Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

Alysson snapped her mouth shut. The fire hissed into small flaming points. Finally she climbed up from her knees and went to the door. “I’m going to see how Eddie is. The doctor will have been again by now.”

  “That’s a pitiful fire,” Jennine objected, once again disappearing beneath the bedcovers. “And that damned page should be lighting it anyway, not you.”

  “Clovis isn’t very good at fires,” said Alysson. “And he did bring the twigs. Besides, I expect he’s now busy stirring medicines somewhere. Have you any message for me to take to the sick room?” She glared back at her mistress. “An announcement that you’ll be visiting shortly, for instance?”

  Jennine’s voice was muffled by blankets. “Don’t be beastly, Alysson. And hurry back. I need you. I think I’m catching a cold.”

  “Since you don’t like Clovis, I’ll find your own pageboy and send him for wood to build up the fire.” Alysson looked back over her shoulder. “I suppose you’d better stay in bed after all. At least it gives me a good excuse for your absence to tell the nurses and everyone else.”

  Jennine emerged with an explosion. “Don’t you dare offer excuses for me to those pathetic nurses, Alysson. Why should I excuse myself to anyone? And don’t send Clovis. He’s a horrid little boy and I’ve no idea where he came from. I never asked for him, and he’s completely useless as a page.”

  “Well, that’s what he is,” said Alysson quickly. “But I’ll send Remi with wood as soon as I find him, though he’s a nasty spoiled brat and Clovis is much sweeter, even if he’s not so experienced at the job. I’ll be back myself in a few minutes.”

  In hot weather the Sumerford castle corridors stayed chill and damp. In mid-January they were mired with ice, and knife draughts discovered every doorway and stairwell. Frost crept along the stone archways and painted the inner window sills white. Alysson hurried down and around the worn and echoing steps of the East Tower, wrapping her hands within her apron skirts for warmth. She bounded into the Nursery and slammed the door against the wind from above. Leaving the freeze without, she entered the sudden swelter. The heat within the great chamber was intimidating, every shutter tight closed and stuffed with rags against draughts. In the fire lit flush, a small crowd had gathered. The baby lay silent. Bending over the crib were the doctor, his assistant, the apothecary, her ladyship the countess, her ladyship’s companion and chief maid, two nurses and Humphrey. Alysson whispered. “Is he?”

  The younger nurse looked over. “No Mistress, there’s change neither for good nor for ill. But the little mite is gone so quiet and the doctor fears the worse.”

  The countess glanced up. She frowned. “Order that female to leave,” she snapped to the nurse. “She should never be permitted to enter the nursery. Such a shameless character could be a harmful influence. Get rid of her.”

  For a moment Alysson stood still, one leg hesitating mid-air. Then she swung around and left in a rush, pulling the door behind her. In the sudden cold outside she leaned back against the crumbling stone, blinking back shock and tears. There was, however, no time to be either upset or resentful. Someone was shouting from a distance, then other voices answered. Within a heartbeat Hamnet appeared at great speed, jowls and velvet skirts bouncing.

  “My lady.” He pushed into the nursery, ignoring the hush of expectation and misery within. “His lordship wishes to see you at once, my lady,” Hamnet announced. “It is most urgent. There is terrible news come from London.”

  The countess looked down her nose. “Hamnet, this is absurd. The situation already threatening us here is far more urgent than any business of king or capital. The next heir lies in danger of his life. What could be worse?”

  Hamnet’s words trembled. “Forgive me, my lady. I merely obey his lordship’s orders.” His voice shrank to a whisper. “A messenger has come from his majesty’s Chancellor. It is the lords Gerald and Ludovic, my lady. They are to be – executed.”

  Alysson watched as the Countess of Sumerford hurried from the chamber and followed Hamnet with a rustle of swirling damasks. For some time afterwards Alysson stood quite still in the darkness, staring at nothing but immovable shadow. Then she turned and, once more trudging up the stairs with the whistle of the wind echoing above, slowly returned to the Lady Jennine’s apartments.

  Jennine was up, sitting close to the newly flaring fire. “Good God, child,” she said at once. “You’re as white as that damned snow outside. What has happened?”

