The Innocent (13 page)

Chapter Eight

Mathew Cuttifer was restless and worried. Cold gray sleet on the window underscored the loss of yesterday’s pride in the king’s favor, which had evaporated with the contents of the parchment just delivered to Blessing House and now lying unrolled and weighted down on his worktable.

Mathew was a prudent man and his prosperity owed much to his sources of information. He tried not to spend much time at court—unless it was to petition the king personally, or some of the greater magnates about the trading interests of his house—but he had taken care to plant one or two trusted men in the Palace of Westminster. And today Thomas Howe, a man he retained, attached to the Earl of Warwick as one of the earl’s almoners, had written to him with tidings that made him nervous.

It seemed that Elizabeth Wydeville, Edward’s queen, was making her move toward power by bringing members of her enormous family to court to build a political base, but she had grim opponents.

Warwick would not forgive her for marrying the king in secret. As the king’s most powerful vassal, the man who had put Edward on the throne, Warwick had negotiated a French marriage for Edward. In stealing the king from under his nose, Elizabeth had made Warwick the butt of jokes all over Europe.

She, on the other hand, would not forgive Warwick for making his displeasure in her marriage so widely known at court. Mathew had important matters of trade patronage in play with both factions and the more he brooded on his situation the clearer it became. His burgeoning prosperity stood between two mighty and gathering forces and he would have to be very clever to steer a clear path for his household—and to see a return on the hefty parcel of money he’d outlaid in bribes to both sides to secure his trade interests. Perhaps the king himself would be his bulwark?

In times of real difficulty Mathew found comfort in prayer, even though the pain in his knees was close to unbearable if he knelt for any length of time. Gout, said the doctor, stop drinking. But Mathew had lived too long to give up wine. Pain or no pain, he would petition his God, and through long experience, he knew there would be an answer if he stilled himself to hear it.

The brazier in his chamber barely warmed the chill air and he was grateful for the marmot skins lining his good woolen robe as he carefully wrapped the skirts around his shanks and lowered himself onto the hard wood of the kneeling rail. A great concentrator, that piece of good oak—his confessor said lack of padding would help him to meditate on the sufferings of the Lord.

As he began to make his prayers to Mary the Mother of God, to whom he was especially devoted—and to whom his chapel was dedicated—another level of his mind considered the great cost of this prie-dieu. Made from oak cut on his own northern lands and fashioned and decorated by Maître Flamand, the Flemish master woodcarver, it had been inlaid with ivory and lignum vitae from Africa and had cost much more than he’d been quoted. But the piece itself was an investment; he could see that in the eyes of those who came to do business with him. His prie-dieu advertised his piety—and his substance as a man of business. Perhaps it lulled the unwary into thinking that he might be unworldly about money too. And that was a mistake.

He smiled faintly. Being thought unworldly gave him pleasure. Abruptly, he was aware that his thoughts had drifted. He composed himself with another Ave Maria and then one more. And then a fourth; but even with those ancient words he could not rid his teeming mind of the fear that lurked there. What he needed now was a sign of some sort, a sign that She was listening to him and would be prepared to intercede with her Son and bring him guidance.

There was a knock at his door. Straining to direct his prayers, to sink down into the familiar reverie, he ignored it. The knock was repeated and Mathew had become conscious of the hot pain in his knees; he allowed the agony to propel him to his feet—too fast, more pain. “Well!” he snapped, unreasonably angry.

Very cautiously the door opened and the housekeeper’s anxious face could be seen. She was white and Mathew cooled a little. It must be important for Jassy to have knocked twice.

“Well, woman? What is so important that I must be driven from my prayers?”

Nervously, the housekeeper bobbed a curtsy. “Sir, Lady Margaret has asked if you may wait on her.

There is a matter…that is, your wife, sir, feels that…” And here the poor woman stumbled to a halt.

