The Exiled (48 page)

The earl sauntered over to the window seat and gently sat at the furtherest end, facing her.

‘But the ways are foul, lady. Very deep with all the recent storms. I could not, in all conscience, allow you to leave us. Even with an escort, there are far too many wolvesheads about. You should consider yourself my guest until at least the spring.’

He looked regretful and sincere. Anne controlled her voice with effort, replying evenly, ‘Ah yes, I do understand, sir. But I see so many men about you, surely you could spare, say, ten, to escort me south? I would be delighted to pay you for their services.’

She turned towards him fully and smiled brilliantly.

‘But, lady, you have no baggage; nothing for such a journey at this time of the year?’

Anne nodded gravely in turn. ‘Alas no, Sir Earl. It was most inconvenient that I was robbed as well as kidnapped by the baron and his son.’

Both fell silent for a moment. After the fight on the moor, the fight in which Baron Stephen Hardwell had fallen as a knight should, sword in hand, and his son dispatched also by a zealous member of the Neville affinity, there was no one to contradict Anne’s story.

The earl sighed. ‘Truly, lady, a most terrible ordeal, but it will not be possible to send you back to your people, not with all the rumours of invasion from France. I should be failing in my duty to an unmarried lady, alone in the world.’ Anne, wound tight, smiled, though her teeth clenched and her breathing quickened.

‘Then, sir, perhaps I can help you change your thought in this matter.’ Reaching into a little pocket-bag attached to the high belt of the velvet gown, Anne brought out her last hope — the ruby. It lay in the palm of her hand like a drop of blood.

The earl smiled mirthlessly. ‘Ah lady, a stone such as this might buy much more than an armed escort.’

‘But I would be pleased to give it to you, Lord Warwick. A trifle to thank you for a service well rendered.’ She said it carelessly, with just the right degree of finesse. The man and the woman locked glances and Richard Warwick found he respected Anne de Bohun — a surprising development. Clearly she understood he had the power to take the stone, perhaps she was daring him to do it. And now he could not. Not if he was a knight.

‘A pleasingly bold move, Lady Anne.’

She smiled at him. ‘Are we players in a game, Earl Warwick?’

The earl laughed genuinely, openly, as he rose and extended his hand to the girl. ‘Well now, I have always considered life is but a game of chance. For now, as we consider its meaning, I find myself hungry. Will you break your fast with me?’

George, the young Duke of Clarence, was hungry also, and annoyed. He could not go into the great hall to eat without his host, but his gut was rumbling from lack of food, and fragrant smells were wafting up from the kitchens below. Altogether he was sick of roosting with Warwick in this draughty castle when it was clear that the decisive action they had planned might need to be abandoned, for all that Middleham was stuffed with soldiers.

Secretly, though, a part of him was relieved that the weather was so foul and that dispatches from France had confirmed that Margaret, the old queen, would not now bring men into the country in this season. No sane man likes entering into a fight that cannot be won, and the old queen’s presence with troops was vital if they were to have a quick, sharp,
successful
war with Edward’s troops in the border country.

He shivered. Successful. Yes, that was the rub. He didn’t like to acknowledge it, but he was afraid of Edward, even with Warwick there to lead the fight. Hard to forget, after all, that he was the king’s brother.

He shook his head to distract from the prickle of fear as he stalked over to a window embrasure with a grumpy sigh. But the fear seeped back, the fear inherent in this current situation, siding against Edward and Richard.

Privately, when he thought about it, even for a moment, he’d been stunned to hear that the French woman, the old queen, was even interested in supporting Warwick and him against his brothers.

There was much bad blood, much bitterness between Margaret of Anjou and the earl because Warwick had engineered Edward’s usurpation of her own husband’s throne. She’d not loved Henry VI, ever, but she had loved being his queen — the Queen of England. The fact that the earl was now courting her for his own good ends, that of toppling Edward and putting him, Clarence, on the throne in his place, would not endear the earl to her at all; she’d never trust either the earl or himself, surely?

George, Duke of Clarence, sighed. He hated politics.
Hated
all the waiting and the compromise, yet he knew that he must play this part, the disloyal brother, if his dream of ascending the throne were not to disappear like mist in the morning.