  Alysson shook her head. “It’s not the baby. I think Eddie’s condition is just the same. It’s – something else.”

  “Well then? Spit it out, foolish girl.”

  Alysson collapsed on the bed and closed her eyes, addressing the darkness within her own eyelids. “Ludovic,” she whispered. “And Gerald. They’ve been arrested. There is a sentence of – death.”

  The Earl of Sumerford stood beneath the huge iron portcullis, staring out across the snow spattered moat to the wide road leading away due east. The risen sun was already edging westwards towards the sea. It spangled the flurried snow, sparse flakes and a wistful windless day.

  The earl shivered within his furs. He was dressed to impress. The huge shoulders of his surcoat were padded and pricked out in bliaut and sable. Suitable for an elderly man, his doublet was long skirted, his coat swept the turns of his riding boots, and his hat was wider brimmed and his hose thicker than fashion dictated. His gloves were deep cuffed and lined in sable, his sleeves sable trimmed and his shirt woollen. But he was frozen. The world had chilled him beyond reach of fur.

  Within the courtyard his men gathered in silence. He would ride amongst forty Sumerford troops fully armoured, ten liveried men of his personal staff, Lord Ludovic’s secretary and Lord Gerald’s new young squire. On their approach to Westminster Palace, the captain of the guard would ride ahead bearing the Sumerford standard, the arms rich embroidered with dragon and basilisk and twice quartered, argent and gleaming gules.

  The stables were in uproar, fifty two horses brought out and saddled and his lordship’s own huge charger to be calmed, quickly groomed, caparisoned and bridled in silver. Turvey had already been exercised that morning but, well fed and excited by the noise and turmoil, snorted and rolled his eyes, eager for the sound and smell of his master. The grooms raced, sliding over the sheen of ice on cobbles. The guards claimed their mounts, the bugles sounded, the castle staff ran down to watch.

  Two carts were packed high, two sumpters to draw each cart. Supplies for the journey, his lordship’s clothes, and generous gifts for the king. His secretary came to the earl, a slight cough to gain attention. “My lord, Turvey is ready waiting and the guards already mounted, awaiting your orders.”

  The earl turned. “Bring me mulled wine.” He turned back to the increasing wind. “And inform my heir that I leave within the half hour. I wish to see him before I go.”

  “The Lord Humphrey is closeted in the nursery tower, my lord. I shall send a page for him.”

  “I doubt his son has much further need of him. He may return to the child if he wishes after I have left.”

  “And her ladyship, my lord?”

  “I cannot conceive of any reason to summon that woman now,” said the earl. “She may concern herself with her prayers.”

  The secretary backed away and hurried to the castle. The earl remained staring out across the moat.

  Alysson grabbed Clovis. “Have you heard?”

  The main hall was deserted. The great fire flared and crackled like a burning forest. Alysson, greatly chilled, was crouching before it, warming her hands. She should not have been there but no one in the castle was now in their rightful place and no one was concerned with protocol. There was stunned silence where there should have been bustle and busy noise, there was consternation where there should have been peace and quiet. Hamnet was outside and the two assistant stewards were busy organising stores to be loaded from the kitchens. Clovis had crept through the long corridors, searching for the woman he had been hired to watch and pr
otect.

  He sighed. “Thought I’d lost you. Have searched the whole bloody place twice, I have. An’ I’ve heard all right. If it weren’t for wot I promised his lordship, I’d be off to London now to do wot I can to get him out.”

  Alysson had been crying, but her eyes, red rimmed, were now dry. “His father will get him safely away. He has to.”

  Clovis sat on the Turkey rug beside her. His eyes reflected the fire, small and demonic. He gazed in misery at Alysson. “Come to London wiv me.”

  She gulped and shook her head. “I thought of that already. I don’t give a damn about the people here and most of them don’t like me. There’s only Jenny and she’s a bitch anyway. I could pretend to be your sister. We could hitch a ride in a carrier’s cart. But I don’t have a penny. We might barter a ride by helping load and unload, but what would we do in London?”

