Roger looked curiously at Madeleine. “Tweren’t that one,” he said, gesturing in her direction. “It were t’other one did the wailin’!”
“Hmm,” Jeremy smiled. He looked toward Anwen, crumpled in silence on the stone, and Brenton LeGros, creeping forward, reaching a massive hand to hover above Anwen’s back. “Have it your way, lad. In any event, it’s clear ye’ve bin havin’ an adventure. An’ while nothin’ud please me more ‘n’ to hear what manner of trouble ye’ve managed to stir, I’d say, from the looks o’ that sky, we’d best save stories ‘til hearth time.”
They wrapped Jack’s leg in linens to contain the bleeding and placed his semi- conscious form in the arms of one of the mounted men. Madeleine, silent, pale and seemingly far removed, sat sidesaddle on the second horse. Most uncharacteristically for her, she quietly slid her arms around, and pressed her face against, the rider’s chest.
Anwen, though she’d risen and insisted she’d walk, soon found her legs in rebellion. Other hands hoisted her up onto Brenton’s broad back and draped a cloak about the two of them, to stave off the rain. There was no question but that they would all go where Jeremy’s troop was headed. When Brenton asked how far, Silent Richard patted his arm.
“Over the hill an’ through the woods,” he said. “Not far. Home and hearth.”
The bodies of the wolves they left to the forest, where the glazing over of eyes was a familiar and easily understood sight.
* * * *
Darkness was filling the spaces beneath the trees before they made it ‘over the hill and through the woods’.
“Nearly owl time,” Jeremy would be heard to remark as the little group finally broke free of the forest, into a secluded dell. “And the presidin’ abbot has the fire lit, I see. That’s a mercy, I’d say.”
Ahead in a broad clearing stood three or four stone buildings. One looked formal enough to be a church; another sent a curl of smoke from its chimney. In times past, land had been cleared for a hundred yards in each direction of the buildings. But even in the fading light, it was clear that the forest was well advanced in the process of taking back its own. A stream meandered across the valley floor.
The rain, which had seemed heavy under the trees, was drenching and pitiless in the open. Madeleine stirred fitfully and awoke, still secure in the arms of a rider. Jack, on the other horse, having wandered in and out of consciousness throughout the journey, held out a bony hand, as though the open land could warm him and Roger pirouetted happily before racing away through the tall soaking grass. And Anwen, her cheek on Brenton’s great shoulder, her hair streaming with water, slept on, gathering warmth from the deep, broad back beneath her.
* * * *
At about the same time, Tom the sharpener, with his two knights in tow, was making his way through the village street in Clun. The sharp rain-riven outline of cultivated fields had been a welcome sight to him, but more so to Sirs Angus and Cyril, both of whom had seen enough of trees to last a lifetime. Even the castle, on its hump of rock adjacent to the river, though long a dark, foreboding and hateful presence to the Welsh, seemed positively homely to them. The great square keep rose eighty feet and more, like a blunt, centuries old fist of stone thrust against the sky, but it winked with merry torchlight from its upper windows.
When they’d ridden out, Cyril and Angus had both thought the castle a laughable parody of what a castle should be. But in the gloaming, after two days and a night in the wild woods, the curtain wall seemed like an upwelling of the earth itself, sweeping away to the two round gate towers. And there, between the towers, beyond the ridiculous sagging gate, was the nearest thing to home that a soldier could know.
As they strode across the bridge, they barely noticed that the gates hung ajar. Where once they would have been horrified, tonight, drunk with relief, they laughed muscularly at the rain, slapped one another’s backs, stroked the stone and called out to the guards for meat and ale; relishing the thought of dry clothes, a hearty fire and appreciative ears for their tale. It was a tale which, even as they’d anticipated the telling, had grown ever larger. They entered with never a backward look at Tom.
And that, of course, suited Tom to the ground! He’d wisely made the decision to leave directional choices to old Dobbin at each cross-road and she’d brought them unerringly back to safety. He’d also wisely decided to keep his peace, listening with what appeared to be respectful awe to the tedious tirade of oaths and threats that flowed from Sir Cyril, like blood from an injured pig. Though he was their saviour, he knew that his own safety depended on him remaining suitably humble, inconspicuous and silent.
