Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

With reluctance she transferred her thoughts to her trencher and the mutton and roast quail upon it. January waned, and soon it would be Lent, the time of fasting and fish. She hated fish, almost as much as she hated Hugh Wothorpe. She stole a glance at her latest suitor. They were in the great chamber, which had been set for the midday meal, and her aunts and seven cousins were
gorging themselves. Hugh Wothorpe was draining his goblet of wine, and a drop of it had trickled from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with his napkin and cleared his throat.

“Mistress, have I mentioned that my ancestry hies from the line of Edward IV?” Hugh didn’t wait for her reply. “Few in this realm can claim so mighty a lineage, and still fewer can call it Plantagenet.”

She had eaten a good deal of quail, and the food had made her sleepy. She allowed Hugh to drone on about his ancestors, which were his only claim to eligibility as a suitor. She had tried to make allowance for his boorishness, for he’d been kept in the Tower since he was a child by Henry VIII, and only released when Elizabeth came to the throne. He knew little of the world. He worked hard to cover his ignorance—and failed.

“Mistress Oriel, don’t you feel well?” Hugh asked.

“I fear I’m surfeited with meat.”

“Lord George keeps a fine table,” Hugh said as he looked about the chamber.

The yeoman ushers were marching in with a course of sweets. In Hugh’s honor and at George’s order, the French cook had constructed a subtlety of marchpane in the form of his coat of arms. George was Aunt Livia’s firstborn. He had inherited the title of Lord Richmond and his mother’s beefy frame. He was a great one for proper gestures such as the subtlety. Presiding over each meal with pomposity, George always insisted on the ceremony of the ushers bowing to each course. Each dish was escorted by gentlemen in waiting.

Oriel found the ritual tedious, as did George’s youngest brother, Leslie. She heard him talking to George in that too-nice tone he used to shred his brother’s peace. Their mother preferred Leslie, who used her partiality like an apothecary’s lancet to jab at his brothers until they bled. She turned her attention away from the two, for she disliked seeing either of them hurt. She allowed
herself to ponder a new thought that had come to her this day.

“Lord Hugh, have you ever wondered how trees know where to put out branches?”

“Branches?” Hugh looked down his long nose at her, as if she was speaking Persian instead of English.

“Yes. Why don’t trees put out branches all over their trunks? How do they know which way to grow?”

“God has caused them to grow in the appropriate manner, as he causes all manner of creatures to thrive.”

“But how?”

“Fie, mistress, this is a bootless question.”

Aunt Faith, her skinny aunt, was frowning at her from the table opposite her own. Aunt Faith resented Oriel’s new wealth when she had four daughters to marry off. Jane and Joan were of marriageable age, being fifteen and seventeen. It seemed that neither would leave Richmond Hall, however, before their sisters Agnes and Amy came out of the schoolroom. All of them had that unfortunate shade of brown hair that looked as if they stood on their heads in ashes. Not one of them had eyebrows, and only little Amy had a chin. When they wore ruffs, their short necks disappeared.

Livia boomed at her from beside Hugh. “Oriel, since you and Lord Hugh have so much about which to converse, show him our west courtyard.”

Given no choice, Oriel conducted her suitor downstairs and out into the western court. Richmond Hall was built on a rectangular plan, and the hollow formed by the wings of the rectangle was split by a gallery, thus forming two separate courtyards. Three stories of latticed windows with lead frameworks looked down upon the courtyards from all sides. Aunt Faith had ordered the shrubbery cut in formal designs, so that the visitor was presented with bushes pruned in the shape of cones, balls, and rectangles.

In January the courtyard flora were covered with protective sheets, and these had been layered in white
by yesterday’s snow. Bundled into heavy, fur-lined cloaks, Oriel and Hugh walked up and down the snow-covered paths because they had been ordered to do so and Faith would spy on them to see that they obeyed. They had been walking some ten minutes when Hugh stopped abruptly.

“It’s hopeless,” he said to her.

“My lord?”

He looked away from her and wiped his nose with a large kerchief. “You may not have noticed, mistress, but I—I have not much facility with company, especially with women. Until Her Majesty released me, I only had my gaolers for companions. When I was young, I was a kind of pet with them.”

“It must have been terrible to be kept in the Tower for so long.”

