Stolen Heiress

Chapter Two

Clare returned from the church with Bridget the day following her brother’s funeral to find her uncle waiting for her in the hall. He turned from the hearth as she entered and she saw that he was frowning slightly, as if in deep thought.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked as she came quickly to join him, holding out her chilled hands to the blaze. ‘You look worried.’

‘I’ve had a courier arrive from London and feel I should leave early tomorrow. There are matters decided in Council which might need my attention.’

She seated herself in the chair and leaned forward, staring into the cheerful flames which sent the shadows in the hall dancing, for the day was again a grey one and there was little light in the place. She felt chilled to the bone, for she had spent over an hour kneeling on the cold stone before the altar praying for her brother’s soul and those others who had died in the attack on the Devane manor.

Sir Gilbert turned to dismiss Bridget, who hovered in the doorway waiting for orders, and moved about a trifle fretfully until the girl had gone. He rubbed his hands together distractedly and Clare could see he still had something disturbing him.

‘You must go,’ she said mildly. ‘It is your duty. I shall be safe here. As you said, any reprisal would be slow in coming since the defending force at the Devane Manor has been decimated. It will take time for Robert Devane to muster any household sufficient even to repair the damage, let alone lead a force against us. In any case, the man is on the run and unlikely to be able to complain about the summary justice meted out to his family.’

She recalled again her uncle’s fury directed against the two guards left on duty outside the barn when he discovered his important prisoner had escaped.

‘I’ll hang the pair of them,’ he’d stormed. ‘Aye, and the drunken sots in the stables who, apparently, were so gone in ale that they heard nothing. God’s teeth, how could it have been managed? Devane had to have help. The two guards were struck down. His friends must have climbed the wall and got him clean away. That couldn’t have been easy if the fellow’s wound was as bad as you said. It was sheer negligence, the result of over-indulgence following their too-easy victory. I should hang and thrash a few to encourage the rest to remember their duties in future.’

Clare had patiently pleaded for the injured guards. Both were nursing sore heads. One had been very dazed indeed—she had wondered if he had suffered some permanent damage to the brain from the severe blow to the back of his head that he had taken from the rescuers, whoever they had been. Neither man could be blamed. Their attackers had obviously come silently and stealthily. They had accomplished their purpose and fled immediately into the night with the prisoner and Clare, for one, had been thankful.

There had been more than enough violence and death over the last few days to wish not to add to the score the Devanes would have cause to settle. Privately she had been thankful that the cheery red-headed prisoner had escaped the rope. Her uncle, though still seething, had calmed down after a while and granted the two threatened men clemency.

But he had made his anger known pithily and the sergeant had seen to it that no one in the household repeated the offence of negligence and the manor had been restored to a seeming normality—if it could ever be again when its young master lay coffined, awaiting burial.

There had been so much to be done over the past days that she had not allowed herself to think about the time when she would be left alone on the manor, unprotected. Now the moment had come upon her all too soon.

Her uncle was still restlessly prowling the room. Abruptly he stopped and faced her, his thumbs thrust into his sword belt.

‘You realise, Clare, that your position here has changed dramatically. You are now a very wealthy heiress and your prospects considerably improved, as, also, your possible danger.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘I had not thought…’

‘There are men who will now covet your fortune, men who would stoop to take advantage of your vulnerability. It would be impracticable to leave you here, even with a garrison of my own choosing.’

She waited for his decision, a little breathless with dread. Did he wish her to go to his own manor in Northamptonshire? If so, her role would not be much changed from the one she had envisaged as poor relation to Peter and his wife. Sir Gilbert’s lady, her aunt, would not welcome her, especially since she was now to be sought after in marriage and Sir Gilbert’s own daughters, her two cousins, whom she rarely met, would feel likely to be in competition with her for suitors.

No. She straightened her shoulders determinedly. She would not go. Life there would be insupportable and she would not have it thrust upon her.

‘I have decided to place you under the protection of the Queen,’ he announced. ‘Margaret will welcome you as an attendant, and at Court you will have opportunity to see and be seen by suitable suitors. In arranging a marriage for you, the Queen would find some advantage as she could, in this way, cement the loyalty of the successful candidate for your hand, to say nothing of other suitors who would be anxious to secure her goodwill.

‘We cannot leave you now without royal protection. The country is in such disarray that it would be unwise to trust to even a loyal garrison here. Fortunately Margaret has established Court at Coventry so your journey there in this inclement weather will not be too difficult. I can escort you part of the way south when I leave tomorrow.’

