Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I’m off too,” admitted Gerald. “I’ve – matters to attend to. Far more important matters than you two with your petty little games.”

  “My petty little games pay me rather well, as it happens,” grinned Brice. “And don’t pretend you’re not interested, because I know you’re curious. But I’m not telling.”

  “At least my – games – are honourable.” Gerald scowled. “I doubt if yours are, since you keep so secretive.” He turned to Ludovic. “As for spying on poor Humphrey’s wife –”

  “My interest in our dear sister-in-law is purely brotherly,” interrupted Ludovic. “And I’m not spying on Humphrey either. I was merely trying to remember where he was and what he was doing on the afternoon of the twelfth, day before the Eve of Wedding feast.”

  “He was with mother,” said Gerald promptly. “Trying to learn his coming role in the wedding off by heart. Which he then forgot anyway, but that’s where he was all day. No time to wander the dairy sheds, steal cream or grope the cows, I promise.”

  Ludovic frowned. “And hasn’t since appeared, somehow without my noticing, covered in scratches or nursing a kicked groin?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Lu,” said Brice. “You know it’s a pack of lies, and who cares anyway? Why do my two little brothers immerse themselves in such demeaning irrelevancies?”

  “I imagine,” Ludovic spoke more to himself than to the others, “she hoped to revenge the death of her brother.”

  “I imagine,” said Brice, “she just hoped to make trouble. Angling to be bought off perhaps. But since I wouldn’t recognise a dairy maid if I saw one, I’ve no interest in this tedious rigmarole. Besides, if I remember rightly Lu, you’ve not been averse to playing with servant wenches yourself in the past.”

  Ludovic raised an eyebrow. “Peeping, were you, my dear? But whoever I’ve played with in the past was extremely willing I assure you. Enough of that. So, you’re both off on your private concerns tomorrow, kindly leaving the Lady Jennine to me. Unfortunately Father’s organised a hunt. His hunting parties are always so damned dreary since he and Humphrey slaughter everything on sight. Gerald, your precious pretender is a prisoner now anyway. Why not stay at home with me a few days longer?”

  Gerald shook his head. “I’ve received word that I’m wanted. It’s true the Duke of York is a prisoner, but it’s not that simple. Do you realise, this has been Henry Tudor’s greatest nightmare for six long years of struggle. Our miserable king has spent more money on espionage and propaganda concerning this so called fraud and impostor, than he has on any other single thing since his own struggle for the throne. Since before Stoke he’s sweated and wept, executed his friends and relatives, locked his mother-in-law away until her death, and made himself ill with worry. Yet now he finally has the boy after all this time and effort, he’s terrified of actually doing anything bloody. Clearly he knows he’s dealing with true royalty, and he’s frightened of condemning the Duke of York to death and then facing some sudden incontrovertible proof that this was his own wife’s brother and the rightful king all along. So he dallies and fidgets, keeps the young man confined to court, shows him off to ambassadors and disbelievers, tries to humiliate him, but pays him and his wife an allowance as if they’re courtiers instead of prisoners. It’s as clear as daylight.”

  “It’s as clear as mud.”

  “The king knows the Duke of York to be genuine. I know it. He knows it. Most of European royalty knows it. But Tudor certainly isn’t about to give up his crown, rightful heir or not. So he’s playing games, wasting time, buying allies, and building up a false story as full of un-darned holes as any muddled fabrication could be, to try and convince people the Duke of York is simply a common peasant from Flanders. Who would believe it when the young man speaks better English and Latin than Tudor does, and has court manners more elegantly perfect than half the court themselves?”

  “They say the late King Richard’s sister tutored him, simply to challenge the Tudor dynasty. The Duchess Margaret hates Henry Tudor since he killed her brother and stole the throne from the Plantagenets. You know that. Now she sits on half the power of Burgundy, so she’s set up a conspiracy and a fraud, just to pull our new king down.”

  “In a few short months she manages to tutor a lumbering peasant brat speaking only Flemish, to convincingly impersonate an English prince?” Gerald stamped impatiently on the worn Turkey rug before the fire. “What idiotic slander.” The vibration sent sparks up the chimney.