Against his will Mathew was intrigued. Jassy was his most trusted servant. She had been brought up in his parents’ household and had been his housekeeper through his entire adult life—and his three marriages. Some days, when there was no one to hear, she would call him Mathew and he would call her Phillipa or even Pip in memory of their shared childhood. It amused him sometimes that his household thought her so formidable, because he remembered the stick-thin little girl who used to steal apples with him and who as a young maiden so plainly loved him; sometimes he suspected she still did.

But he’d never taken advantage of his position as son of the house where she was concerned, to his credit he believed. His tone softened.

“Now, Pip, what’s this?”

“Sir, I feel that Lady Margaret really does need to speak to you.” She refused to say more, folding her lips quite firmly, and would not look him in the eye.

Mathew grunted, waving her on as he followed her out of his study. He was not ungrateful for the interruption; perhaps his mind would clear for thinking of something else, some trivial household matter. And as he followed Jassy through the house, approving of the industry he saw all around him and the quiet order of the place, it gave him great pleasure to think of entering his wife’s solar, especially since she no longer kept to her bed. Shortly, she would resume full control of his household and he would once more enjoy her company and astute advice—for which he did not cease to thank his special patron, the Holy Lady Mary.

But the atmosphere in his wife’s room was very far from the peace he had been expecting. He found Margaret seated in her chair in front of the fire, dressed in a somber velvet gown with a plain but good linen coif on her head. Beside her was another chair, which was empty. His wife looked so severe that she might have been a statue of some saint, or an angel of God, sitting in judgment—he had rarely seen her look like this and was surprised to find himself intimidated for a moment. It did not do to forget her breeding; she was the lady of his house in more than one sense, and whatever her expression, it gave him great joy to see her so blooming again.

Rather to his own surprise, he found himself bowing to his wife and kissing her hand formally as if he were still a suitor in her father’s house. That little gesture brought a slight smile from her as she stood to receive him.

“Jassy, you may go, but please be aware that I may require you shortly,” Margaret said, and the housekeeper scuttled out of the room, a remarkable sight in one so dignified and stately.

“Husband, I have asked to speak to you because I am perplexed and concerned.”

“Speak on, wife,” Mathew replied as he seated himself beside his wife. Carefully, Margaret arranged the folds of her gown, composing her words. Mathew waited patiently.

“Mathew, I must speak to you about your son. I believe he has debauched Aveline and, if this proves true, we have the future of this unfortunate girl and her baby to consider. As well as the state of his immortal soul.”

Mathew was not a man to allow his feelings to control him, but this was too much. All his unacknowledged envy of his son’s youth, inflamed by corrosive disapproval of Piers’s constant gambling and drinking, coupled with the nagging fear he still felt from this morning’s message out of the palace, now had a focus and he allowed himself to become very angry indeed: “Where is Piers?

What does he say?”

Soothingly, Margaret touched his arm, surprised by his ferocity. “I have only yet spoken to the girl. We do not have any but her word for it and I thought it best you should speak to Piers after you have heard her story.”

Mathew searched for composure as Margaret walked over to the garderobe and opened the door. She beckoned and Aveline entered the solar, eyes downcast, hands clenched together. Margaret resumed her seat beside Mathew and left the girl standing in front of them.

“Now, Aveline, tell your master what you told me this morning.”

Aveline cleared her throat and opened her mouth to speak. Twice she tried to force sound out of her throat but nothing would come. She burst into tears and slid down onto the floor at their feet—a pathetic sight if one were prepared to be moved.

Margaret let the girl cry herself out, conscious that Mathew was barely restraining his impatience. The sobs diminished, and Margaret said, “We are both quite ready to listen, Aveline.”

“Oh, sir, madam, I hardly know how to begin.”

“I suggest you find a way, girl.” The dangerous edge to Mathew’s voice worked wonders.

“He raped me, sir; and I was frightened. He made me do such things…and swore that if I told anyone, anyone at all, I should be whipped out of town, but now…”

Fresh tears slid down the pretty face. Mathew saw she was one of those lucky women who could cry without disfiguring herself—a useful asset.

“And now, Aveline?” Margaret’s tone was gentle but firm.

“Madam, I am more than four months gone.” It was said in an appalled whisper and the girl tried to make herself an even smaller bundle at their feet, desperate to swallow her sobs.

