The Dragon of Handale (32 page)

The silence lengthened as the crowd flowed around them.

Ulf looked nonplussed at Harry’s reaction. None of them had seen him tongue-tied before. “It’s an urgent matter, Harry,” he prompted. “I wouldn’t presume to ask a favour of you otherwise.”

“No. That’s quite all right,” Harry responded. He stared at Isabella for another moment or two, then suddenly spun on his heel and marched into the thick of the crowd still surging in Northumberland’s wake.

“Well, I hope he means it,” remarked Ulf, gazing after him in dismay.

“I think he may well mean it,” replied Hildegard slowly.

The two masons were silent.

Isabella had a look of alarm on her face. “What’s going to happen to me if I come face-to-face with Morcar? I must get away!”

With a little cry, she slipped past Ulf and pushed on into the crowd. In a moment, she had vanished from sight.

“Go after her!” Hildegard exclaimed.

“Which way did she go?” Matt was peering over the heads of the crowd.

Ulf looked worried when, almost an hour later, Isabella had still not been found. “What the devil made her run off like that? Was it something to do with Harry Summers? They looked at each other as if they’d met before.”

Hildegard could not work it out. “Here’s Harry now,” she said. Not waiting for Ulf, she went over to the earl’s secretary as he left the feast hall and, taking him by the arm, pulled him to one side. “Have you seen Isabella?”

He turned scarlet. “What do you mean?”

“Simply that. Have you seen her? Shortly after meeting you, she ran off. We’ve no idea where she went.”

“Ran off? But where to?”

“I had the feeling you already knew each other.”

Harry shook his head. “Never seen her before in my life.” He bit his bottom lip. It was as if he’d been felled by some catastrophe, and he stood gazing into the crowd, unseeing, with a dazed, desperate expression.

“Harry?” Ulf came up and put his arm round the young man’s shoulders. “Is there something we can do? Are you all right? You look as if you’re suffering in some way. It’s not the ague from all this bad weather, is it?”

“Suffering, did you say? I surely am. You have no idea.” He rubbed the back of a hand across his face, then raked his fingers through his tangled curls in a distracted fashion. “Earl Morcar’s boasting that she’s the heiress of Kilton Castle. Ownership has been in dispute for many years.” He looked round at the soaring battlements and the three tall towers. “He intends to get his hands on this place for the balance of power it’ll give him in the current battle between Gloucester and King Richard. Morcar doesn’t give a tinker’s cuss about her.” Then he shook his hair back and said more alertly, “We have to find her. Where can she be?”

“Anywhere Morcar is not.” Hildegard explained as much as she thought fit, but Harry was already ahead of her and filled in the details himself. His eyes hardened. She saw his fists clench. “It’s worse than I thought.”

Matt was standing by watching all this and he made a perfunctory and somewhat hostile bow to the earl’s secretary. “If I may be permitted to speak?”

“Speak, then. Go on!” Harry was unusually irritable.

“I know we’ve already had a look on the battlements, but I still reckon she must have gone back there. It’s the only place she knows that’s far from where that old goat was keeping her.” He gestured towards the steps. “Let’s try up there again before that fiend gets to her.”

Harry Summers was already moving off. “Show me!” he commanded in much the same tone as the earl would use to a vassal.

Matt was already at his heels, and after a moment the two older men, Hamo and Ulf, with Hildegard trailing behind, began to retrace their steps up to the high battlements.

They did manage to find her before Morcar did. It was not without some difficulty, as she must have heard footsteps and decided it was the earl and his men in pursuit. She had wedged herself between a stack of tiles left to repair the roof of one of the lookout towers, and it was only Matt’s sharp eyes that managed to pick out her shape from the shadows.

“It’s us,” he whispered, talking softly, as if to a small animal. “Don’t be scared. It’s only us. Come out, Isabella. Come out.”

Harry Summers pushed him aside. He extended his hand. “My lady,” he said in a strong voice, “I beg you to come forth. You’ll be safe with me. I give you my oath.”

Shaking with her recent fright, Isabella was persuaded to get to her feet and, with the help of the two young men, was helped over the tiles. When she jumped to the ground, she turned at once to Harry Summers. She said nothing, merely looked up at him with large, clear eyes through the snow that mantled them.

Matt turned away.