The duke snorted as he looked out into the miserable, driving rain which obscured the vale of Wensleydale; they could all think what they liked, plot all they liked. He didn’t trust any of them, or any of the promises. He’d use the earl as
he
needed to,
and
he’d take the throne, with or without him, just as Edward had.

George of Clarence bit his nails, moody and petulant. Life was so unfair sometimes; he hadn’t asked for all this bad feeling in the family, but Edward knew, quite well, that Clarence had more than enough reason to feel unfairly treated. The king had blocked his marriage to Isabelle, Warwick’s daughter, more than once and if that wasn’t unkind, unbrotherly, what was? Yes, he had good reason to challenge his brother for the kingdom. He’d always been treated like a child, always been laughed at for perfectly reasonable ambition, but they’d see, they’d all see — and they’d sneer at their peril when he was crowned in Westminster!

‘George?’

Clarence wheeled and saw to his surprise that the earl was approaching with a good-looking girl on his arm — a very good-looking girl of about his own age. Clarence smiled brilliantly and sauntered towards them, pulling down his doublet so that it sat well and squaring his shoulders. He bowed charmingly at the girl. Things were looking up!

‘Lady de Bohun, may I present George, Duke of Clarence?’ The duke made another, even deeper and more graceful bow; not for nothing was he Edward’s brother. ‘Perhaps you knew one another formerly, at court?’

There was the smallest pause before the girl shook her head shyly, blushing becomingly as the duke discreetly looked her up and down.

‘Lady de Bohun and I have never met. A great loss, but now repaired.’ George gazed shamelessly into Anne’s eyes until, embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to the foor.

The earl frowned. George, who professed to love his own daughter Isabelle, showed far too much interest in his ‘guest’. The Yorks were like that, any woman was fair game; he would have to be careful. Briskly, he took the initiative.

‘Come, we are all famished. If you would, Your Grace?’

Bowing, the earl resigned the lady’s arm to the ranking duke, and George gracefully led Anne into Warwick’s hall where the Neville household waited obediently to begin the breakfast. Solemnly, with a suitably impassive face, George led Anne to a place of honour at the high board, where she was to sit beside her ‘host’, chatting loudly to her as they processed past the assembled ranks of the Neville retainers as if the other people in the hall did not exist.

A pretty girl always gave you confidence, George found, and he was getting on with Anne splendidly, almost as if they’d known each other since childhood. Yet though he was
positive
he’d never met this charming girl before, there was a familiarity about her face he found disquieting. It was like a word lost on the tip of the tongue ...

For Anne’s part, the physical similarity that George had to his elder brother was deeply disconcerting. If she half-closed her eyes, if she listened to the timbre of his voice, it was almost possible to believe they were the same man. But then he spoiled the impression by letting his eyes flick too clearly to the breast of her gown — he was entirely unsubtle, something his brother never was — and by his loud laugh; a laugh with some similarity to a donkey’s bray.

As Anne took her place between the duke and the earl at the high board on the dais, a discreet buzz ran around the hall as all eyes focused on the trio.

The castle people were avid for gossip; they’d all heard how the girl had been rescued from kidnappers on the moor and were agog to see if she lived up to the reports of her physical attraction. George too was intrigued when the earl described the events of the day before. ‘Stephen Hardwell and his
son
? I’d not heard they’d turned outlaw? So how did this all happen, lady?’

Anne calmly told her story once more. ‘I was in York, transacting business on behalf of my partner, Sir Mathew Cuttifer, and myself, with Master Cohen of Silver Lane — we have wool-growing interests at Burning Norton, when Sir Henry burst into the house and abducted me. Later he was joined by his father.’ She shook her head, apparently deeply overcome by the terrible things she had suffered.

The earl, tut-tutting, patted her hand and finished the story for her. ‘And since we had received a report that a party of armed men was lose on my lands, I sent to find out what was afoot. Unfortunately, or fortunately for Lady Anne — who was tied into the back of a cart — my servants met resistance when they sought to question Sir Stephen and his son, and well, here she is, safe and sound!’

Certainly it was best to be economical with the truth in front of this witless, vain boy; best not to speak of the directive he’d given his men that all unfamiliars found on Neville land were to stopped and challenged in these times.

