Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She smiled, holding gently to the vibration of his heartbeat. “I like feeling unique,” she murmured. “You won’t be gone too long, will you?”

  “By no means. And I’d argue with you a great deal more now if it weren’t for needing to leave early in the morning, and still having preparations to complete.” But he made no attempt to release her, to stand or move away from her, as if intending to stay for some time with her comfortably in his arms. “And much as I long to,” he murmured, “I dare not take you to my bed now, only to leave you cold and alone afterwards. I’m not yet entirely master of my life, not here, and I have family obligations. But I can’t leave you in these rooms, or trust my parents to respect any further convalescence. So if you care to go back to Jennine, then I must agree to it. But I’ll have a word with my sister-in-law before I leave. I’ve no authority over her and can’t force her hand, but I want you treated less as a servant. And I want you well protected.” He smiled. “I can threaten a little perhaps, but I doubt she’s a woman to intimidate easily.”

  Alysson nodded. “I’ll be all right with Jenny.”

  “In one respect, I doubt that very much,” he said. “But I’ll try and mend whatever damage she does when I come back.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gerald was not staying at the Swan and Cygnet, nor did Ludovic discover him at The Rose or The Bull. He asked at every inn and ale house in Crooked Lane and Fish Street, hurrying between doorways and keeping tight to the walls, rain lashing his face, hat pulled low. Only those forced to travel had come to London, for the weather was foul. Few carriers’ inns were therefore fully occupied yet Gerald Sumerford was staying at none of them. Ludovic took a late dinner at The King’s Head, then abandoned his exploration of the city’s expensive and respectable areas and their brightly lit hostelries, moving down towards the river, the lower cheaps and finally taking a wherry south over the river to Southwark. With the wind howling and the sleet washing the gutters almost clean, Ludovic began a search of the less reputable taverns.

  “He’s staying at The Horn, close by the Fleet,” Brice had said. “And under his own name, for the fool has no notion of the danger brewing. I myself paid for a further two week’s board in a front room for him, so he’ll still be safely there.” But he was not.

  After three tiring wet days in the saddle, Ludovic had arrived in London with Alysson’s and not Gerald’s face tucked immovable within his memory. He barely spoke to his bedraggled and despondent groom, and on reaching The Horn had left the man to stable the horses there, with a chamber booked and a promise to return before dark. Walking London’s streets quite alone, especially for an out of city stranger, was not always wise. Southwark was considered even more dangerous. But Ludovic, hand to his sword hilt, remained distracted. He was disappointed in himself.

  He had, he decided, mishandled the affair from the very beginning. He now discovered an uncomfortable but growing sympathy for his great grandfather and that gentleman’s decision to forcibly abduct the woman he wanted. Instead Ludovic’s care, consideration and patience had, in the end, achieved nothing except a bewildered and mutual confusion. Though the thought was unforgivably absurd, it appeared Humphrey’s jovial inanity had proved the more successful approach, bringing it seemed, the only happy union within the entire family.

  Unaware of how much and for how long Alysson had wept after he had left her, Ludovic remained conscious only of failure, and the urgency of an imminent and miserable departure. He had been obliged to return immediately to his own chambers, ignore the pounding headache which almost blinded him, call his personal manservant and complete his preparations for the next morning. He had, however, made time to speak to his sister-in-law.

  He was grateful to find her alone. “Madam, your servant.” Thankfully, such irregular visits to the lady’s private quarters appeared to be accepted without the slightest embarrassment. “Family business,” Ludovic explained abruptly. “And I leave at dawn tomorrow. As I’m sure you’re aware under the circumstances, without my presence in the castle, Alysson cannot continue to occupy her present chambers.”

  Ignoring past and persistent disapproval, Jennine was gracious. “I understand, my lord. Alysson is most welcome to return here as my maid. Indeed, I shall be delighted to have her back.”

  “Unfortunately I’ve no time now to arrange matters as I’d like,” Ludovic said, “but once I return, I’ve no intention of her remaining as a servant in this house. I’d be obliged if you’d remember that.”

  Jennine simpered. “I understand perfectly, my lord. It comes as no surprise.”

