Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I hate the Tudor court,” Ludovic sighed, slumping back within the padding of his cushioned seat. He did not question his father’s dislike of his mother. He had always known it. He also knew of the madness inherent within his mother’s family, barely matching the unspoken brutality within his father’s. “The palace seethes with hatred,” Ludovic said. “It’s all jealousy and ferments of plotting, each one against the other. And all for royal favour, even though most of them hate the king they fawn over.”

  “The Plantagenet court was little different,” the earl said. “Both previous kings were far better liked, but the courtiers envied each other with the same vengeance, and changed sides as self-interest moved them. It will always be the same.”

  Ludovic now walked without the crutch, but his recovery had been slow and he still limped and used a stick when tired. He had battled for the return of his health but was as surprised to see summer as it was to see him. He had not expected to walk again in the sunshine. Now there were only the king’s demands to obey, and he would be free to return to whatever hope of happiness might still be waiting for him in Sumerford.

  But although commanded to appear, they were not granted the crown’s indulgence immediately. They were not invited to stay at court, merely ordered to return again and again to await his majesty’s pleasure. The days became hot and humid, with the threat of storm hanging sticky over the Abbey. Those out of royal favour were not courted and the palace corridors held few invitations. But those lacking favour one year might be powerful the next, so some stopped to talk, offered company through the long and dreary afternoons, and exchanged gossip. And there was also William of Berkhamstead. Ludovic sought him out.

  “She lost the first one,” he said, shaking his head. “They often do, you know. But dear Gwennie is carrying again already, and I’ve great hopes of this one coming to term. Sons, Ludovic! I can hardly wait to tell his majesty my first son and heir is born.”

  They sat in the small inner courtyard, within hearing of the Abbey’s great bell. Ludovic’s appointment with the king was scheduled for ten of the clock, and he could not afford to be late. He frowned. “As likely to be a girl.”

  “What a misery you are Ludovic.” William smiled but shook his head. “Though girls have their uses too, especially on the marriage mart of course. But the first must be a boy. I don’t usually believe in superstitions, but come now my friend, no need to encourage the evil eye.”

  Ludovic sighed. “I wish you all the luck in the world.” He looked directly into the young earl’s soft brown eyes. “But I cannot forget Gerald, nor even the miseries of Prince Richard still imprisoned in the Tower. You seem strangely at home here now Will, talking of the king as a friend and ally. I find it hard enough to be cheerful at any time, and have no reason to think kindly of Henry Tudor. I’m dreading having to see him this morning.”

  William blushed. “Gerald. Of course. I miss him too you know. I saw you at his execution. That was a terrible day, but I had to be there, and send him what comfort I could. I nearly came over to speak to you and meet your father, but thought you’d sooner be left in peace at such a time. And then there was the unexpected trouble afterwards. I pray that scandal’s done with and settled now.”

  “Scandal?” Ludovic stared. “Gerald’s death was certainly a scandal, but not one I’d expect you to call settled.”

  The early sun flickered over the peaks of the royal gables. The warmth did not yet sink beyond the stone walls into the little paved courtyard with its bench and sundial, still too early for the morning’s long shadows to dissipate. The night’s dew still hung like rain drops from the buttresses. William’s pause was as lengthy as the blackbird’s song from the willow sapling, and he sighed with relief as the Abbey bells began to chime ten. “You’ll have to run,” his lordship said abruptly. “The king won’t wait, you know. I’ll look for you afterwards, to hear if it all went well.”

  Henry Tudor, King of England, clung to his throne. The Earl of Sumerford and his youngest son were announced by the royal usher, and walked the length of the great echoing chamber as the courtiers moved back a little, grouping out of earshot but watching carefully and listening where they could. The earl knelt his right knee three times to his king before standing straight backed before the throne. Ludovic, his knee to the boards, felt the familiar twist of pain as his bones struck wood. His knees remembered the rack with every step he walked, and kneeling was an even sharper torture. His ankles, straining as he bent both leg and foot, screamed silently. The bandages remained within his hose, their folds showing through the grip of the knitted silk, but did little to cushion the still swollen joints.