‘You expect me to leave tomorrow?’ Clare rose in her chair in alarm. ‘But, Uncle, I am all unprepared and there are still arrangements to be made concerning Peter’s tomb and…’

He waved a hand, dismissing her argument. ‘All that can wait. Times are out of joint, Clare. We must take decisions hurriedly and act on them. You can take that girl Bridget and necessities can be packed tonight. Later, your clothing chests can be sent on to you. At present you will require only your mourning gowns.’

‘But don’t you see, Uncle, that my very state of mourning makes this journey and the possibilities you speak of quite out of the question? I should remain here quietly until I feel more settled and…’

He came towards her and she saw his mouth harden into an obstinate line. ‘I have already explained, Clare, that we must act quickly. In better times there would have been a need for longer reflection but these are not better times. Once my business in London is completed I shall return to my own household to see to their de-fences. You must do what I say. I’ll not accept any argument. Now go up, there’s a good wench, and see to your packing. You’ve always had practical common sense and I know I can rely on you to see the need for haste.’

She turned back to the fire, avoiding his dominating stare. She wanted to protest vehemently. She was bemused, shocked, as she had pleaded, she felt the need for a period of quiet contemplation here, but her change of circumstance had come so suddenly and at such a difficult time that she had to admit that what he was saying made sense.

She sighed, and rose reluctantly. Would Queen Margaret prove as unpleasant and demanding a guardian as Peter had often proved himself? Fervently she prayed that this would not prove the case.

Bridget chattered excitedly all through their hurried preparations. She had heard the rumour that her mistress was to be presented at Court and her head was quite turned by the prospect of the grandeur this evoked. Clare, who would much rather the girl had not been informed about the purpose of the journey, or, at least, not yet, was irritated beyond reason. Several times she was tempted to slap the girl, who would not concentrate on the task in hand and, repeatedly, tried to press Clare to take some more colourful gowns.

‘Bridget,’ she snapped finally. ‘Will you be silent! You are making my head ache. Of course we cannot appear in such gawdy clothing, when Sir Peter has only just, yesterday, been placed in his tomb. Now hurry up. Pack exactly what I say and nothing else. See you have everything you will need for a protracted stay, for we cannot return for anything once we begin the journey.’

She would have much rather relied on the services of one of the more sensible elder women, but they were all married and she could not insist that they leave husbands and family to follow her so many miles from their homes.

Once the novelty of the idea wore off and Bridget discovered that living at Court was most likely much more uncomfortable and cramped than living at Hoyland, she would probably calm down. There was no help for it. Bridget was the only serving-maid who could be spared and Clare would have to try to lick her into shape. At least she was a reasonable needlewoman, which ran in her favour.

She dismissed Bridget at last and sat down for a welcome moment of peace. Since Christmas there had been nothing but alarums in this house and very soon she would be leaving it. She had never been farther afield than Leicester Town and those visits had been rare.

She loved the old manor house and wondered, sadly, how long it would be before she would be able to return to it. Possibly, never. Only too well she knew it likely that the Queen would choose for her some Court official who would most likely not wish to live in the wilds of Leicestershire.

She peered at her features in her mirror. Fortunately it was portable. She would need it at Court. Her reflection swam mistily back at her. Her mourning gown certainly did not enhance her appearance, for black did nothing for her rather olive-tinted complexion or bring out the luminosity of her grey eyes. Sorrow had etched lines of tension round her nose and mouth and there were purple shadows round her eyes.

She looked much older than her eighteen years, she decided. She made a wry gesture of distaste. It was not a comforting thought that now she would be sought in marriage for the value of her lands and dower chests—and yet—it could not be denied that the prospect of marriage and children, a household of her own, was preferable to the dull fate she had seen in store for her only days ago.

She had no wish to be embroiled in Court intrigue. She had taxed Robert Devane with disloyalty to his sovereign in his championship of the late Duke of York and his son, the Earl of March, who must now, she thought, be accepted as the new Duke now that his father was dead following the battle of Sandal. Robert had assured her that his loyalty was to his own master, the Earl of Warwick, and he had made a convincing enough case for the succession of the Duke of York to the throne.

Even her own father, a firm supporter of the House of Lancaster, had been driven to exclaim at the inept rule of the kind but erratic King Henry.

Bouts of withdrawal from reality bordering on madness had made him more than once unfit to reign and Clare knew that her uncle’s strategy in placing her in the control of his consort, the warlike Queen Margaret, was the correct one.