Harry extended his hand. “My lady? Allow me to escort you to his grace, my lord Percy, earl of Northumberland.” He led her back along the wall, the two of them looking at each other as if nobody else existed.

Left to follow, everyone trudged back, too. Hildegard noticed that Matt had held back. When the procession reached the step leading down into the courtyard, he gave Isabella a long, defeated stare, then bowed his head as he began to descend.

Hamo put his arms round the apprentice’s shoulders when they reached ground level. “You’re time will come, bonny lad. You’re scarcely out of swaddling bands.”

“That’s that, then,” remarked Hildegard with satisfaction as she and Ulf descended the steps into the bailey. “I suddenly feel very old.”

He put an arm round her. “Mistress York, you’ll never be old.” He squeezed her against him and, with his arm round her waist, led her back towards the inner gate. “We need to have a talk ourselves,” he murmured in her ear when they came to a stop.

“We do?” She met his glance. “Oh, I see.”

“Don’t look so alarmed,” he teased, reading her expression as quickly as ever.

“I was just thinking about Fulke and whether he’ll have gone to ground by the time we get back to Handale Priory.”

C
HAPTER
29

Events at Kilton were not yet concluded, however. A lavish feast was laid on for all the magnates summoned by Northumberland for the purpose of discussing the extent of their commitment to the king’s personal quarrel with his uncles, Gloucester and Warwick.

“Personal quarrel? Is that how he wants us to see it?” asked Hildegard when she heard this from the earl’s own lips.

Ulf looked disgusted. “He’s a slippery customer. I’ve always thought so. Now he’s wriggling out of his oath of fealty to King Richard. He’s waiting to see which way the dice will fall.” He told her had spoken earlier to Roger de Hutton, a strong supporter of the king. “He’s the only friend Richard has in the north. I can’t see him wanting to stick his neck out if there’s no one to follow him.”

“The Lancasters hold every major castle and town in Yorkshire,” she remarked worriedly. “It’s difficult for him. Gaunt and Bolingbroke are in accord. The only buffer between Northumberland’s territory and Lancaster’s is this swath held by the inheritor of Kilton Castle. While it’s in dispute, Northumberland’s dilemma is plain to see.” She turned to him. “Northumberland must feel he needs to tread with caution.”

“Damn him to hell!” exclaimed Ulf. “He should support his king without demur. What does an oath mean if it can be forgotten when it suits?”

“What do you think will happen next?”

“The king has the support of the City of London—”

“But the present mayor is in Gloucester’s pocket. Everybody knows the elections were rigged. How long will the City think it worth their while to support poor Richard?”

“We’ll have to wait and see.”

They turned their attention back to Northumberland, who was still on his feet.

“And now,” he bellowed in his northern accent, all flat vowels and ironstone consonants, “we deserve meat, drink, and merriment! Bring on the fool!”

His own fool came tumbling out of a box onto the table and proceeded to go through his repertoire of somersaults and cartwheels, along with some other ribald accomplishments that had the hall in an uproar of joy.

Things were rowdy when Hildegard tugged at Ulf’s sleeve. “Look over there. It’s Morcar. That steward must have let him out.”

With a black velvet cloak over one shoulder, his elaborate wine-coloured capuchon, and a greying clipped beard, he looked languidly confident, a noble among northern peasants, and people automatically made way for him. Two henchmen in blue and green got up on either side as he rose from the long table where they had been eating. A way was cleared as he made his way to the foot of the dais.

To Hildegard’s astonishment, he breached all the rules of etiquette and stepped up onto it and stalked over to accost Northumberland himself. It was obvious he had something urgent to say.

Northumberland’s mouth dropped open as the earl tugged at his sleeve. He was holding a piece of dripping venison between his fingers and the grease ran down inside his cuff as he paused with it halfway to his mouth. They watched as Morcar said something and the earl cupped his free hand round his ear, the better to hear what was being said.

Northumberland glanced round the table. His guests were leaning forward to catch Morcar’s words. His lips moved as he seemed to ask a question.

Hildegard said, “I wish I could lip-read.”

Morcar bowed deeply. Northumberland’s small, piggy eyes looked him over. His lips, just visible in his nest of red beard, were set in a grim line.

“It must be about Isabella.”

Ulf put his hand on her arm. “Wait.”