  His majesty’s eyes remained cold. He said, “Sumerford? Did I call for you?” He never forgot anything. He was sick, but not forgetful.

  The earl bowed and looked down his nose. “If it pleases you, majesty, we are here at your grace’s summons.”

  “I have enough traitors and evil wishers around me,” the king said, “why should I welcome more?” His words were precise but heavily accented in French with a strong Breton burr, and his voice was prim and colourless, finding its own way between closed lips.

  “We have come to humbly thank your majesty,” said the earl, his voice as expressionless and his mouth as static. “We are most conscious of your majesty’s magnanimity in granting my son a pardon and releasing him from custody. Before returning to the Sumerford lands, we are deeply honoured for the opportunity to express our gratitude.”

  The king deigned to nod, but raised one finger, indicating a moment’s silence. A woman sat beside him. It was not his wife. The king’s finger was heavy knuckled and shook a little, like the tentatively wagging tail of a hunting hound past its usefulness. The woman unbent and leaned towards him, whispering something. Tudor nodded again. He looked back to the earl. “We are pleased to accept your gratitude, my lord. But two sons implicated in treachery does no credit to an English nobleman. My lady mother reminds me that you had four sons, two now proven traitors, and another banished in disgrace. What of the fourth, my lord? Is your heir an honest knight at least?”

  Ludovic frowned, puzzled, and looked to his father, but kept his mouth shut.

  The earl bowed again and said, “My eldest son Lord Humphrey is well, sire, but has recently suffered the loss of his firstborn. He is an honest knight of England and utterly loyal to your majesties.”

  The woman seated beside the king whispered to him again. Dressed in severe black with a headdress closely resembling a nun’s, she was elderly, small and remarkably thin. Her eyes, beneath high arched but unplucked brows, stared disdainfully, ignoring all company except the king. Her mouth was tiny and lipless, barely finding voice. The king nodded to her, smiling warmly. “My lady mother,” he said, “is pleased to hear that at least one of your family keeps a dutiful heart and a wise head.” The earl bowed. The king continued. “My lord, we well remember your particular loyalty at Stoke and Exeter. It was for this we pardoned your son, but he will not again be accepted at court until he proves his own loyalty to his country.”

  “I beg to point out that my son has never been proven guilty of treachery, sire,” the earl replied, unsmiling. “He was not called to trial, and did not confess, even on the rack. After many months confined to the Tower, his questioning was finally interrupted by the issuing of the pardon graciously signed by your majesty’s self.”

  “Ah yes.” The king chewed his lip. He looked towards his mother, who gazed balefully and unblinking at the earl. The earl bowed again. “Very well,” decided his majesty. “For the sake of your past services, my lord, I shall condescend presumption of your son’s innocence. But I advise you both to keep your distance from court until matters here are more ordered, and there is no more possible threat of rebellion.” He stared, tapping his fingers on the arms of his great carved chair, and bent forwards a little as though confiding matters not intended for public knowledge. “Unrest continues, and troubles us,” he said, low voiced. “
I will not suffer traitors any longer, and will not accept those around me who mutter and stir up discontent. So stay within your own lands as the year wanes, sir, and do not approach me again for favours or mercy unless I send for you. While we remain beset by evil and treachery, it would be wise for those under taint of such conspiracies to keep their distance, or be accused themselves.”

  “I understand, sire. As your majesty wishes.”

  The king nodded dismissal. He raised one fur cuffed wrist and waved his fingers, turning back at once to his mother’s murmurings. The earl and his youngest son bowed low, backing slowly from the throne. His majesty’s mother whispered once more. The king bent dutifully towards her, smiling, his court forgotten. The earl and Ludovic Sumerford strode from the hall.

  Leaving Westminster without words either to each other or with any other, they rode quickly back along the Strand. The sun, now midday, was high and hot. The Thames shimmered in a sulphur gloss across the deep churning brown beneath. A stray dog was scavenging amongst the dross on the banks, barking to warn away the ravens.