The one time he’d genuinely perked up his ears was when Sir Angus had interjected, “Plant Owain! Plant Owain! Somehow I think I should know that! What does it mean to you, Cyril?”
“Mad, suicidal old men, that’s what it means! Old men who’ve outlived their brains! Plant Owain! They’ll be plant food before the week is out! Mark my words!”
Neither of them would have considered asking Tom for his opinion. Which was well, because he’d have found it difficult to suppress a whoop of joy.
Chapter 13 – Mary Gordon
The light the knights had seen flickering in the window of the keep’s third level illuminated a whispered conversation between Mary Gordon and Lady Joan de Beaufort. They d avoided one another’s company through the long, cold day, wary of seeming conspiratorial. But now, as evening came down, Joan had crept back to Mary’s chamber.
At twenty years, Mary was tall, big boned; determined enough to command the respect of both horses and men. She also had a keen intelligence, which revealed itself as wariness to those who met her. But under Perceval’s teaching, Joan too was learning to tread carefully.
“Being the king’s niece,” he’d assured her, “will not save you from spies! Consider only the unexplained absence of Sir Cyril! Or Sir Roland’s clumsy prodding for information from me! And if you still doubt, search your memory! How many nobles can you name who’ve lost their heads, even in the king’s court? You must be wary, ami! The careless,” he’d insisted, “have only themselves to blame!”
To some degree, Joan had been dismissive of Perceval’s concerns. Arranging the journey to Clun, after all, had been easy enough. Her own father was long dead. Her stepfather too, he having been the feckless Duke of Clarence – the king’s brother and he who so fruitlessly squandered his own and many other lives (including, almost, that of Brenton LeGros) – at Bauge the preceding spring. She was answerable, then, only to her indulgent mother and her dour brother, the first Duke of Somerset.
“I wish to go on a pilgrimage,” she’d haughtily informed her mother, “– to holy places. I wish to see the shrine of Saint Milburga.” And her mother, weary of sorrows, had said, go. Find a reliable companion. Take Sir Cyril Halftree for protection. And go.
The secret side trip to Clun had, of course, remained a secret, even from Sir Cyril, as long as had been possible. A disreputable scribe had been found to forge a letter in her brother’s name, and a discrete courier to carry it to the Lenthall’s, in Herefordshire.
“And voila!” she’d pirouetted in front of Perceval. “I am safely here! And really! Who, here, would dare to question me on my motives?”
To Perceval’s credit, however, he’d persisted in his push for caution. The childish tricking of a parent or a brother was one thing! Allowing herself to be drawn into a secret plot – especially one that involved the making and unmaking of kings – was something that could turn friends into enemies; protectors into assassins.
“And with Sir Cyril missing,” he’d pointed out, “aside from my poor self, you have no protection, my friend! You must take responsibility for yourself!” On that note, she’d determined to stand aloof for a little longer and do some probing of her own.
* * * *
“I’m just a girl!” she was saying innocently to Mary as the storm-ridden knights swaggered in below. “You must know how little influence someone like me can hav
e! I’m noticed when men want something pretty to look at. Never really listened to! How do you suppose I could persuade James to act against his honour? Especially without raising suspicions! Or turning everyone against me!”
Mary smiled. “I haven’t seen James for fifteen years. We were both children when he was taken. But back then, Lady Joan, he had the soul of a poet. Scotland may have been his to rule, but he – boy that he was – he struggled to rule his own heart. I know that Scotland is still his to rule. My hope, and the hope of my friends, is that the years – and perhaps his love for you – have made him enough of a man to see beyond his so-called honour – and into the hearts of his people.
“As for you being ‘just a girl’, Lady Joan – I don’t accept the implication. I hope you know that we women can look the Fates in the eye as surely as can any man! All you need do is decide if you love James Stewart. And if the answer is yes, well . . .! Love is not just a bed you lie down in. It is also a task that you wake up to. And I don’t choose to believe that a woman such as yourself would sit back while her good man wasted his heritage.”