Unfortunate that his men had exceeded orders, unfortunate that Sir Stephen had drawn his sword before asking even one question — though the earl knew well his men were overzealous in their approach — but that was the price one paid for vigilance in these times.

The duke was astonished and outraged on Anne’s behalf. ‘I must speak to my brother, I really must! The kingdom is becoming entirely lawless if a lady is to be treated in this way. Tied into the back of a cart?! Outrageous, truly outrageous!’ The earl suppressed a smile at this unconscious hypocrisy from George. ‘For a lady of quality to be dragged from a private house and kidnapped in the full light of day is appalling.’

Anne closed her eyes quickly. She hated to lie and the image of Henry Hardwell, disembowelled as he lay dying in the cart beside her, was a horrible one. Quickly she said a silent prayer for the peace of the knight’s soul to Mary, the mother of his God, but she opened her eyes as a cold draft shifted the hangings behind the high table.

Warwick and Clarence, oblivious to the sudden chill, were talking of supplies for the men in the castle, but Anne felt the flesh of her arms prickle as she looked around to see where the icy breeze was coming from. The doorway into the hall was covered by drawn curtains but a hand appeared between them, a hand holding a plain, naked sword. A woman’s hand.

The curtains fluttered, blowing aside for a moment and Anne glimpsed a cowled figure behind them. The cowl dropped back from the face as the unexpected guest at the feast strode forward.

The Sword Mother advanced some steps and, staring full at Anne, took up a position standing guard at the entrance to the hall, both hands resting on the pommel of her sword as she grounded the tip on the flags.

Anne’s mouth was dry as she stared back.

‘Lady Anne? More bread for this excellent saffron sauce? You look quite pale. We must feed you well if you’re not to sicken after your ordeal.’ The duke smiled encouragingly at Warwick’s charming guest as the busy servants came and went, adding more and more food to the table.

‘Thank you, Your Grace. Yes, strength is just what I need.’

Only Anne saw the Sword Mother smile as the chill wind sighed through the hall. And Anne smiled back, smiled at the empty air and then at the duke as she dipped bread into the saffron sauce on their shared pewter trencher.

‘W
hat does she look like, your son’s mother? Her hair, for instance?’

Edward stirred the meagre fire with the toe of his riding boot. ‘I’m not telling you, Richard.’ His brother was persistent, although ordinarily the king liked that.

‘But why not?’

Edward laughed. He couldn’t help himself, and that eased the tension. God knew, after the last two days, that was a relief in itself.

The brothers were camped out on the moors two days’ journey from York with a small party of hand-picked men, and it was a cold night.

‘How long has the scout been gone?’

The duke shrugged. ‘Five minutes longer then when you last asked, Edward.’

He sat squatting to feed the flames with heather; it was wet, and smoke billowed into their eyes from a sudden gust of wind. Edward cursed heartily, ‘God’s bowels and arse! What’re you doing?’ Richard coughed and leapt up, eyes streaming.

‘It was going out.’

Edward turned away, choking, but Richard wouldn’t be swayed from his obsession. ‘You’ve got to tell me more about your lady love, Edward. How will I know her in the fight if you don’t describe her to me? We could end up with the wrong girl.’

Edward punched his brother hard in the shoulder so that the duke fell, arse-first, into a wet gorse bush.

‘Oy! Aaargh — get me out! Come on!’

‘That’s for being nosy. And I’m not letting you near her, fight or no fight.’ But the king reached down a hand and hauled his brother, half-laughing, half-snarling, out of the bush just as they both heard hooves approaching, at speed.

Geoffrey Luttrell reached the man first as he rode into the little camp, horse wild-eyed, man breathing hard. Geoffrey helped the scout from his horse and, throwing the reins to a bystander, hurried the man to Edward and Richard.

‘Therefore, tell me about Middleham.’

The scout, Walter Ferrars, made a sketchy bow as the words fell out of his mouth. The king was famously impatient before a battle and he didn’t want to provoke the Plantagenet wrath unnecessarily. ‘Stuffed tight with troops, liege. Too many of them — at least a thousand, I’m thinking.’