  Dismounting at the stables of their own hired premises as the ostler ran to take the horses, Ludovic began to speak at last. The earl shook his head. They were back in their own solar before his lordship said, “From now on, my son, you will be more careful than ever before in your life. There are spies in every corner of the land, and now the king suspects us personally. Everything we do will be watched. What you say in the hearing of others could cost both our lives.”

  Ludovic frowned, sitting immediately on the low cushioned window seat. His legs were on fire, his back throbbed and his head had begun to ache. He stretched, easing his knee joints. “This dark brooding fear feels close enough to death already. I’m well enough to travel now,” he said. “Even the damned doctor admits I’m nearly recovered. The sooner we leave the better I shall like it.”

  “I needed only the king’s permission and official corroboration of the pardon,” said the earl. “Tomorrow I shall order preparations for our return to Sumerford.” He paced the chamber, hands clasped behind his back. “His majesty hinted at something in particular, though whether he intended to warn me or not, I cannot be sure.” He stopped pacing and stood before his son, gazing down into Ludovic’s eyes. “But, my disposition not being readily obtuse, I assume, and read his words this way. The king wants the threat of this Plantagenet prince finished forever. He needs to execute the boy. He therefore intends creating a situation of sufficient suspicion to give a direct excuse. He will use whoever is in the vicinity, and will implicate whomever he wishes. Others will devise the details, but the orders will be the king’s. Prince Richard will be hanged as Peter Warbeck before the year is out. And you, my son, must not be anywhere near, or you will be too convenient as dupe or scapegoat. All those once implicated in treachery are now in danger, whatever their guilt or innocence. You will not be one of them. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?”

  “You appear to understand this Harry Tudor very well, my lord.”

  “He is both clever and devious,” said the earl. “But I do not condemn the skills of manipulation. I have never claimed naïve candour and have no wish to appear an artless simpleton. I believe the king warned me, and I translate his warning as I have told you. You may make your own judgements.”

  Ludovic nodded. “I judge the king, not you my lord. And he sits his wretched mother on the queen’s throne. She looks a sour, malignant creature for all her famed charitable chastity.”

  “Tudor credits God and his mother, in that order, for putting him on the throne,” the earl said. “He is probably right, though I would reverse the order.”

  Ludovic paused, staring carefully back up at his father. Then he straightened his back and sighed. He was hot, dressed suitably for court and king, now sweating in heavy crimson silk and cream fur trimmings. But he made no attempt to throw off the damask surcoat or loosen his neck lacings. “There is something else, Father, far more important than the wretched king and his mother,” Ludovic said. “There’s something he said which I did not understand. It was what was hinted, what was implied, and what I now need explained, sir. What is it you have intentionally not told me of Brice?”

  The earl nodded. He pulled up a small chair and sat again, looking across the sunbeams at his son. “We are a family who keeps secrets, my boy,” he said softly. “I have kept many secrets from you in the past, and will no doubt do so again. But this time my silence was inspired by consideration. You have been exceedingly ill, Ludovic. You are still extremely weak, and could have done nothing whatsoever to help either myself or your brother. Nor did I require your interference. You needed to concentrate only on regaining your strength. Indeed, Gerald’s loss has weakened us both. I therefore chose to keep silent for excellent reasons, as you also have, in the past. I imagine what you knew of Brice you kept to yourself in order to save my feelings and my paternal pride. What has now occurred regarding your brother, I kept to myself for the sake of your recovery.”

  “I believe,” Ludovic said, “you had better tell me now.”

  Chapter Fifty

  The door unlocked. Jennine had brought clothes. The page Remi piled the heap of soft materials on the chest and stood back with a small smirk. Jennine nodded to him. “Off you go now, boy. Tell Vymer to lock the door behind you, and to stand guard outside until I knock for him.”

