Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Good Lord,” said Ludovic.

  “And the little darling,” Ilara nodded eagerly, “will you tell us, my lord, what is he like?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Ludovic in some amazement, “though I imagine he has the usual count of arms, legs and fingers, since no one has mentioned different. I have not personally seen the child.”

  The ladies looked disappointed. “Not seen him? Not sickly, I trust, my lord? Not kept away from folk?”

  Ludovic shook his head, smiling faintly. “I believe he is decidedly robust, but I’m afraid it did not occur to me to look. Don’t they all appear alike? Mistress Alysson will no doubt be able to satisfy your curiosity better when next she visits. I, on the other hand, have more absorbing interests and unless you have further questions, I shall now return to them.”

  He had come alone, riding briskly through the forest edges, thick in their summer leaf. He had almost expected to see the small blue light and hear the mournful whispers, but no ghosts followed him and he had neither seen nor heard it for some time. Ludovic, assuming that the search for the child’s body, although it had failed, had been sufficient to send the soul on into its proper resting place, rode home satisfied.

  Wild ducks had settled on the moat, casting no reflections in the torpid murk. No one had thought to shoot them since the castle stores were summer high and the pantries were full already of carcasses hung in their cool stone alcoves; venison, partridge, pheasant, swan and boar. So the ducks were permitted to live, bottoms up and heads down in sudden dark ripples, then flat footed and dabbling on the sun dried banks while preening their scrubby feathers.

  Rising from the dull waters, the castle was ancient. Its massive stone, once pale, was now dark stained by the centuries. Across merlon and crenel, thick black streaks from turrets down to portcullis marked the passage of a thousand storms, then baked by four hundred summers. From the moat upwards crawled the moss and algae; green slime rising, black decay descending, pocked by gale and brine. There were two entrances. At the main entrance, guarded by gatehouses, the drawbridge crossed where the moat lay narrow, then ran beneath the rusted iron portcullis with its chains now too pitted to easily turn.

  Once more, as often, Ludovic stopped first on the far bank, looking up to the Lady Jennine’s quarters in the high eastern tower, blind windows echoing the passing clouds. His own chambers lay in the lower level of the western tower, but high enough to watch the sun sink its daily passions across the sea. It was Brice who inhabited the apartment above him. Those chambers could not be seen from the drawbridge or from the great outer courtyard and its stables. The western tower stood at the back, linked to the battlements built out over the escarpment, and far above the straggling beach and tumbling cliffs.

  The moat’s waters did not encircle the back, for here the castle rose direct from the rocks from which its stones had been cut, and instead of water and ditch, was protected by height. But to the north, east and south the moat widened, a sluggish defender, rich in the smells of stagnant waste, mildew and the decay of old forgotten creatures. It had once served as sewer as well as fish pond, but in past years a vast cess pit had been dug out at the back where rock met earth, and where the second entrance stood in narrow shadows. The fish and crabs caught from the moat however, though they were plentiful, were still served only to the staff and not to the carefully fastidious lords themselves.

  Ludovic watched the ducks dip down to hunt beneath the surface, wondering what else the waters hid. Then he tightened his knees, rode across the drawbridge and was home. Back in his own chambers, he called for Clovis.

  “This one last errand before I send you back to your uncle, brat. I doubt I need you any longer after this, but if I do, I can call for you.”

  “If I’m available to the call, that is,” objected Clovis. “Might be at sea. Might be too busy.”

  Ludovic grinned. “In which case, I shall be out of luck. But no doubt I’ll survive. Your usefulness is nearly over, urchin.”

  Clovis glowered. “That there penny a day were mighty useful, though.”

  Ludovic threw him a small leather purse, its strings tied tight. “I cannot imagine what for. You are somewhat young for strong liquors or wenching.”

  Clovis, neatly catching the thrown purse, turned his scowl to a snigger. “Just shows you don’t know everyfing, don’t it,” he said. “But I ain’t staying where I ain’t wanted. So, till you finds out how much you miss me, m’lor, I’ll bugger orf.”