The earl said something to his chamberlain, who rose, grasped his stick, and managed to establish a modicum of silence among the revellers while the earl rose to his feet. He leaned heavily against the table with the piece of venison still clutched in one hand. He waved it to include everyone in his orbit.

“Not making a long speech, so stop you’re groaning, lads,” he called affably to one or two knights who had started to give him a slow hand clap. “It seems we have two lovers among us.” There were cheers at this and one or two slanderous remarks about people known to everyone else. “They are,” bellowed Northumberland, his voice rising in exaggerated disbelief, “so much in love, I’m told, that they wish to marry! Can you believe it!” He flapped the back of one pudgy hand at Morcar. “Be seated, man.”

Looking mystified, Earl Morcar went back to his place and turned expectantly to listen to the rest of what the earl had to say.

“Harry Summers!” shouted the earl. “Call Harry Summers! Where are you, you dice-playing young wastrel?”

There was little refinement in the earl’s manner. Harry emerged amid a sea of backslapping and a few cheers from those at the back of the hall who must have had little idea what was going on. No one does, for that matter, thought Hildegard, giving Ulf a glance.

“This,”—the earl put an arm round Harry’s shoulders and squeezed the breath from him—“is the young devil who pretends to be my secretary! Isn’t that so, Harry?”

“It is, Your Grace. To my great honour.”

“And are you married yet, Harry?”

“No, I’m not, Your Grace.”

“No, he’s not!” came a roar from those who knew him. They began to bang their ale mugs on the table, chanting the name Summers until the chamberlain fussed forward to quiet them.

“No, you’re not married, you lucky young devil. But we’ve decided to rectify matters and put you in chains. Harry Summers, everybody!” The earl pushed him forward, to increasing cheers. “Your turn. Speak up,” he shouted over the noise. The earl plumped down with a satisfied smile and the ale mugs clattered again.

Harry looked nervous. He was flushed. He stared out over the heads of the combined retinues of several households. Everyone fell silent. He took a deep breath.

“I, Harry Summers—”

“Get on with it!” somebody shouted, interrupting him.

“I’m trying to, you losel. Give me chance.” He took another deep breath. “I, Harry Summers, say to you all, as my witnesses, and in good faith, to hear my oath—that if her guardian does not give me one penny and the lawmen find against her claim of inheritance, I hold myself satisfied by her to be my lawful wife.” His lips trembled. He gazed over the heads of those nearby into the back of the hall. “My fair lady Isabella, I want you as my wife and shall cleave to no other from now until the end of time. And I give you this, my pledge, before witnesses and before God. Amen.”

Morcar leaned forward with a frown.

Then a woman’s voice spoke up from the back of the hall. “Hear this my oath. I take you, Harry Summers, as my man, to have and to hold, in poverty or riches, for fairer or grimmer, for the duration of my life. And to this I give you my pledge. I, Isabella of…”

She hesitated and glanced at Northumberland.

“Kilton,” he roared. “I’ll make sure of that!”

Morcar jerked to his feet. He glared at Northumberland and then he peered back into the recesses of the hall through the smoke of a dozen cressets to see who had spoken, and then he gave a terrible shout.

Walking between the crowded tables of feasting guests came Isabella. She was wearing a gown of pale green silk, her hair was loose, the silver filigree crispinette nestled on her head, and a smile of the utmost happiness was on her face.

Harry Summers started down from the dais to meet her, but before he could take her hands in his, Morcar, spitting like a cat, stepped between them.

“No! You can’t do this! She is betrothed to me! This is invalid. I’ll have the lawmen stop it!” He turned to the earl and asked peremptorily, “Where’s your attorney?”

Northumberland’s lip curled at being addressed like this. “Sit down, you old fool. We don’t need an attorney. It was done according to the law and there are plenty who’ll bear witness to it.”

“Oh no, you don’t cheat me like this. This is only a presumption of marriage, an intention; the law will bear me out. It’s a formula
de presenti.
It means nothing!”

“I said, ‘Sit down, you old fool.’ In fact, don’t sit down!” Northumberland gave him a ferocious glance. “I’ll tell you what to do, Earl Morcar. Get back to the lands you used to hold in my name. Get back to the lands you lost. Wrest them back from the Scots who took them from you. Do that! Go on! Get out! And don’t come beggin’ to me again!”