  Alysson was curled on the bed, the covers creased up beneath and around her. She wore only her shift for it was hot and humid. A summer storm was gathering high above the castle. Alysson’s back was to the door. She did not move, but stayed staring out through the window to the billowing clouds and the calls of the kittiwakes and terns. “What now?” she said, without turning around.

  “Rude girl.” Jennine flopped down on the nearest chair and glared at her prisoner’s back. “Turn around and look what I’ve brought you. You’ve been begging endlessly for clean clothes. So I decided to be kind.”

  Alysson looked briefly back over her shoulder. “I don’t care,” she said. “I’ve already seen the quality of your special gifts in the past. And you only want me to dress up for him.”

  Clovis, knees hugged to his chin, was hunched on the window seat. His eyes were closed. He did not open them. The heat of the sun through the glass clipped the top of his grubby curls, turning the dun thatch bright. He grunted, pretending to snore.

  Jennine ignored him. “Alysson, I demand you sit up and take some interest. Have I sent Humphrey to you yet? Have I sent Vymer? No. I’ve given you a few more days to think about things and see my point of view. You should be thoroughly grateful.”

  “How could I be anything else, after all your kindness,” said Alysson without expression and without moving.

  Jennine stamped her foot. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you Alysson. Try thinking instead. I could have you thrashed. I could send Vymer in to beat you, and then tell him to take you to bed and be as rough as he likes. Instead I’ve treated you with consideration and respect. I’ve waited and waited. I’ve been kind, Alysson.”

  Alysson finally turned. She sat cross legged on the old velvet counterpane, glaring at the other woman through the rising dust dithering and trapped in the sunbeams. “I watched you bring in my little brother’s remains and order his poor broken bones tipped over the floor. You knew about Pagan’s murder, and you laughed. I’ll never forgive you for that, Jenny. Taking me prisoner, keeping me here, threatening me with every vile horror you can think of – I could almost forgive that. Not entirely, but I know about your past, and your childhood, and some of the wretched things you’ve been forced to do yourself. And I know what contempt you have for respectability, even if you secretly yearn for it. You think I have nothing else to aim for, so why don’t I just accept your offer. Prostitution seems natural to you, and you think I’m absurdly squeamish to object. But you’re twisted, and cruel, and you don’t understand me at all. I could never forgive all your filthy plans and how you plotted to use me from the start. But now,
after Pagan, if I believed in curses, I’d damn you to Hell.” She paused, and nodded. “In fact, I believe you’ve cursed yourself, Jenny. You’re evil. Hell’s waiting for you. Evil people bring evil on themselves.”

  The spots of high colour had reappeared on Jennine’s cheekbones. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that, horrid common brat,” she snapped. “It’s been your own fault from the beginning, if only you’d realise it. If you hadn’t been so sneaky and secretive, and planned to leave me after all I’d done for you, I wouldn’t have needed to lock you up. You could have stayed free in my service and I’d have kept you in comfort for months before I passed you over to Humphrey. So you brought all this on yourself. And now you simply refuse to co-operate, even though it’s clear you’ve no choice but to do what I tell you. Yet still I’m patient. I didn’t kill your nasty little brother and chop him up in bits. That happened even before I was married, and I knew nothing about it until that pathetic turd digger finally dug the pieces up. So don’t blame me. And I was simply cross about your stupid stubbornness, or I wouldn’t have had all that shit spread under your nose either. So, if you don’t want any more unpleasant surprises, sit up and smile and try to please me for once.”

  Clovis opened one eye. Between the knees he was hugging cramped up beneath his chin, was wedged the small meat knife that he and Alysson shared. He had grabbed and hidden it as soon as the key grated in the lock. With a nod to Alysson, he had taken up position. Now he watched surreptitiously, his breathing deep and even and his twitching fingers unseen.

  Jennine stood angrily, kicking away the folds of her hems and marching over to the bed. Her gown was rose pink purpura and her shift was crimson cendal. The two layers of silk clung to the dark sweat in her armpits, collected in her cleavage and trickled sour down her spine. Her back was to Clovis. From his small angle, Clovis looked up. Alysson’s nod was imperceptible.