  “I shall attempt not to miss you too soon,” said Ludovic, “since I can now protect the lady myself, and to considerably more affect. Your information was helpful, however, hence the additional purse.” He smiled, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles up on the low table before the hearth. “In the meantime, tell your uncle I’ll finance one more trip before the winter sets in, and ask him to come and see me this evening for the usual arrangements.”

  ‘Taking risks, ain’t we?” observed Clovis. “Having me, and now old Uncle Kenelm come open faced into your high and mighty castle, rubbing shoulders wiv nobility. Wot if he gets seen?”

  “Unfortunately our business is fairly legal these days,” said Ludovic. “Little need now for secrecy, which in any case has become too much of a Sumerford habit. I couldn’t care less whether the good captain is seen or not. You, however, are another matter, since no one in his right mind would employ such an impudent whelp, and I’ve no desire to be thought insane. You have your coin now, so off with you. First bring the boy to me as instructed, then you can go home and give my message to your uncle.”

  “Cherubs,” muttered Clovis on his way out. “Whole bloody family’s moon-raved if you ‘ast me.”

  The pageboy Clovis brought to Ludovic’s solar, appeared indignant. Ludovic nodded for him to enter, and sent Clovis away. The boy, neat in his livery, bowed and stood before the empty hearth, awaiting orders. His bright red hair lay well combed across his small forehead. “Is it right, my lord that you wished to see me? Begging your pardon, but have I done something wrong, my lord?”

  Ludovic looked him over. Not remarkable; a page like any other. Ten or twelve years perhaps, smart in a plain uniform kept scrupulously clean, his eyes respectfully lowered.

  “Your name?”

  “Remi, at your service, my lord.”

  “Very well,” Ludovic said. “You are the boy I ordered to take Mistress Alysson back to the Lady Jennine’s quarters a little more than a month back?”

  “My lord?” The page, unsure, bowed again. He kept his gaze on the Turkey rug and his polished brown shoes. “It’s a long time ago, sir. I remember doing so once. I hope – no one – has complained of me, my lord. I did nothing wrong.”

  Ludovic regarded him in patient silence. “No one has complained,” Ludovic finally said. “On the contrary. Mistress Alysson has informed me that she was attacked. You distracted her attacker. She is – particularly grateful.” He paused, watching the page hang his head, not daring to look up. “Tell me,” Ludovic continued, very quiet, “who attacked Mistress Alysson and yourself?”

  The boy bowed again, shoulders slumped. “No one, my lord. That is, I couldn’t see. It was dark. Very dark, my lord. He – the person ran off. I don’t know who he was.”

  “But you know this no one was a man?”

  “My lord, surely so?” The page glanced up, saw the cold anger in Ludovic’s eyes, and stared back again at his toes. “Forgive me, my lord. I do not know. I was not hurt. No one was hurt, I swear.”

  “Come here,” said Ludovic softly. He went.

  Ludovic swung his legs to the ground and sat forwards. “Kneel. And undo your shirt,” he commanded. The child bent on one knee beside him and unlaced the little starched opening of his broadcloth doublet. Beneath it, his shirt was open at the neck. The long scars still gleamed pale, curling up from the child’s chest and around the shoulder, then almost to the chin. “It would seem,” murmured Ludovic, “that this nobody hurt you indeed.”
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br />   The boy slumped down, relacing his shirt. “I had forgotten, my lord.”

  “Indeed? Is it such a common occurrence, you can forget injuries which still leave their marks after a month?

  “Forgive me, my lord. I – I’ll report to Master Hamnet for punishment, my lord.”

  Ludovic raised an eyebrow. “You have lied to me and are lying still, but I do not intend to punish you.” He leaned forward, stretching one long finger to the boy’s chin. “Look at me. Now, why lie? Who are you protecting?”

  “No one, my lord. I beg you, I cannot say, my lord.”

  With a sigh, Ludovic leaned back. “Relax, child. If you’ve been ordered to silence by someone whose authority exceeds my own, I cannot hold you to blame. Mistress Alysson informs me you attempted to protect her, taking the assault meant for her. You should be rewarded, not punished. But I should like to know the truth.”