“My room was a good one, and I was allowed exercise. But you’re a clever girl. I can see it in your eyes.” Hugh wetted his lips and went on. “You already know how poor I am.”

“Yes.” All the Tudors made a habit of killing or beggaring any dangerous rivals to the throne.

“I am ashamed. Everyone says I should be proud of my lineage, but how can I hold up my head when my hose need patching and my boots don’t have soles? I’ve been living on the charity of noblemen for so long that they bar their doors when they hear me approach.”

Oriel watched Hugh stomp his feet and realized the snow must have wet them almost as soon as he set foot outside. She took his hand and began pulling him toward a door in the western wing. Once inside, she led him to the windows.

“Stay here and walk up and down to keep warm. I’ll return anon.”

She scampered upstairs. On the way to her own chamber, she stopped to filch a pair of Uncle Thomas’s shoes and a pair of boots. Uncle loved shoes. His collection required several tall cupboards and even more
chests. He had shoes of velvet and brocade, slippers and boots—embroidered shoes, plain shoes, jeweled shoes, and even a pair sewn with feathers. When he traveled, he carried at least forty pairs with him.

This harmless vanity endeared him to Oriel. He would miss the two old pairs she’d taken. In her chamber she threw open a jewel casket, plucked a necklace from it, and a set of buttons. Thrusting them into a velvet bag, she returned to the gallery where Hugh still paced. She produced the shoes and boots from beneath her cloak after making certain that they were alone.

Hugh flushed, but took the footwear with hands shaking from the cold. He stuffed them under his cloak.

“Won’t there be an outcry when these are found missing?”

“No. I’ll tell Uncle Thomas I gave them to a poor rat catcher and a beggar.”

Hugh’s flush deepened to crimson. “You are kind, Mistress Oriel. I—I would marry you if you wished.”

“Shhh! Don’t say that. Aunt Faith may be nearby.”

She and Hugh looked up and down the gallery It was still deserted. Oriel drew near Hugh and lowered her voice to a whisper.

“I’ve something for you, but you must promise never to tell where you got it.”

She opened the velvet bag. Buttons spilled into her hand. Mounted in oval gold settings, each contained a square-cut ruby, and there were four of them. The necklace spilled out after them, a flat piece of lacy gold set with pearls and diamonds. Hugh gasped and then stared at Oriel. She thrust the jewelry into the bag and shoved it into Hugh’s hands. He clutched it, still gaping at her.

Oriel lifted a finger. “I give these to you. They will keep you for a long time. But you must promise to go away and not ask for my hand.”

“Fie, mistress. You but need to refuse me. You don’t have to bribe me.”

“I know, but I have boxes and caskets full of such baubles left to me by my grandfather. I’ve no need for these, and I would worry about you if you left in your present state. Take them. If not for yourself, for me, for I vow I’ll sleep not a wink if you don’t. Do you promise?”

Hugh’s eyes filled with tears. “I promise. And if you should ever need aid of any sort, call upon me, dear Oriel.”

“My thanks,” she said. “Now you should go to your chamber and dry your feet. God give you a pleasant afternoon, my lord.”

She fled the gallery, fearing Hugh might change his mind and refuse her gifts, and made her way to Uncle Thomas’s library. In truth, the library belonged to the owner of the Hall—George—but Great-uncle Thomas had lived with the family so long and inhabited the room so much that it had become known as his. As she approached the chamber from the second floor gallery, she heard Uncle Thomas arguing with someone. Her pace slowed, for she recognized Leslie’s voice.

She was surprised to hear him, for Leslie abhorred the country and preferred to spend most of his days in the south in London. He loved attending court and gambling and dicing and carousing, pursuits unavailable to him in the north country. His greatest desire was to obtain an appointment from Her Majesty as one of her gentlemen pensioners, for then he would be eligible for control of leases, wardships, and licenses, which would relieve his penurious state as a younger son.

To her astonishment, Leslie’s voice was raised in ire. Leslie was the only male Richmond to possess a ready wit and charm to match, and rarely lost his temper. When she had first come to Richmond Hall he had taken pity on her and befriended her. She had been grateful, for Leslie had been a high and mighty youth of thirteen, and she only twelve. He had protected her from George’s and Robert’s teasing. It had taken Oriel
little time to realize Leslie’s favored position at Richmond Hall. Aunt Livia considered him the most engaging creature put upon the earth, and he could wind the sour Faith about the heel of his boot with no objection from the lady.

