Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “With less space than it takes to squash lice, I’m surprised you don’t have more fights onboard,” Ludovic said. “Forced to travel like this, I might end murdering the entire crew. What did you do with him?”

  “The usual,” muttered the captain. “Roped him alive to the bugger he knifed, and chucked them both overboard. Give them crabs and fishes a proper feast.”

  “A charming thought,” sighed Ludovic. “Is that every captain’s method of justice at sea?”

  “For those as is fair minded like me, and more merciful than some,” Kenelm nodded.

  He was interrupted. The door, a little uneven on its hinges, swung open suddenly, kicked by a small boot. Clovis, grasping a jug and a tray with two sliding cups, burst inside and slammed both cups and jug on the table. “Wine,” he announced, seemingly affronted at something. “An’ don’t ast fer no more, cos it ain’t coming.”

  Ludovic smiled. “I appear to have offended you, brat. But no doubt I can dispense with the wine, since it’s likely an evil brew. And I’ll willingly dispense with your company at the same time, I think.”

  “Other people,” remarked Clovis, glaring at the captain and ignoring his lordship, “gets let off once we makes port. Specially when it ain’t even a proper port. Other people gets treated fair. But some members of the crew, ‘cluding those as is more loyal and hardworking than others, gets told to stay behind and serve stupid drinks.”

  “Filthy little urchin,” objected the captain. “Rope you up to a rock and chuck you overboard next trip, I will. Learn some respect, and ‘pologise to his lordship.”

  Clovis nodded to Ludovic as he backed from the cabin. “Not your fault, m’lor,” he admitted. “Having got in with this nasty old bugger, don’t reckon there’s much you can do about it now. But I warn you, bit of chewed old sinew he is, and not a fair bone rests beneath ‘is smelly old hide.”

  The door closed; the cabin shook. Captain Kenelm sighed. “Forgive the little bastard, my lord. Brought up bad, he was. I’d have him whupped, but he’s my nevvy and my sister’d whup me if she found out I’d done ought. And the little bugger would tell her, that he would.” The captain shook his head, smiled again and remembered business. He poured two cups of dark wine. “And now, my lord, since you knows these politckals and such like, and the ways of trading both proper and – them other ways – more advantageous, as you might say – so tell me my lord, be there a chance of another blockage soon? A nice big embargo to cover half o’ France, Spain and the rest ‘o them. That’s what I’d like.”

  Ludovic grinned. “I like the idea myself, but it won’t happen Kenelm. The reason for sanctions is sadly over, the wretched young rebel is captive, and Flanders and Burgundy have professed undying friendship with England once more. And there’ll be no more disagreements, for Spain will see to it. It’s Spanish royalty who insisted on Tudor making a truce with everyone, for they refused to unite their daughter in marriage with Tudor’s heir unless there was a secure peace both here and with our neighbours. And Tudor wants this marriage.”

  “You mean we’ve lost our living just for the sake of some fool brat to wed, and occupy his shaft in some female’s bilges? I don’t reckon that’s decent.”

  “There was pressure from the other side as well,” said Ludovic. “Maximilian was pushed into abandoning his support for the Duke of York so he might encourage England to join the Holy League against France. France, you see, is attempting to pillage and plunder all nearby countries at will and must be stopped from swallowing the world.” Ludovic smiled at the captain’s grimace. “As you know, my friend, the English loathe foreigners on our shores and suspect them all of theft and forgery. What they do not realise is that foreign policy rules our land more surely than the king.”

  “Not that I understand all that, nor rightly care,” said Captain Kenelm. “But tell me, wot’s the Duke ‘o York got to do with this? Just a little lad, he is, and a right pretty one too they say.”

  Ludovic paused. “That is a long story, which I have no desire to tell. Suffice it to say he was the reason for the embargo, and a great deal else besides. Not Tudor’s younger son, but the youngest of the old King Edward’s sons, sent away from England in secret under King Richard. The boy has been in Burgundy ever since, kept safe there by the Duchess and others. He was encouraged by them to come to England and claim his crown. He has failed.”