  The boy hung his head again, saying nothing.

  Ludovic dismissed him and went at once to find the earl. The occasions on which he purposefully sought out his father being rare, the Earl of Sumerford was somewhat taken aback. He was inspecting the new coat his tailor had presented for examination before the final trimmings, and turned from the mirror, regarding his youngest son with mild surprise.

  “Ludovic, is it not?” he said, shrugging out of the wealth of damask and passing the coat to the tailor, who departed hurriedly. “Yes, you seem vaguely familiar. My son, I believe. Though of course, one can never be sure.”

  Ludovic bowed, a little stiff. “Since, of all your sons, I resemble you the most, I imagine you can rest assured of my parentage, sir, if not my character.”

  “Sadly, sadly.” The earl leaned against the window, elbow to the small ledge, his deep golden hair lit by sunbeams. “But since I imagine the wearisome journey from your quarters to mine cannot have been undertaken on a mere whim, I await news of the disaster which is undoubtedly about to befall us.”

  Ludovic, although not invited, sat on the nearest uncushioned chair. He stretched his legs and looked up at his father. “I see you are preparing for the morrow’s baptism, sir. Have you seen the child?”

  The earl’s eyes narrowed. “I am beginning to fear for your sanity, my boy. Clearly your unsavoury cavorting with chamber maids has addled what little brain remains to you. But yes, the infant has been presented to me, briefly, which I considered more than sufficient. Since you are undoubtedly too cautious to risk setting eyes on the new Sumerford heir yourself, I can inform you that the child undeniably has two eyes, an unappealing bump of a nose and a very large mouth of absurd proportions. The noise it makes is, I am assured against all evidence, quite normal. I imagine it has all the other usual accoutrements, but since it was wrapped like a pupae in the cocoon, I cannot guarantee anything further. Are you satisfied, my son?”

  Ludovic smiled. “A fully witnessed description was not quite what I had in mind, sir. No doubt I shall see the infant eventually, and in the meantime I can, I believe, control my natural curiosity. In fact, it was Humphrey I wished to talk about. I intended to lead the conversation from – child to father.”

  The earl raised an eyebrow. “Unnecessary, Ludovic. Although my age is admittedly considerable, I believe I can still tell the difference.”

  “In which case,” continued Ludovic, unperturbed, “perhaps you can satisfy my curiosity regarding the father, rather than the son. I have not seen Humphrey since we returned from London, which in itself is unusual. Is he well, sir?”

  The earl sighed. “Undoubtedly Sumerford is a castle of many corridors and passages, my son, which tend to remain unlit. Naturally I sympathise. Clearly you have forgotten the way to your elder brother’s apartments, or perhaps you are simply nervous concerning the hidden corners. I shall send a page to escort you in safety to Humphrey’s chambers and assist your ailing memory.”

  “You know,” sighed Ludovic, “it is quite exhausting talking to you sometimes, sir.” He paused, but his father said nothing, so he continued. “Admittedly I might have made a more personal inquiry as to Humphrey’s health. But I am accustomed to seeing him over the dinner table at least, and the fact that he’s been so long absent somewhat escaped my notice. If anything, it seemed an advantage. However, I thought you might know something of his present situation. No matter. Presumably he will be present at his own son’s baptism, and I shall see him tomorrow.”