  “In the meantime, I believe she needs protection,” Ludovic frowned. “I imagine you understand that too.”

  “The silly girl fears dear Humphrey. No such thing of course. Some village lout accosted her in the forest. But I shall keep her safe.”

  Ludovic stepped further into the candlelight, looking down at the woman he had once desired and now specifically disliked. His headache, increasingly severe, now restricted both patience and the luxury of manners. “I know perfectly well Humphrey was not responsible madam, but I’ve a remarkably good idea who was, and it was neither village lout, nor stranger. Once again, I think you understand me quite well.”

  “I do not, my lord. How could I?” Jennine tossed her head, almost losing her cap. “You forget, I’m virtually a stranger here myself. It is only a little over a year -”

  “Then simply remember this.” Ludovic stood close, speaking very softly, eyes narrowed. “If any harm, of any kind whatsoever, comes to Alysson Welles during my absence, I shall hold you personally responsible. Even if it should then be proved you are utterly innocent of all involvement, and could have done absolutely nothing to save her, I shall still hold you responsible. And I will then make my own decisions as to the consequences. I trust you continue to understand me completely?”

  “You are absurd, my lord,” Jennine said, mouth tight. “But knowing your reasons, I shall be pleased to overlook it. Naturally Alysson will be quite safe with me.”

  The Southwark alleys wound narrow and filthy down from the river to deep amongst the hovels surrounding the Clink, the bearbaiting pits and the warrens of lightless tenements. Ludovic wandered the pilgrim’s way, stopping at each of the inns on both sides of the road, asking not for Gerald Sumerford, but for any traveller of his description. Gerald’s description was easily given, his hair was distinctive, his manner educated, his clothes perhaps not. Ludovic found him at The Three Tuns.

  “There’s a Goran Spittiswood been staying here, my lord, with hair a remarkable bright red just as you say, my lord. Has taken a small room private for himself, top floor under the attics, and been with us for five days already, my lord. But I’d say would not be one as would interest such as your lordship.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that. Is he in?”

  The innkeeper led Ludovic upstairs, four dingy and creaking flights to a tiny doorway shrouded in cobwebs and shadows. The innkeeper knocked on the door. Ludovic did not wait for a reply.

  Gerald leapt up, stared in blank amazement at his brother, and sank back to his bench. “Good God, Lu. How in God’s name did you find me?”

  Ludovic thrust the innkeeper from the room and shut the door carefully behind him. Across the desk where Gerald was sitting, were piled sheets of paper. Quill, inks, ink blots, and the hurried preparation of illicit pamphlets. Ludovic eyed the letters. “I followed the smell of treason all the way down from The Horn, where Brice originally sent me.”

  Gerald sighed. “He shouldn’t have sent you. I’m safe enough.”

  Ludovic drew up a stool and sat close, keeping his voice low. “You’ve no notion what the word means my dear. I don’t trust your idea of caution or common sense, and come to think of it, I’m not sure I trust Brice.”

  “Oh, Brice is all right. Pompous, arrogant and supercilious, but not as bad as Papa. And he put down a fair purse for me at The Horn where I was staying, but I claimed that back off the land
lord. I bought paper and ink instead. Do you know what they charge for paper these days, Lu? It’s a scandal, since the Italians produce the stuff quite easily now. Anyway, I moved in here instead. Costs less than a quarter.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s a slum.”

  “Just where I fit in, it seems.” Gerald grinned, spreading out his arms. “Sold my clothes too. The poor buggers around here walk half naked, and will buy anything they can. Fine linen fetches a decent price.”

  Ludovic, who wore his usual damasks and sables, shook his head. “Then I’d better watch my back. Come back to The Horn with me, Gerry. I’ll pay.”

  “Give me the coin instead.”

  Ludovic was reading one of the pamphlets. “And you nail this stuff to church doors? Gerry, they’ll have your head.”

  “I’m too long in this business to make an idiot of myself and get captured now,” Gerald said, sitting back and frowning at his brother as the brazier crackled over smouldering coals at his back. “I know what I’m up to. And I owe it to the rightful king, and to poor Roland too. But if I lose my life after all, then I’ll make a good speech on Tower Green before I go. I knew the risks when I started. It’s his highness that matters.”