  The captain grunted. “Them little boys was bastards,” he remembered. “And wot’s them got to do with this Perkin Warbeck the king speaks of?”

  “They are one and the same,” said Ludovic softly. “Or so I guess, for none of us can be sure. You have believed Tudor’s propaganda, my friend, as has most of the country. And not for the first time. It seems we are all willing to be Tudor’s dupes, and so on and on into the future.”

  “I ain’t no irrit,” objected the captain. “The lad done signed a confession. That’s proof enough fer me.”

  “He signed a confession in order to keep his wife safe, his son alive, and his own head on his shoulders, as would most of us,” said Ludovic, draining his cup and standing up abruptly. “Though the confessions, for anyone with sufficient interest to actually read them, are as absurd and clearly false as most romances. I’d as soon believe in the knights of Camelot.”

  Kenelm watched his benefactor stride to the door and pause there, palm on the handle. “But them’s true too, my lord,” he objected. “Which is why our king has named his lad Arthur, so we knows there’ll be a noble and prosperous England promised to come. Now you’ve got me proper confused, my lord.”

  “I apologise, Kenelm,” Ludovic smiled, pushing open the low door and ducking through. “Certainly Tudor may try to impress the people by claiming descent from myth and legend if he wishes, since he has no claim to any descent more respectable. But none of this matters. Now I’m going ashore before the insidious aromas of our sturdy cog drive me to return my dinner onto your bed. In the meantime, if we must now contemplate a more honest trade, I suggest you consider alum. You’ve been doing your best business with merchants of illegally exported wool and leather, and dying those cloths is the next necessary step. Alum is the essential basis for dying, and with the Vatican creating its own embargo in order to keep all alum profits for itself, perhaps a little smuggling might be attempted after all. Some legal imports, let us say, with a few extra casks hidden in the hold.”

  “Well now, my lord,” grinned the captain. “I knows nuffing wotso’hever ‘bout alum. But I reckon that’s about to change. Maybe we’ve a bright future ahead of us after all sir, King bloody Arthur or otherwise.”

  “Tighter,” insisted the Lady Jennine. “Are you frightened of a little minor discomfort, girl? What woman fears pain when her looks are the stake? Breathe in, and thrust the starched folds well up beneath your breasts. Like this.”

  Alysson wrinkled her nose. “I shall probably crack my ribs. And that won’t be attractive at all.”

  “Stupid child. How will you ever achieve childbirth, if you can hardly bear a tight stomacher? Not that women of our profession usually encourage childbirth, but avoiding it can be difficult. It happens.”

  Alysson sat abruptly on the cushioned window seat. A shy lemon sun halloed the spun black silk of her unpinned hair, hiding her scowl in shadow. “You want to get pregnant now,” she pointed out.

  Jennine smiled, her mood quickly switching from impatient to confiding. She sat next to Alysson and took her hand into her lap. “This is a secret, my love, but I think perhaps it’s happened already. You’ll tell none of the other servants of course, not until I’ve informed her ladyship. I need a little more time to be absolutely sure, but I think it’s done.”

  “I’m pleased for you.” Alysson frowned, reclaiming her fingers. “I know it’s required, but it seems such a risk. What if the child is – like – Humphrey?”

  The lady giggled. “Highly unlikely, as it happens.” She stood, crossing to the large standing mirror, smiling widely at her reflection. “Bu
t it’s what I’m here for, we all know that. A wife is a breeding mare, chosen for the width of her hips and the regularity of her monthly bleeding. She must come from a rich and powerful family with a large dower and excellent contacts, but her greatest value is her belly. We are cattle, my dear. Your position is less humiliating in fact, for a mistress is neither sow nor mare. She is a pretty trifle, and her value is her beauty. She will learn all her lover’s secrets, which his wife will never do.”

  Alysson sighed. “I can’t imagine Ludovic having a – wife. But I suppose he will have to marry one day.”