  “Must I listen to all this?” Brice sighed, flinging himself across the thick velvet coverlet of his bed. “And when they catch you and clap you in irons, just remember to tell them your big brother Brice had no part in this nonsense. I’m fond of my head and would like to keep it. Besides, I don’t give a damn who sits on England’s crumbling throne. They all demand the same taxes.”

  “But how endearing,” mused Ludovic, “that you trust us so completely, Gerald my dear. Brice will tell us nothing of his suspicious dealings away from home, yet you so openly admit your most dangerous involvements – conspiracies which could so easily cost you your life.”

  “If I can’t trust my own brothers - ?”

  “Brice doesn’t.”

  “Nor you, beloved.” Brice, leaning back against the pillows, grinned across at Ludovic. “You’re as circumspect as me, little brother. You should be more destitute than the rest of us. So how do you demonstrate such wealth, my boy?”

  “I’ve neither wealth nor secrets to disclose,” smiled Ludovic. “Enough sovereigns for a new doublet occasionally. Begging pennies and favours from Mamma. Where’s the duplicity is that?”

  Gerald snorted. “What lies, Lu. You wouldn’t lick anyone’s feet if your own life depended upon it. You’re more arrogant than our dear father, more supercilious than Brice, more proud than mother and more clandestine than the lot of us. I believe you even conceal yourself when you go to the privy.”

  Ludovic laughed, “So evidently I’m also more stupid than Humphrey. What a charming family.”

  “But I’m still leaving tomorrow,” said Gerald. “And I wouldn’t save you from being dragged off hunting by father anyway, even if I stayed. Go take out your bad temper on the deer.”

  The hunting party departed the castle shortly before dawn. The first hint of the rising sun breathed a tentative pink haze up from the eastern horizon but the sweeping sky above remained black, moonless and cold. Ludovic yawned and mounted his bay. Humphrey, an excellent rider who enjoyed the hunt more than most other things apart from the anticipation of food, was already briskly cheerful. His new bride was not. She regarded the small palfrey with a nervous dislike, but she had already suggested staying at home and been immediately refused. Humphrey expected company. Already two of his brothers had deserted him in his favoured entertainment. “Oh pooh,” Humphrey told her. “Amazed you don’t ride already. Doesn’t everyone? Most odd. You’ll have to learn to ride at full tilt soon, you know. It’s what I like above everything. You’ll soon like it too. We shoot lots of animals. Big red deer and hares and partridge and wild pigs. If I miss anything, father finishes them off. It’s great fun.”

  The Lady Jennine sniffed, curtsied obediently, and allowed her brother to assist her in mounting the little palfrey. The brother snorted humorous derision, hands to his sister’s rump. His own wife giggled and winked. With a heave, the Lady Jennine, reaching nervously, was hoist towards the saddle. As she clutched her skirts, her brother grinned widely and surreptitiously pinched her bottom. “Come on, Jenny. Be a good girl. For now, anyway!”

  Ludovic watched with some curiosity. He had been on the point of offering to stay at the castle himself, purely to keep the bride company of course, should she wish to miss the hunt. But since he had little expectation of agreement, and now there was something else altogether on his mind, he said nothing but followed some way behind. His new sister’s behaviour and the extreme vulgarity of her brother had begun to interest him. He was therefore distracted, dawdling at some consi
derable distance from the main party, and quite alone when the attack came.

  Chapter Four

  The forest was loamy and wet. With most of the trees already winter bare, the pale dazzle of dawning sun slipped easily through the open branches, dancing across the dew strewn undergrowth beneath. The season’s first mushrooms were sprouting little brown roofs for beetle and ant. But beyond the first creek and the light canopies of scattered aspen and hazel, the older trees drew in darkly; oak and willow and a tangle of holly. The deer were rutting.