  “If there was the slightest chance of restoring the crown to the Plantagenets and sending Tudor scurrying back to Brittany, then I’d back you and probably finance you too.” Ludovic stood and wandered over to the window. Across the grey waves, the shadows of the Tower filled the furthest horizon. “But you’re no fool Gerry. You know it can’t be done.”

  “If I can get the prince out of the country, then perhaps it can. He needs an army to back him. Burgundy and Flanders will give it to him.”

  “They didn’t before.” Ludovic turned back, eyes narrowed. “Now father’s sent Brice to Flanders. He should have sailed by now and may be there preparing a place already. But it’s you must leave the country, my dear. No arguments.”

  Gerald opened his mouth, then paused, the scowl clearing. “All right. But give me just a few more days, Lu. Then I promise I’ll go peaceably.” He smiled, relaxing suddenly. “Once over there, I can find a way of talking to the Duchess Margaret, and Maximilian too perhaps. They both still support Prince Richard, you know.”

  “Once you’re there, you can do what you like.” Ludovic sat again, hands to the brazier. Outside the wind blustered and the sleet rattled the window casement. “But you’re not to come back to England, Gerry. I’ll want that on oath.”

  “I’ll swear to it. At least, not unless I’ve a fair sized army at my back.”

  “Or until your poor bastard prince is executed, with nothing remaining to plot about.”

  Ludovic took his brother back to The Horn with him, arriving shortly before curfew closed the Ludgate. The landlord remembered his previous customer, and in company with Ludovic’s ostentatious finery, accepted Gerald’s reduced appearance without complaint. They ordered a hot supper, a chamber with a generous hearth and a fire already lit, a jug of hippocras and another of ale, and a good bed with the linen clean and well aired. The wad of pamphlets was parcelled and hidden in the clothes chest.

  Gerald slept through the long winter’s night, but Ludovic, his brother’s restless elbow in his ribs and his mind on other matters of equal dejection and disappointment, did not. A gale howled down the chimney and hurled the fire’s hot ashes into a smoky haze. The room smelled of stale beer, soot and Gerald’s long unwashed petticoat padding, hosiery and under-braies, in which he slept.

  In the morning, still weary and heavy eyed, Ludovic rode down the Strand from the Fleet to Westminster. Leaving his brother scribbling out messages of hatred against the Tudor usurper, Ludovic headed for the Tudor court. Early morning, but the day was dark as the sleet persisted beneath low black clouds. He arrived shortly after breakfast, coat and hat sodden and his horse dejected. The Thames danced with rain tumbling across the sullen waves and threatening flood. Thunder echoed from over St. James and the Leper Hospice, and lightning cracked the clouds in brief overhead silver.

  With little light creeping through the windows, Westminster Palace was aflame with candles, perfumes of beeswax, lavender and smoke, with a constant flaring draught from passing crowds. Now nearing the first day of the ’98 Christmas season, the court was noisy. Ludovic asked for William, Earl of Berkhamstead. He was directed down one long corridor, a page running ahead with a torch. The earl was still abed.

  “Married?” repeated Ludovic, surprised.

  “It happens,” sighed the earl, hopping naked from the bed and quickly pulling on a bedrobe, tying it tight around his recently expanding waist. “So we can’t talk here. Meet me in the Maria Chapel in a few minutes.”

  The unknown lady, peeping over the eiderdown, looked cross. “My apologies, my lady.” Ludovic bowed, then turned back to Berkhamstead. “I can wait elsewhere, if you’ve a mind –”

  “Oh, I’ve finished with all that nonsense for today,” said the earl. “I’ll be dressed and out to meet you quick as a piss and a spit.”

  Leaving the earl and his new countess’s allocated chambers, Ludovic headed out to the eastern courtyard and across the small paved opening to the next maze of corridors and the larger chapel beyond. It was when approaching the short sodden courtyard crossing that Ludovic glimpsed someone who did not seem keen to be seen. Dodging quickly back into the shadows was a well-dressed man, short statured but muscled beneath his brocaded coat, sleeves trimmed deep in baudekyn and then in sable, which swept the boards like a woman’s train. Plumed hat tucked under his arm, the man’s hair caught the sudden candle light and gleamed rich russet over an embroidered neckline. And then he was gone. A rustle of departing silken sleeves, the quick clip of boot heels, and then silence. Ludovic stood still and stared.