  Jennine nodded. “It will be expected of him, naturally. These Sumerford sons have been allowed their independence far too long already. You know, after the battle of Bosworth many of their lands were snatched by the crown, and they might have lost everything if the earl hadn’t bent his knee to Tudor. The countess managed to save her dower properties, and these are to be parcelled out to the younger boys, so Ludovic will have a small share. I can’t remember where. But with the greater estates left to Humphrey, of course he needed to be married off first. He’s a good age now, but my dearest husband was no easy match as you can imagine. And their lordships considered it of prime importance to discover a lady capable of keeping their heir – under control, let us say. Highly unlikely from some aristocratic young virgin. Better a mature female of the comfortable middle classes. My real identity is my own business of course, but I do my job. And now, especially if I am with child, his lordship will look around and find suitable wives for his other sons.”

  Alysson put her legs up on the window seat, cuddled her knees and stared out to the moat. The water caught the sunlight and turned silver. It was early March and the first birds were returning from their warmer winters. The wheeling flocks spun patterns across the sky. Cloud splattered, it threatened rain. Alysson watched a kestrel swoop from the long trees in the east, parting the flocks, hunting on the wing. She spoke to the sun. “I know you’re being kind, Jenny. I could never have expected such understanding treatment. But I don’t want to do this, and if I try, I’ll fail.”

  Jennine stamped her foot. “Nonsense, child. I’ve not wasted my time and money for you to turn chaste now. You’ll practise what I tell you, and study like an obedient child at school.”

  Alysson glowered. “I can already read. My father taught me years ago. And I am chaste.”

  “Don’t sulk,” ordered the lady, “or I shall slap you. Your mouth turns down and you look like a duck. Certainly being chaste is an excellent beginning. Men like to be the first. No doubt the poor souls dread being compared to some previous lover with better equipment. But chastity is simply that – a beginning. A whore may charge a higher price for her hymen, but once done, there are few who will trouble to sew it back. That’s an Eastern trick, where the men have absurdly particular demands. Our English prefer a little cheerful corruption between the sheets.”

  “So what happens when I grow ancient?” Alysson demanded. “You’re only twenty nine years and you call yourself old. I shall have no family, no friends and no home of my own. I shall be even more destitute and pathetic than I am now.”

  Jennine shook her head. “Would marriage be better? An ageing wife is ignored while the husband, however decrepit and wrinkled, looks for a younger replacement to flatter him. The wife will die in childbirth, or become widowed and retire to a convent, or stay lonely and bully her sons.”

  “As the Countess of Sumerford does.”

  “None of her sons allow her to bully them,” smiled the lady. “But she is bullied by her husband. Haven’t you noticed the bruises, the scars and bloodied lips? No mistress would permit such a thing. A mistress is never beaten by her lover.”

  “No. She’s discarded, while he finds another.”

  “Only if she’s untrained, and weak.”

  “You may call the countess weak,” insisted Alysson, “but she has some rights. And I cannot bear to imagine what she’d do if she found out who you really are, and what I am planning to do. She dismissed me when I was just a dairymaid. Now she would have me thrashed half to death.”

  The Lady Jennine’s smile seemed smugly satisfied, as if she smiled more to herself than to another. “We all have our particular reasons and secrets,” she said quietly. “But at least you now admit you’re planning to do this. It’s the only wise choice of course, so less mawkish timidity if you please, and let us get back to work.”

  Alysson stood obediently, breathing in for the fastening of the stomacher. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said softly. “He said he wanted to see me again but that was a month ago. He’s never come to get me, or looked for me at all.”

  Jennine raised her severely plucked eyebrows. “Absurd. Do you expect a lord of Sumerford to tramp his own castle corridors, searching for a servant girl closeted in my private apartments? He will send for you child, when he wishes. And it won’t be long now. He’s already made sure you’re still here.”

  Alysson was startled. “You know that? How?”

  “One of the pages, sent a week back to inquire if I meant to join the hunt the following morning. You were sitting there by the window as you often do. Don’t you remember? The boy kept looking at you, surreptitious but attentive, matching you with your description.” The lady laughed. “But no one needs to question my intentions, since Humphrey insists I always hunt, however much I dislike it. And it wasn’t one of Humphrey’s pages. I knew exactly who had sent the boy, and why.”