Henry could not be relied upon to protect Clare’s interests as the Queen would do. Margaret would recognise the advantages to be gained by such a guardianship. Clare bit her lip thoughtfully. She also knew Margaret was arrogant and merciless. The cruel treatment meted out to the survivors of Sandal had revealed the ruthless streak in her nature. Warwick’s father, Salisbury, had been executed after the battle.

Once Clare’s father’s natural caution in gossiping about the nobility had lapsed and he had let it slip that many folk at Court believed Margaret’s son, young Edward, was not indeed the true son of the King. Since Henry was known to be unworldly and, in true saintlike fashion, frequently absented himself from his wife’s bed, it was likely enough that such scurrilous gossip would readily be accepted. Clare could not imagine herself enjoying her stay at the Lancastrian Court.

She slept uneasily, her thoughts strangely haunted by the face of Robert Devane and pictures of the ruined house and the bodies of the two slain men. She had seen to it that her uncle had kept his word. Sir Humphrey and his elder son, Walter, had been reverently interred with the village churchyard. The surviving prisoners whom Sir Gilbert had brought to Hoyland had been released and allowed to disperse. Only a skeleton household remained now at the Devane manor and it would be left to the King to decide whether the property should now be sequestered.

The morning dawned fair but still very cold and frosty. Clare breakfasted early within her own chamber and then stood, warmly cloaked and hooded, by her uncle’s side at the top of the house steps, watching the sumpter mules being loaded. Later, mounted upon her palfrey, she turned once to gaze back at the house as, with her escort of Hoyland men, she rode out under the gatehouse.

Sir Gilbert seemed wrapped in his own thoughts as he rode beside her and was uncommunicative. Clare wondered if he had received bad news from the London courier but she did not press him for information about that or for details of the Queen’s coterie. She considered, wryly, that she did not really want to know. When she arrived and was established at Coventry would be quite soon enough.

Bridget rode pillion behind one of Sir Gilbert’s men and, even from her place at the rear of the cavalcade, Clare could hear her chattering away excitedly.

At Lutterworth, Sir Gilbert took his leave of his niece, taking the old Roman Watling Street south to London, while Clare’s now smaller escort of six men-at-arms was to proceed on towards the village of Brinklow and finally Coventry. Sir Gilbert embraced her warmly on parting, but Clare could see his thoughts were still elsewhere. He assured her she had only to send a message to his manor if she had need of his help or advice. Then without further delay, he rode off with the rest of his men.

Clare felt bereft as she hesitatingly gave her hastily promoted sergeant the order to set off again. She had seen little of her father’s younger brother, but when they had met he had always been kind and, once or twice, had supported her when her brother had been deliberately cruel in his verbal attacks on her.

She felt very alone and glanced briefly at the still-chattering Bridget, then sighed. She could expect little help from that quarter. How she longed for the brusque kindness of her old wetnurse, who had unfortunately died only last Martinmas.

These were not her own men and had been given instructions to report to Sir Gilbert when they had seen her safely to Coventry. She was thankful that a messenger had been sent ahead to announce her coming—at least she would not arrive unexpectedly, which would have proved a distinct embarrassment. As she rode, she found herself trying to imagine just how the Queen would greet her. Somehow, she could not dismiss the notion that she would be unwelcome.

Queen Margaret had too much to concern her in dealing with the Yorkist lords—in particular the youthful Edward, Earl of March, the Rose of Rouen, as he had been aptly named, both for his birthplace and his exceptional physical beauty—to want to bother with a new lady in waiting who was recently bereaved and in need of eligible suitors, who would have to be persuaded to offer for her hand in marriage, however wealthy her inheritance.

‘The wound’s clean, Master Robert, and closing nicely. Mistress Hoyland did a fair job.’

Margery Lightbody got up from her kneeling position by his stool and bent to collect the basin and the pot of salve she had been using to dress Robert Devane’s leg.

She stretched, putting a hand to her aching back.

‘You should be well enough to begin the ride to London tomorrow, but heed my words, take it easy. The stitching was well done, but you could still burst them by riding hard. We don’t want the wound to start oozing pus, do we?’

‘No, we don’t,’ Robert mimicked her domineering tone and grinned back at her.

Margery was a good soul, but beauty and charm had eluded her when the good God had created her. She was one of his father’s most loyal servants, having been born to service at Devane Manor, and Robert valued her as had all the members of his family. Margery had been a younger nursemaid who had chased after him when he had toddled and his wetnurse had been too fat and wheezy to do so.

He had seen little of her lately since his stay in Calais, had not known of her marriage to Will Lightbody, but he was always glad to see her. Now that Will was gone—cut down in the attack on the manor—and though concerned for her safety, Rob had protested when she had joined the little knot of retainers determined to follow him in his flight from the district, but he had given way at last. Margery was not to be gainsaid.

