the mean little cot that Lady Elizabeth had provided for me and began to pray.

The candle I had been left with had begun to gutter and I was steeling myself to contemplate the long darkness of the night when I heard that unnerving scrunch again.

‘May I come in, Lady Cicely?’ said the now-familiar voice of my knightly abductor. ‘I would speak with you.’

I rose hastily to my feet, stumbling forward on stiffened limbs but preferring to converse on equal terms with my captor. ‘Enter, Sir John,’ I said, arranging my face into what I hoped was an implacable expression, while inside my stomach churned with apprehension.

He was carrying a lighted lantern and a tray containing a bowl and a jug. ‘I noticed that you ate little at dinner, Lady Cicely. I have brought you curds and honey and some ale because I must warn you that we will be going on a journey. When the castle is sleeping I intend to take you on a ride which I hope will make you understand the injustice that has been done to my brother.’

It was as if my prayers had been answered. My chances of making a break for freedom were infinitely higher if I were taken out of the castle, but I did not want him to notice my surge of elation so I kept my expression blank.

‘Thank you for the warning, Sir John. I am agog to learn how you think to change my perception.’

His grey eyes studied my face but their narrow gaze gave me no hint of his intentions. ‘As I said, I plan to show you injustice, my lady. Now you should get some sleep. Be ready to ride before first light.’ He said no more but he left me the tray and the lantern.

When I lay down sleep eluded me but a vivid memory rose to the surface of my mind like a waking dream. My father sat in his canopied chair, his bandaged leg propped up on cushions before him. Although only nine years old I knew there was an evil presence hidden under that thick dressing, which drew him daily nearer to death. Cuddy had told me that an old wound, received many years before, had resurfaced and now festered, sending rays of blackened flesh creeping up his thigh which emitted a putrid smell and warned us all that the great man had little time left.

For this important occasion maids had dressed me in my best pink gown; tiny white roses decorated the skirt and sleeves. I understood the meaning of betrothal and so did the boy beside me – Richard Plantagenet, dressed in the York colours of dark murrey-red and blue. He was thirteen and looked rather sulky, perhaps because although four years younger, I already stood nearly as tall as he.