“You knew James? Fifteen years ago? How? He would only have been . . . !”
“Eleven,” Mary said. “Yes, he was eleven the year he was taken. And yes, I knew him! He was . . . is . . . my uncle.”
“Your uncle? But . . . !”
A smile teased the corners of Mary’s mouth. “I trust you more for your distrust, Lady Joan. So I’ll tell you a secret; a secret to help you understand my involvement, and how completely I put myself in your hands! The Mary Gordon you see before you . . . is actually an Elizabeth! Elizabeth Douglas.”
Joan stopped her pacing and gazed at the girl before her. Only four years older than herself, the Scottish girl seemed suddenly so much more; more dangerous and more fearless!
“Elizabeth Douglas!” she breathed softly. “The Elizabeth Douglas?”
“Yes. The Elizabeth Douglas. My father is Archibald Douglas.”
* * * *
Archibald Douglas! The name – known and cursed by every English patriot – was the name of one of England’s – and therefore one of Joan’s family’s – most implacable and legendary enemies. It was he, in 1400, at the gates of Edinburgh, who led the resistance against the invading army of the third King Henry. It was he, in 1402, who led a Scottish army against the English at Homildon Hill and, again, in 1403, at Shrewsbury. It was he who endured five years of imprisonment in England and, when finally ransomed and allowed to return home, it was he who took up a personal crusade, producing a year’s long legacy of terrifying border raids into England. His greatest satisfaction, it seemed, lay in being the longest, sharpest thorn it was possible to be in the paw of the English lion.
And here before her, to Joan’s astonishment, stood his daughter, Elizabeth! What the king wouldn’t give to have her in his grasp! What a bargaining chip she would be in securing peace on England’s northern border! And Sir Roland . . . ! If he knew he had such a person under his roof . . . !
“Elizabeth Douglas!” Joan repeated in wonder. “But . . . !” She had heard and remembered much talk about the Douglas clan and something nagged at her mind. “But Elizabeth Douglas is a married woman! Married to . . . !”
“Yes.” Elizabeth turned and walked to the window, beyond which the darkness was almost fully gathered. “Yes, Elizabeth Douglas is a married woman. And you’re about to say, ‘Married to a son of the Duke of Albany – the man who now rules Scotland by default! The man who has refused any attempt to ransom James and bring him home! Yes and yes! And you’re wondering . . . ?”
“I’m not wondering at all! I’m marvelling! Now I know what you meant when you said, ‘look the Fates in the eye’! Aside from the danger you put yourself in coming here . . . ! You’ve had to choose between your birth family and your husband’s family! And you’ve managed to do it!”
“Hmm,” Elizabeth replied. “Not so hard, really! Both my father and my father-in-law are fierce men – great men in their ways. But my father pursues his own dreams. And my father-in-law – I’ll only say that he’s not been the best man for us. So I’ve not chosen between them. I’ve chosen . . . apart from them. I’ve chosen Scotland.”
Her loyalty to James Stewart, she went on to explain, had remained her secret for years. And might have remained so had not events pressed her to action. When the old Duke’s health began to fail (his remaining life, it was said, would be measured in months) it became clear that he intended not only the Dukedom but also the regency to pass to his son, Murdoch – Elizabeth’s brother-in-law. And Murdoch was even less suited to rule than was his father.
“Forgive me, Milady!” Joan said hesitantly. “Surely one is ‘suited to rule’ by virtue of one’s birth! Surely it borders on treason to . . . !”
“Let’s just say, Lady Joan, that the times change! People change. Where once being born on fine sheets was enough, today we need an ideal citizen – someone who’s steadfast in times of adversity, compassionate in times of despair – wise, decisive and resolute. If Murdoch fit that description, I would not be here, I assure you!”
Joan felt her insides begin to quiver and quake.
“You . . . you take it on yourself to seek these changes? How do you dare?”