  Some miles from the castle, the ruins of the lonely watch tower were shadow dank under ivy and heaped stone. Dating back to the ancient Normans and unused for three hundred years, it sheltered only pigs and rats. The tower was not safe. Twice lightning had struck and stones often hurtled from the shattered turrets. A broken stair clung treacherously to one remaining outer wall, winding ever upwards to a windswept view across the tree tops to the sea. Being half open to storm, the tower was useless for anything except a smuggler’s storage, and where it remained enclosed, it stank of mould.

  Ludovic rode along the small hilltop, skirting the tower’s tumbled rubble before heading his horse down again into the little valley. He was alone. He could no longer hear the others, the brisk vibration of hooves, the giggles of the women and Humphrey’s hearty eagerness. From trot to amble, Ludovic finally stopped, still high on the crest, letting his mount graze and his mind wander.

  The Lady Jennine’s face floated pleasantly through his thoughts. He wondered, irreverently, if his brother had yet managed to bed her. He wondered whether, as Gerald insisted, the caresses of a halfwit would seem particularly vile, or if, to a woman of virtue, the touch of her wedded husband would be always acceptable, since sanctioned by the Church. Ludovic considered her brother unexpectedly coarse and his attentions remarkably unbrotherly, but the behaviour of northern tradesmen were another world to him. He then wondered if her sly and watchful expressions were truly signs of flirtation as they seemed, or merely the innocent friendliness of a good woman.

  His thoughts undressed her slowly, unpinning the starched chiffon from her hair, slipping the gauze fichu from her breasts and the satin from her shoulders, discovering the pink velvet compliancy of flesh, the swell of her nipples and the soft scents of her body. Then the first arrow struck him.

  He felt it screech like flame through his upper arm muscle just below the shoulder. He swayed in the saddle and caught quickly at the reins, tightening his knees and whirling around towards the direction of the shot. The second arrow pierced his thigh and he felt himself fall.

  He opened his eyes on soaring stone and one slanting beam of light. Pain hit, like a pestle to the mortar. He made no immediate attempt to rise. He doubted if his body would support him. Then someone said, “So I haven’t killed you. What a shame.”

  He turned his head and saw skirts. Dark blue broadcloth, frayed hems over wooden clogs, and a thin kersey cloak, faded brown and threadbare. There was a familiar smell of goose grease and unwashed depression. Ludovic sighed, attempting to wedge himself up on one elbow. The other arm was bleeding heavily. His new lampas silk brocade coat was no doubt already ruined. “I may still be alive,” he said faintly, “but it seems you have just signed your own death warrant.”

  She looked away. “But you killed my brother Gamel. Now I think you’ve killed my little brother Pagan as well. Why not me too?”

  Ludovic lay back. The ground was wet and hard. His eyes burned, he could not think clearly and his body seemed surly, incapable of either defence or attack. The pain of the two arrow wounds was immense but it was the back of his head that hurt most. The dizziness and nausea increased. He recognised the arches of the old watch tower. He had been dragged under the shelter of the broken stairwell and a glitter of sunshine from the window slits striped his face, momentarily blinding him. “You are clearly insane,” Ludovic murmured. “But since you presumably aimed to kill, not such a bad shot. Can you tell, am I badly hurt?”

  Alysson Welles sat down cross legged beside him with a bump, and regarded him carefully. He saw the fear in her eyes, and watched her control it. Then he saw the sudden flash of light catch the steel in her hand at the same moment as she raised the blade. With faint alarm, he recognised his own knife. He wondered if she had sufficient skill to dispatch him quickly and painlessly. He slowly closed his eyes. After a moment he opened them again. The girl was cutting down his coat sleeve and the doublet beneath it. The knife caught in the heavy weave, wrenching against the injury, and Ludovic bit his lip.

  “Go ahead, yell if you want to,” said the girl, concentrating on her work. “It won’t worry me. I really don’t care if you pretend to be brave or not.”

  “Whatever I do or do not do,” said Ludovic with some asperity, “is not out of consideration for your opinion, I assure you.” He felt the cold air on his arm as the sleeve fell away. “I assume the arrow head is imbedded?”

  “Looks like it,” Alysson agreed. “Do you want me to dig it out? Your knife seems fairly sharp. But it’ll hurt.”