  “So bloody practical,” sniffed Clovis. “We’d get by. They does, you know, all them Londoners, and most ‘o them ain’t got no pennies neither.”

  “I want so much,” said Alysson, “just to be near him. I want to help him. I don’t mind not having much to eat, and I don’t mind living under The Bridge. At least – I don’t think I mind. But I can’t make myself believe I’d be the slightest use to him at all. Indeed, it would be the opposite, for as soon as poor Ludovic discovered I was there lurking around the Tower, he’d worry and it might make him feel even worse.”

  “You females,” Clovis declared, “talk such rubbish. Wot’s all that romantic shit got to do wiv it? It’s bribing guards and sorting escapes we’d be doing.”

  “Oh dear,” said Alysson. “Bribe them with what?”

  Within the half hour the earl rode out surrounded by his entourage, the jingling of harness and clanking of weaponry, the creak of wet leather and the snorting of the horses. Turvey tossed his mane, hot breath clouding in the frosty air. The snow had increased to a swirling crystal fantasy, swallowing the troop as they crossed the moat and merged into the white bluster beyond.

  Humphrey stood on the drawbridge, hugging himself against the cold. He stood alone. The snowflakes clung to his eyelashes and his beard. He licked them off his moustache, the thick hair reclaiming its rich red through the white sparkles. The first chill shadows spread long across the moat, shuddering into sudden dark as the sun sank westwards behind the turrets. Humphrey tried to remember his father’s last words, and wondered, with the bleakness of acknowledged inadequacy, what he should do next. Something inexorably horrible lurked at the back of his consciousness but he could no longer quite remember what it was. He turned, eager to be back in the warm.

  It was Hamnet who came, bowing deeply. There were tiny tears in the corners of his eyes. “My lord.” The old steward sank to one knee on the rimed cobbles. “Your son, my lord. Her ladyship your mother bids you come quickly.”

  Humphrey looked down, remembering suddenly the wretched nightmare that he had almost buried for fear of remembering. “My Eddie?”

  Hamnet nodded, head low, and cleared his throat. His voice trembled. “I am deeply, deeply sorry, my lord.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ludovic sat across the small table from the man questioning him. He allowed the questions to assimilate slowly, absorbing the words separately before attempting to unite them into form and purpose. Finally, as each question coagulated in his brain, he attempted to formulate an answer. No word, no question and no answer made sense to him and a peculiar feeling of detachment from reality made both listening and speaking unusually difficult. More than anything else, he strained, hoping for enlightenment.

  He had been stripped to shirt, hose and boots, and was bitterly cold. He had always thought his own stone house chill, but the Tower iced away memory, its dripping limestone a constant threat to sanity. But it was time which had, more than anything else, become the most treacherous enemy. Hours passed without count and became days without end. Long silent weeks drifted without purpose or hope. The silence of his captivity seeped into his mind like the ooze of the damp, until his thoughts were also frozen and timelessly fragmented.

  “You will answer me directly, sir, and you will answer speedily.” The narrow lips in the narrow face moved, the words floated on the frost spiked air. To Ludovic, its owner seemed abstract and distant. He nodded, trying to make sense of words and intention. “There is no need to think before answering,” the man continued. “With each pause I know you conjure lies and pretence, which I will not permit. Your responses must be honest and immediate, sir.”

  Ludovic’s tongue felt thick and dry. His throat felt raw. His voice obeyed him only slowly. “Without first thinking,” he said carefully, “I cannot remember how to speak. I find it impossible to be immediate, either in response or in comprehension. Everything, including yourself sir, appears to me in the shape of a dream. A nightmare. I have no idea what you ask, or why I am here, or how to answer.”

  “You will answer with the truth. There are ways of demanding quicker responses. I can show you instant reality, sir, in the shape of the rack. That will facilitate your tongue, I promise you.”