“The daring is nothing, Lady Joan. Change will come, regardless of what any of us do or fail to do. I only say that, like good farmers, we should help select the right seed and we should protect it as best we can. Beyond that, what the seasons do with that seed, what manner of yield it produces, we cannot predict.”
“Nevertheless, I wonder that you . . . your own husband being also in line for the regency . . . forgive me once again for my bluntness but . . . !”
And having promised bluntness, she stopped, unable to articulate the complexity, the self-sacrifice implicit in Mary Gordon’s choice.
“Ahh! You have the mind of an aristocrat, Lady Joan! You see that, under certain circumstances, my husband might be regent-king of Scotland! And I his queen! Yes?”
Joan’s answer was barely audible. “Yes!”
Mary walked thoughtfully to the room’s window, beyond which the rain pelted like stones.
“And you wonder if perhaps Elizabeth Douglas plots to draw James Stewart away from the English court’s protection – to destroy him! To help clear a path for herself and her husband! Yes again?”
Joan hadn’t put the possibilities to herself so clearly, but hearing them spoken was enough to make her reach for a chair.
“Lady Joan, I have no proof of my intentions – other than the fact that I and my fate are now here, in your hands. But understand this!”
And she went on to explain how the political seasons had changed. Murdoch (as Joan knew) had also, like many other brave Scottish knights, spent long years as a captive in England, imprisoned for ransom. He was there when the eleven-year-old James was captured in 1406 and he was still there when James turned twenty. Then his ransom had been paid and he’d raced home with a single understanding in his head, which was that, with his father aging, the regency – the defacto kingship of Scotland – could soon be his! If only he had the wit to secure it! Against whom? Why James, of course! James, whose true heritage it was! James who was no longer a frightened, callow youth, but a well-educated, intelligent and courageous knight!
Murdoch had set a circle of London spies and informants to watch over James and their reports had consistently assured him that James’ exaggerated sense of honour would keep him in England indefinitely, waiting for a ransom to be negotiated. Murdoch need only ensure that no such negotiation ever took place.
Subsequent news of James’ infatuation with the beautiful, sixteen year old Lady Joan de Beaufort, however, had changed the game. Romance might lead to marriage and marriage to off-spring! What then? A whole new and endless line of claimants to Scotland’s throne? Murdoch couldn’t, in his wildest dreams, permit such a thing. Her youth, her wealth, her regal connections! In short, her love made James dangerous onc
e again, at least in the eyes of his enemies.
“So you see?” Elizabeth said gently. “You also have a say in what seed will be planted. If you love James well enough, you must drive him from his ‘honour’ and your uncle’s court. If not, to save his life, you must turn your back on him – and soon!”
Joan slouched in her chair, wondering how her adventure had turned so quickly to a horror. James was her uncle’s prisoner and her uncle was the great King Henry – the fifth of his name! All her life she’d been taught that her loyalties must lie with her family, her country and her king! And yet now, she found them adrift, in a new and unexplored place!
“Perhaps you’re wondering now,” Elizabeth said gently, “if a decision might be right for one person and wrong for another. If something’s right for James, will it also be right for you?”
The question drew Joan’s scattered thoughts together like a thunderclap. Her head came up. That was exactly what she was wondering! If she convinced James to flee from England, what then? Wouldn’t there be more dangers in Scotland? And what would become of her? Would her family disown her for her childish meddling? Would King Henry denounce her? And worst of all, would James, as king, knowing that he could have his choice of women, still care about her? She had so much to lose!
“I don’t . . . don’t know what to say – what to do!” she murmured as she rose and walked to the great arching window. It seemed that the rain was trying to smash through the glass to reach her. If only one could see, she was thinking, something of the future. Just a hint! Then a path could be chosen with confidence.
“Surely he can be safe in England!” she finally said. “We can be safe! If I told the king of the spies, he could protect us!”
And yet! She tried to draw together the points Sir Perceval had made in their
earlier discussion. Perhaps he’d been right! Perhaps her own life of privilege – living always in the protective shadow of royal courts – had left her severely unprepared for the burden of responsibility!