  “It could have been anything. You can’t be sure.”

  “I’m fairly sure I recognised Ludovic’s page boy, and have more experience in these matters than you seem to guess, in spite of all my confessions, my dear.” Jennine took Alysson’s hand and led her to the mirror. “And you must be ready. Learning the use of belladonna and rosewater, how to dress, to simper, to smile and be artful. But that is not enough. Once you have the man prone in bed, there are far more essential matters to remember.”

  Alysson shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “Well.” The lady considered, turning Alysson to left and to right before the mirror. “Perhaps not the first time. We don’t want to make you look professional. I shall teach you a few things, but not too much until later.”

  “All he will care about is whether I’ve – bathed.”

  Jennine laughed. “But you do, my pet. You wash all the time. But of course many men have peculiarities. Perhaps your charming prince lusts over bathwater, or soap, or sponges maybe? You’ve never told me this little detail before.”

  “He hasn’t any strange – lusts – not as far as I know.” Alysson reverted to the scowl. It reflected dark in the mirror. “It was just that I never used to be able – that is, living in the cottage. Well, never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore. I wish I was back there sometimes. And I hate this game.”

  “It is not a game,” said the lady, eyes suddenly cold. “Your future depends upon it, and you will do exactly as you are told.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brice came home with a partially healed sword cut across his wrist and an inflamed graze on his left cheekbone. The countess, who was wearing a matching bruise on her right cheekbone, greeted him with disapproval. “I do not see,” she said, “why my sons insist on indulging such rough behaviour. Fighting in peacetime is perfectly unnecessary in this civilised country. First Ludovic was wounded before Christmas, and now you. I am disappointed in you Brice. I always considered you the least contentious of my sons.”

  Brice grinned and kissed his mother. “Indeed, I am a gentle soul, Mamma, as you well know. Fighting is certainly to be avoided at all times. It risks spoiling my new doublet, and can do shocking damage to a pair of fine silk hose. But sometimes, regrettably, it cannot be avoided. Footpads, Mamma. Sadly I travelled unguarded. And one solitary gentleman, beautifully dressed and bejewelled in the latest fashion, is a target for ruffians, even within the boundaries of our own lands it seems. I was outnumbered of course, though naturally defended myself mos
t honourably.”

  Ludovic had strolled over to the main doors, now flung open with the sunshine slanting bright across the polished boards. “The same desperate outlaws perhaps,” he suggested, smiling as his mother bustled off to arrange a welcome home dinner, “that attacked me last year in the forests?”

  Brice chuckled. “Indubitably, little brother. The world is becoming a hideous place. But I hear I escaped an even worse fate. Christmas at court. I hope you kissed the king’s hand?”

  “His feet,” nodded Ludovic.

  Brice’s smile broadened. “How unlike you, Lu. And did they smell of the privy, or the sewer?”

  “The executioner’s block,” said Ludovic.

  He turned to walk off but Brice put out an arm, restraining him. “And this new diversion? This Perkin Warbeck? Did you kiss his feet too, my beloved?”

  Ludovic’s eyes narrowed, and he paused. “I saw him,” he said briefly, turned at once and strolled back upstairs.

  Brice crossed to the fire but he called after his brother. “Surely such an intriguing subject, my loved one.” Ludovic did not answer and Brice raised his voice. “Tonight, after supper, come to my chamber, or I shall come to yours. I should like to discover more of dear Gerald’s obsession with this fascinating new pretender, and perhaps learn something of your own opinion.”

  Ludovic stopped and looked over the balustrade. “An intriguing subject indeed, but not one I’d have expected you to adopt, my dear. Besides, you should ask Gerald, not me. And let me point out that you’re in danger of becoming beguilingly eccentric, since the two minor injuries you appear to have suffered are clearly not of recent acquisition at all, and therefore cannot have been provoked within our boundaries. An equally intriguing subject, don’t you think? Which of these so stimulating secrets should we discuss first, do you think? ”