  Ludovic had been shackled. His hands were free, his fingers balled into fists and frozen, but his ankles were ringed and chained together, each movement grating rust against iron as the chains swung and pulled. The shackles rubbed persistently but had not blooded him, for they encircled his ankles over the soft leather of his riding boots. He was restricted to a slow shuffle and constantly reminded of the humiliation and the nightmare. At first he had also been beaten. Held upright by four men, he had been knocked and pummelled, the guards’ knuckles against his face and ribs a hundred times, boots to his shins and knees to his groin. His broken ribs and bruises were now healing, but in the everlasting winter of his tiny room there was little relief from pain. He slept fitfully, hating the solitary and threatening silence and the endlessly long and empty hours, interrupted only rarely by the brief unlocking of the door.

  “I have answered as I can,” Ludovic replied. “But when you demand to know what plots and treacheries are planned next, the details of foreign letters and conspiracies for invasion and escape, I cannot answer. I know nothing of such things. I have been party to no such business and understand nothing of it. I doubt such plans exist.”

  The man sitting opposite scowled and bit his lip. Martin Frizzard was a thin man but appeared larger for he was exceedingly warmly dressed. His coat and doublet were plain but they were padded, trimmed in double layers of fox fur and lined in thick wool. He well knew the permanent chill of his official chambers and was clothed against it, for as his prisoners shivered from ice and fear, it was important to sit warm, complacent and comfortable, watching as the pitiful wretches trembled and fell into panic and dejection.

  He was, however, not much interested in the prisoner now before him. A minor character, with as yet small proof of intent against him. But if the use of torture was allocated as he expected it would, then his interest would increase immeasurably. Martin Frizzard was intrigued by torture, its methods and its results. Although illegal without explicit authority, its benefits to the state were becoming increasingly appreciated. Authorisation was now more frequently given in cases of high treason where obstinate conspirators refused to divulge their secrets. The continuous problem of the fool and fraud Perkin Warbeck had brought England’s lurking traitors into the foreground. The art of successful torture and the employment of those men most particularly experienced in its practice and suitable to its development, had become of major importance to the crown. Master Frizzard was experienced. He was adept at devising new methods and improving and elongating those already much used.

  He smiled. “Dissimilation is most unwise, sir,” he said. “Information against you has already been laid. Your past involvement in treachery is well known to us. You attended the execution of a known traitor and felon, and visited him beforehand during his custody. You are brother to Sir Gerald Sumerford, a known agitator, also implicated in these plots and conspiracies
, a man arrested in the past for the same crime and known as a distributor of treacherous pamphlets. You yourself were arrested while attempting to flee the country, and you were seen to murder a member of his majesty’s guard. You are clearly complicit, sir. Your guilt is already proven and your execution is assured. You gain nothing from denial. You must confess.”

  Ludovic sighed. He was numb both with cold and with confusion. He passed frigid nights in a stumbling puzzle of dream worlds where a small black haired girl curled close in his arms, kissing the wounds on his face and breathing the warming sweetness of her breath against his lips. But throughout the dark hours, he woke constantly to find himself alone and utterly lost.

  For two months he had been held in one small chamber in the Salt Tower. Just above ground level, this overlooked the Thames but no window opened to air or water, and the sharply iced draught was limited to the doorway. There was neither garderobe nor hearth, but a chamber pot and a small brazier stood beside the bed. The mattress was old wool bundled within hessian, grown damp and hard over the years. Ludovic had paid for new sheets and a thin woollen quilt. His own purse brought the limited comforts he was permitted; food, drink and some warmth. The charcoal brazier was refilled twice a week and a small cooked dinner brought each midday, ale and manchet each morning, and hippocras at the wane of each afternoon. The dinner was quite cold by the time it reached him but it warmed him anyway for those few short moments while he ate. He had at first paid for his doctor, ointments and bandages. The doctor had sewed the split above his eyebrow, six neat black stitches, now removed. The tiny holes where the needle and thread had passed still decorated each side of the long pale scar. Now Ludovic bought candles. He bought paper, quill and ink. And he bought news of his brother.

  Gerald was kept far distant across the inner ward in the Beauchamp Tower. He was a prisoner of greater importance and proven complicity. Ludovic’s purse also paid for his food, his ale and his blankets. In this way, each brother knew the other lived.