She was a big, raw-boned woman, solemn of features and surly of tongue, but he knew her to be worth her solid weight in gold. She pushed impatiently at straggles of dark hair which had escaped from her cap and gazed moodily out of the unglazed window.

It had been Margery who had suggested the weary little band should rest up here in the old foresters’ hut where her grandfather had once lived. Not far from Lutterworth, the place, deserted for years since the old man’s death, was well hidden by forest scrub. It was a convenient hiding place for the needed respite, close to the London road that Rob was determined to take the moment he was recovered enough to ride.

The two were alone together in the dark and cold little hut, the other members of the band out looking for game for the pot. Margery had managed to get a sulky fire of sorts going beneath the one smoke hole, but the air in the hut was fouled by the smoke that remained in the place and it was still deadly cold. At least it had prevented them all from freezing to death throughout the three nights that they had stayed here.

Rob grinned at Margery as she moved to stir the small hanging pot over the fire. What in the Virgin’s name she had in it, he dared not think, probably herbs and roots sufficient to keep them alive and warmed. Her scolding tongue had hustled out the hunting party to search for a hare or pigeon. She’d had the forethought to bring the pot and other necessities like her herbs and salves in her flight from her home.

His grin faded as he thought how her practicality might well have deserted her. She had remained grim-lipped and uncommunicative about what had befallen her after the attack, but he had drawn his own conclusions. He turned from her now to draw up his hose and tie his points. Margery might not be as gentle in touch as Mistress Hoyland nor as skilful, but at least she wasn’t determined to hand him over to those who would see him swing at a rope’s end. No, he could not refuse her protection.

The men had been warned, on peril of their lives, to leave her unmolested; Rob grinned inwardly as he considered any man brave indeed who would even accost her. They had watched her warily as she had stolidly tramped the frost-hardened fields and rutted roads with them, grunted with relish at her culinery skills and kept their distance.

Even Piers Martine, that swarthy rapscallion who’d accompanied Rob from Calais and come timely to his rescue at Hoyland, had not dared to challenge Margery and Piers constantly boasted that all women were fair game to him.

Rob looked up sharply as his straining ears caught the sounds of approach through the undergrowth near the hut. Margery nodded imperceptibly and moved near to the door.

Sym and Diggory Fletcher knocked cautiously on the old warped door and, as warily, pushed their way in. Neither appeared to be carrying food for the pot. Margery sighed, then clucked her tongue in disapproval.

The two were brothers, men-at-arms who had served his father loyally and they had joined Piers Martine and Silas Whitcome, expressing their determination to join Rob and eventually see retribution exacted on those Hoyland men who had killed their master and damaged their home manor.

Sym crouched by Rob’s stool and his brother sauntered over to the pot and sniffed at its contents.

‘We heard some news we thought might interest you, Master Rob, and came straight back to tell you.’

‘Without so much as a pigeon for the pot,’ Margery sniffed.

Sym ignored her while Diggory simply grinned.

‘Sir Gilbert Hoyland set out this morning with an escort of about twenty men. He was making for the London road, I reckon, and though he’s got a sizeable company and won’t be expecting trouble, I think as ’ow we could give ’im some, ’specially as we could ambush the party from the scrubland. We ’eard it from a woodcutter who’d recognised the device on the men’s jacks. Most of the folk ’ereabout ’ave ’eard of our trouble and see ’ow we’d like to get even.

‘We managed to skirt the road and saw the party. I counted the men-at-arms and there seem to be fewer than was mentioned. P’raps he sent some of his men off to ’is own manor, anyway ’e’d be an easy target for us now.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘There’s five of us and me and Diggory’s expert archers. What does you say, Master Rob?’

‘I say the master’s got enough to do in his state to see himself safely to London and on his way to Calais,’ snapped Margery. ‘There’s time enough when he’s got more support from the Earl to think about getting even with them Hoylands.’

Rob’s lips parted in a slow smile. ‘Do you know where Piers is, Sym?’

‘’E’s near enough for one of us to find him. Diggory’s a good tracker.’

Rob pushed himself up. ‘We could do with some horses,’ he said thoughtfully and Margery snorted again. They had had some difficulty in releasing one from the Devane stables under the noses of the Hoyland guards left there. One was needed for Rob’s progress to London since walking had been difficult as his wound had pained him, but the rest could manage easily enough without. She considered this proposed attack madness but, catching her Rob’s eyes, saw it would do her no good at all to say so. His blue eyes were already shining with enthusiasm for the venture.