  “I imagine it will. It will presumably hurt a good deal more if left in and allowed to fester. I prefer you to remove it, if you will. Have you any experience in this sort of thing?”

  “If you mean, am I in the habit of shooting people and then nursing them back to health,” said Alysson, “then no. Surprisingly, you’re the first. But my father was an archer and he taught me to shoot when I was little. And Ilara is quite clever with medicines and she taught me too. I’ve just never had the chance to use any of it before.”

  “Then you clearly need practice,” said Ludovic. “I am glad to be of service.”

  She seemed already prepared, and an earthenware bowl filled with stream water was set on the ground beside them. There were also piled bandages, apparently torn from a chemise. The fine stitching of a hem and the tucked folds where a waistband had once been, were still apparent. Then Alysson began to remove the arrow. The shaft was broken off well past the fletching, but the heavy steel point remained deep within the muscle. She was careful and deft fingered but the pain was considerable as she used the tip of the knife to ease the arrow head loose. It took a deal of time.

  Eventually, keeping his voice steady, Ludovic said, “Since you are going to some trouble to keep me alive, even apparently to cause no more pain than inevitable, I presume you did not actually try to kill me after all.”

  “Of course not,” said Alysson scathingly. “Or I would have.”

  After a short pause as Ludovic watched the blood pour renewed from his upper arm, he continued, “Another reason then? You merely wished to get to know me better perhaps? You find aiming at inanimate targets a shocking bore? Or you simply wanted to pass the morning in some more enterprising manner than sewing samplers?”

  “Lie still,” Alysson commanded. “You’re already bleeding like a stuck pig, so don’t wriggle.” She held her breath and the metal head sprang free, flipping out like a rotten tooth pulled by the barber.

  Ludovic disguised the sigh of relief. He moved his arm experimentally, and winced. “Much better,” he said weakly.

  “If you must know,” Alysson, attentive and studious, began to wash the gaping hole in his arm, “I’m not such a good archer really. Actually I’m a bit surprised at how bad my aim was. You probably won’t believe me, but I just wanted to scare you. I aimed over your head.”

  “I am a fairly large and prominent target,” Ludovic pointed out. “And I was sitting quite still at the time.”

  “Just as well,” said Alysson, unwinding the first bandage, “but you were uphill and I was in the valley. I shot high, but the sun was in my eyes – and I’m sorry, if that makes you feel any better, which of course it won’t. I just wanted you to fall off your horse. To get your attention. And to see you hurt for a change.”

  “You were remarkably successful in that at least,” said Ludovic. “I hope you enjoyed the spectacle. Where is my horse, by the way?”

  “Run off,
” said Alysson, knotting the bandage around his arm, “galloped away at once and never looked back. Not very loyal or loving. Evidently even your trained animals don’t like you.”

  “And how is it exactly,” demanded Ludovic, stung, “that I’ve earned such vehement hatred? I cannot remember doing anything at all to injure you. Indeed, I’ve gone out of my way to make some recompense for your losses, and ease your situation.”

  Alison sat back, staring at him, bemused. Her fingers were stained with his blood. “Pompous – arrogant and blind,” she said. “You come marching into my home, curtly informing me that my beloved brother is killed by fault of his own carelessness, as if your horses have every right to trample to death anyone they please. You throw money at me as if a few pennies could buy the life of the person I loved most in all the world. You don’t even say you’re sorry. Then I’m nearly raped by your horrid brother and you and your staff seem to think I should have welcomed it. I’m cast off without my pay, though I worked very hard for nearly two weeks. Now you’ve stolen away my little brother too. What have you done with him?”

  Ludovic gazed up at her in amazement. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should,” said the girl. “But it’s Pagan, my little brother, I care about. He was only twelve, and small, poor mite, since he never had proper food. He followed us when Dulce made me come to the castle to complain that night. But I haven’t seen him since. None of us have. We’ve all searched everywhere, endlessly. So where is Pagan? Is he hurt? Still alive? What has happened to him?”