  He reached the Maria Chapel moments before Lord William. Mass was long finished and the marbled aisles were empty of all but shimmering reflections from the votive candles. William bustled in behind. The great arched ceiling echoed and their words were less private than they were supposed to be, but no hovering priest appeared to be listening and it was too stormy to walk outside.

  “Gerald’s been busy. Have you met up with him lately?”

  Lord William shook his head. “He sent you? I assure you I’ve not lost enthusiasm, and I’m as interested as ever in the cause. But,” and he sighed, “my uncle insisted on marriage, and even made the match on my behalf. It’s been two years he’s been negotiating for me and tell the truth, I like her so I was getting impatient. He’s the older generation of course, and says if I don’t produce an heir, he’ll be next in line to the earldom and I ought to be careful or he’ll bump me off to claim the prize. Silly old fool. Told him he’d be welcome to it. It’s not worth a gauze codpiece since my father gambled half the property away and the rest was confiscated after Bosworth.” William genuflected as an afterthought and then wandered over to the raised pulpit, gazing up at the painted murals depicting the Madonna’s expression of sublime satisfaction as she was raised to the heavens, the clouds parting generously for her ascent. “Got me a nice girl though,” murmured William. “Can’t complain. Gwennie’s sweet, and I’m pleased to have her at last. Comes with plenty of good farm land up in Norfolk and a couple of mansions in Surrey. Nice arse too.”

  “I’m pleased for you,” said Ludovic. “But when did you last see Gerald? Do you know what he’s up to?” Berkhamstead did. Initially he had helped with the calligraphy. “And how much do you know about present rumours?” Ludovic demanded. “Do the authorities suspect? Is Gerald in immediate danger?”

  “Oh no,” William smiled. “Or I’d have done something. No – no. I saw some of the pamphlets on the very doors of St. Paul’s a few days back, and not a thing was discovered, though of course the notes were pulled down and destroyed. Waste of good paper. Do you know how much paper costs these days?”

  “I’ve heard,” Ludovic interrupted him. “But another of my brothers, who seems to know more than he should, has the family
in uproar believing Gerald’s about to be arrested. You don’t agree?”

  William came back over, linking his arm through Ludovic’s and lowering his voice. “Listen my friend. There’s no specific suspicion yet as far as I know. Of course, in this game there’s always danger, but it’s a situation that justifies some risks. Have you ever been inside the Tower?” The thunder boomed outside, rolling like slow cart wheels around the Abbey steeple. The rain had increased. The sound of it pelting on the roof disguised William’s words. “The Duke of York is housed in a small apartment in the Lanthorn, two tiny chambers and not even a privy. He’s shackled, chains around his ankles attached to an iron collar on the neck. Can you imagine that? This is a king’s son and the rightful monarch of this realm, but called Perkin Warbeck to his face and treated as a criminal with his legs bleeding as he shuffles around those damned damp rooms.”

  “He’s alive,” Ludovic pointed out. “After his last escape, everyone expected Tudor to order his execution. Yet he remains alive.”

  “Is that always such a blessing?” William leaned back against the pulpit, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Kept like that, and with no hope of improvement however long he lives? I’d as soon be dead. But listen, there’s more. You remember that poor little bugger Warwick, old Clarence’s son?”

  Ludovic nodded. “The late King Richard’s nephew. He’s kept in the Tower too. I’m aware of that. It’s been ten or twelve years now, poor child. There’re no Plantagenets this Tudor wretch will risk allowing free.”

  “I understand why any new king needs keep a careful watch on the existing nobility. But Tudor’s so fearful of possible threats to the throne, he treats what’s left of the old royal family worse than cattle. He wants Warwick entirely forgotten by the people. After the fiasco at Stoke when the story was put about that it was Warwick claiming the throne even though he was already in custody at the time, poor little bugger, well, now Tudor’s taking no risks.”