“I know not,” Uncle Thomas was saying.

“A pox on your knowing and not knowing. You were there. I remember the story.”

“Contentious whelp, begone with you. At once! Out of my sight.”

Oriel had her hand on the half-open library door when it was swept aside and Leslie charged out of the chamber. He stumbled over Oriel and caught her up in his arms. Lifting her, he set her aside with a mumbled apology. She watched him storm down the gallery and take the stairs two at a time. A tall man, he shared with Oriel the same dark black-red hair and slender build. When that auburn head had vanished down the staircase, she went into the library.

“Uncle?”

Thomas looked up from behind a great pile of books spread over one of the tables. Piles as large as this one littered two other tables.

“Uncle, what’s wrong with Leslie?”

“Naught. You know Leslie, always up to some foolish scheme to gain a fortune. Last spring he tried to convince me to pay for his experiments in alchemy. He wanted to make gold.”

“Oh, no. I hope he isn’t doing that again. Marry, he near blew himself to the New World messing with potions and such.” Oriel went to the table, stopped opposite Thomas, and picked up a book. Its binding was cracked, and the clasp rusted. “Where did you find these?”

“I sent for them from my old house in London. I haven’t been there in so long I was worried they might suffer from lack of attention, and I was right. By my faith, I shouldn’t have neglected them.”

“I’ll help you,” Oriel said. “You’ll need a list of them and a notation of the contents and condition of each one. You’ll tire yourself most thoroughly if you try it by yourself.”

“You’re a good girl.” Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need fresh air. I’ve been at work since sunrise.”

After calling to his manservant for a cloak and walking stick, Thomas invited Oriel to come with him.

“I’m going to the chapel, and the ground will be slippery with all this snow. Lend me your arm, child.”

The chapel lay east of Richmond Hall on a wide lawn, and a path covered with flagstones connected the two buildings. It was an ancient structure of creamy stone, over three hundred years old. Built by a Richmond ancestor upon his return from France, it was a small replica of the French cathedrals of Saint-Denis and Chartres.

They slipped into the chapel nave. It was some time before evening prayers, and the altar was deserted, though lit with candles. Oriel never missed vespers, for the setting sun illuminated the western rose window over the main doors and transformed the chapel into a place of light and shadow. Beams of red, green, white, and Chartres blue made the ribbed stone vaulting and marble floor glimmer with color. At that moment of sunset, the chapel was transformed into a mystical place, a tribute to the spirit of man and God.

“Come,” Uncle Thomas said. “I want to look at my new tomb inscription.”

As no one lingered in the chapel, Oriel lit a torch from a candle stand and walked with him down the south aisle. They passed window after window of bright glass panes and pointed arches until they found the spiral staircase that led down to a short tunnel and the old family crypt. Shoving open the heavy, iron-studded door, Oriel held the torch high. She stepped aside so
that her uncle could enter. The crypt was as deserted as the chapel, and demon black.

Thomas chuckled, and the sound echoed off the walls and tomb effigies. “You used to be afraid to come down here.”

Oriel glanced around the crypt at the long lines of tombs, each with an effigy of its owner resting atop the lid. She held the torch close, and could just make out rounded arches, wide stone pillars, and, inset into the walls, more tombs.

“I’m a grown woman now. And besides, ghosts and shades don’t walk in daylight.”

“True.”

Thomas went to a long marble box surrounded by a work cloth and sculptors’ tools. In the face of the tomb was carved the newly finished inscription. Oriel held the torch aloft to reveal the Latin words:
“In Nomine Patris et Filu et Spiritus Sancti.…
”

“A fine piece of work, Uncle.” Oriel studied the intricately carved head of Thomas’s effigy.

“Yes,” Thomas said and held up a finger. “And you should remember it. Have your effigy carved when you’re young, and you’ll look a fine spectacle to your descendants. I had my likeness done before I was thirty, and the sculptor used it as a model.”

The old man touched the tip of the marble nose. Oriel smiled at him, but grew puzzled when he suddenly rubbed his chin and frowned at the effigy.