  “I am edified, my boy,” said his father. “I presume this means you’ve the intention of gracing the occasion yourself. I did, I remember, command your attendance, but compliance is never a natural assumption with any of my offspring.” The earl sat abruptly and heavily on the window seat beside him. “It may be of some interest to you, Ludovic, since you appear to be so particularly concerned for your family at present, to know that I always considered myself fortunate to have sired sons. I was naturally prepared, especially considering your mother’s predisposition at all times to ignore my known wishes, for the disappointing responsibility of siring only daughters. But your mother showed unusual perspicacity and eventually produced not only the required male heir, but three other sons, these latter being of at least average intelligence. However, over the years I have had occasion to regret the very circumstances which once pleased me. A daughter, although of little interest in all other ways, would have been remarkably convenient for forming alliances through marriage, and although the business of the dower would certainly have been a disadvantage, I feel the gaining of powerful allies would have proved an acceptable compensation. And daughters are, if nothing else, obedient. Certainly, if they are not, there is an easy solution.” The earl sighed, clasping his hands on his velvet lap. “Instead, my eldest son, perhaps too long in the womb and therefore tarnished with his mother’s woeful lack of brains, is hardly the heir I had anticipated. My second son now shows a complete disinterest in my exhausting efforts to find him a suitable wife, and disappears as frequently as he may, on business which he refuses to disclose. My third son is dangerously loose witted and threatens to bring the entire family to the block for treason. What is more, I suspect him of being either pederast or buffoon. My fourth son is, to the shame of the Sumerford dignity, entangled with loose women from the gutter, and shows neither sense of duty to his father, nor common sense of any other kind. At least, I am led to believe, he has temporarily refrained from the business of dangerous and illegal smuggling.”

  Ludovic jumped. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Pardons are the currency of priests and kings, my boy, as you should know.” The earl yawned. “I have never seen fit to exonerate either the errant or the plaintive, and have no intention of starting now. In the meantime, I can inform you that your eldest brother has indeed been somewhat unwell. The usual complaint, but exacerbated by the family’s absence, the warnings of royal displeasure, and the matter of his unborn child. Now that the infant is birthed, living and robust, with his wife promising to return to health in the immediate future, dear Humphrey is beginning to feel somewhat recovered. I expect him to attend his son’s baptism tomorrow.”

  Everything that Ludovic had intended saying had gone. He nodded, rose, and with a slight bow, left his father’s chambers.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “The last of them entered the chapel a few moments ago,” said Alysson, running in breathless and slamming the door behind her. “There’s the whole family in there now.”

  “Well, I should hope so,” Jennine objected. “Going through all that horror for a child no one was interested in, would have driven me either to murder or suicide. At least the brat is wanted by somebody.”

  “But it seems a shame you can’t be part of the celebrations yourself,” said Alysson. “How mean, when the mother can’t hold her own child at its Christening.”

  Jennine giggled. “Forty days until I’m permitted to enter sanctified premises. Still thirty-seven to go. The holy portals are barred to the unclean, and a bleeding woman must by all means be restrained from polluting the
shrines. As if I care. Ecclesiastics all have dirty minds.”

  “I always felt it so unfair,” Alysson nodded, “for God to design us this way, and then call us unclean for being like it.”

  “It’s the men, my dear. Priests are terrified of women. Frankly, I’ve always believed my bodily functions to be purely my own business, but bishops dislike anyone having business they can’t poke their noses into. If I ever meet up with God, which seems somewhat unlikely, I shall pass on your complaints and ask Him to consider changing things.” Jennine smiled. “But I expect it’ll be Lucifer I curl up with forever in the hereafter, who I’m sure will take us exactly as we are, without objections. And what’s more, if I’m considered too wicked for the resurrection, then that’s fine with me too. What’s there to come back for?”

  “At least you do seem to feel considerably better now,” Alysson observed. “Three days ago I thought you might – well never – be the same again.”

  “I am not the same again,” said Jennine. “My body has been ravaged, my breasts are sore and swollen, I’m constantly exhausted, there’s usually a squalling brat in some adjacent chamber reminding me of my ordeal, my belly sags and is creased with vile pink marks – and I am bleeding and therefore considered unclean. I always knew childbirth would be death of me, and I was nearly right.”

  “He’s very sweet,” said Alysson.

  “He’s a screwed up little turd,” said Jennine. “At least, thank God for one small mercy, I am not expected to have much to do with the child. You like him – you take him.”

  “One day he’ll inherit everything. All the wealth, the castle, the lands, and the title too. Doesn’t that make you feel proud?”

  “As long as I’m still around and can encourage him to spend most of it on me. But no doubt the brat will take after his father. When he grows up a little and shows some character, I shall see. If he inherits my character instead, then maybe I shall start to take an interest.”