Mathew felt a stirring of pity. He’d never greatly liked this girl but she’d come into the household with his wife when she’d been eleven or twelve and Margaret had always valued her. He’d never had cause to chastise Aveline, but this was a different matter.

“Where is my son?”

Aveline looked up terrified and Margaret calmed her as if she were a frightened animal. “Hush, girl. He will not hurt you. Mathew, you must speak to him.”

“Sir, and madam, I have not told him. He may refuse to own my child.” It was said forlornly and for a moment Mathew felt relief. That was it, this girl was trying to trap his son—perhaps, indeed fairly likely, the child was not Piers’s get.

Piers was in the stable yard of Blessing House having a long, boring, and frustrating conversation on his father’s instructions, trying to extract information as to why the feed bills for their London operation were currently so enormous; Mathew suspected his London servants were skimming profits, hence Piers’s attempts to interrogate Perkin Wye, the longtime stablemaster.

The stablehands were watching the conversation in the yard with covert interest. Not many of them liked Piers, but Perkin had a heavy hand and they’d be pleased to see him done down for once.

“Master Piers, your father has often and often said that I have the best-kept tally of all in this house.

Plain as day, clear as water, set out for all the world to see!”

“Perkin, my father still has concerns and so do I. The price of the barley you bought this last week for instance.”

“Ah, sir, this last wet summer rotted most of the standing grain. What’s left to buy is poor quality and more expensive than it’s ever been.”

It was at this point that Anne hurried into the yard looking for Piers. She’d been sent by Jassy to find him and given no time to protest as she and several of the household staff were sent off in all directions over the house. He saw her and smiled charmingly, though his eyes were hard and bold. She looked at him straight back and, taking a deep breath to control the quiver in her voice, told him his mother and father wanted to speak to him in the solar.

“And will you light the way, sweet Anne?”

“No, sir, I am needed elsewhere; but Mistress Jassy did stress that your parents are waiting.”

He frowned slightly, then gave an exaggerated bow to her—as if she were some great lady paying him the courtesy of a visit—and sauntered out of the yard, saying as he went, “Don’t think I’ve forgotten we need to finish our conversation, Perkin. I shall return directly.”

However, Piers wasn’t thinking of barley or Anne as he pushed the solar door open. It was rare to receive a summons to see both his father and Margaret together in the middle of a working day, so that made him cautious. As well it might, for, entering the room, he saw a tableau that could well have come straight off the walls of the Abbey Church. His father, seated in a thronelike chair; his stepmother, composed, regal, the folds of her gown so carefully arranged they might have been carved out of Purbeck marble; and Aveline—standing beside his mother, eyes modestly downcast, but…what? What did she look like? Walking closer, he saw the tracks that tears had made down the pretty face, and the white clenched knuckles of the tightly clasped hands. And then it came to him: the penitent Magdalene.

His father spoke. “Aveline. Repeat what you have told me and your mistress.” The girl did not look up and, in a voice that was so low Piers had to strain to hear, said, “I am with child. Your son is the father.”

The silence in the room grew as they all waited for him to say something. He wanted to—glib words formed on his tongue, nearly got out of his mouth, but he stopped them. Time stretched as he tried to muster his wits. He shivered involuntarily. “Father…I—”

“Piers, I am ready to hear what you say, but consider very carefully. Your mother and I want only the truth.” His father’s voice was surprisingly restrained. The two women remained utterly silent.

“Father—and you, Mother—I cannot be the father of this girl’s child for I have never slept with her.”

“Liar.” The word was quietly spoken but said with complete certainty and Aveline was no longer looking at the floor. She was staring directly into his face and daring him to meet her eyes.

Mathew Cuttifer made up his mind—there was a way to settle this. He turned to Margaret. “Please take Aveline and Piers to the chapel. I will join you shortly. And you, sir—and you, girl”—he looked directly at them both—“spend the time on your knees before your God.” He rose grimacing at the pain from his knees—seized up by sitting so long—and left the solar.