Sumerford's Autumn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Ludovic nodded. “I’m sorry. My brother loved you and died for you. I regret that beyond anything else, but I regret your death too. You had my support, but I had other loves in my life to live for. Is purgatory such a hard road, that ghosts choose to linger here? I don’t understand why you come to me, as your brother did.”

  “I come to you because you suffered for me,” the voice replied. “My brother sent me. I came to thank you, and ask your forgiveness before I travel on. Now I see no threat nor is there the murk of purgatory, only light and colour and beauty. Edward will take me into the planes of Paradise.”

  “Then you have my prayers,” murmured Ludovic.

  “I don’t need your prayers anymore,” the voice said. “But you have mine. And Edward’s. He’s grateful for the comfort you gave him, and I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. Your life will be easier now. Your future waits peacefully in your wife’s arms and the founding of your own family. No man needs power, only love. I should have learned that before.”

  The next morning Ludovic rode to Westminster. He travelled alone. It was the first time he had left Alysson in nearly four months, but he would not risk taking her to court unannounced and unsummoned.

  It was late November and the leaves had blown. Dark branches flared stark against a pale, snow laden sky. The sleet held off until Ludovic dismounted. The Abbey bells were ringing, muffled behind the sudden downpour. Ludovic strode into the long passages of Westminster Palace and went straight to the chambers he knew. A page announced him but he did not wait to be invited in.

  He found the Earl of Berkhamstead sitting over a candle stub, playing chess with himself. William looked up, startled. Ludovic entered quickly and stood, looking down at him. “So, it’s finished at last,” he said softly.

  William’s eyes were bloodshot. His face loomed white above the tiny flickering flame. He nodded. “You heard then. Four days ago. A travesty. A tragedy.”

  Ludovic frowned. “The last time I saw you, you’d become mighty friendly with the king. I imagined you’d changed loyalties. Doesn’t the prince’s death leave you free to advance your own family fortunes?”

  “I loved him.” Berkhamstead looked away, his eyes moist. “I tried to speak for him at his trial, but they allowed no one in and no evidence of any kind was given. It was a mockery of justice with the result a foregone conclusion. The prince was condemned as a traitor to the crown. What bitter irony. As the true heir to the throne, he should have worn the crown himself.”

  “He was tried under the name Piers Warbeck?” Ludovic raised one eyebrow. “As a foreigner then? But how can a foreigner be a traitor to an English monarch? What nonsense was condoned here?”

  “De Vere sat as Lord High Steward, and stated simply that Warbeck’s actions were sufficient justification, found him guilty and sentenced him to death without a jury.” William shook his head, thumping his fist on the low table. The chess pieces jumped and tumbled. “De Vere was always Tudor’s pawn. I’m told that the prince stood silent and gazed around him as if bemused. When he heard the sentence of hanging and quartering, he blanched and bowed his head. He offered no defence.”

  “For pity’s sake.” Ludovic sat down opposite the young earl, staring across the chess board. “Defence? To what crime? For being himself?”

  “They say he plotted to escape from the Tower. The prince and poor miserable Clarence’s son Edward of Warwick found a way to correspond. Imprisoned in dreadful isolation, what man wouldn’t welcome the friendship of another? But then others, some sympathetic gaolers and hopeful conspirators from outside, both those who hate Tudor and those with their own ambitions, it was said they planned to free the prisoners.” Berkhamstead leaned forwards, speaking suddenly in whispers. “I knew of those plans. I encouraged them. The prince deserved to be free again, and young Warwick too. But I kept separate, and spoke of it to no one except Gwen. Then the plots were discovered. Thank the Lord, my own part in it stayed secret.”

  Ludovic paused a moment. He nodded towards the door. “The page is outside,” he said. “Send him for wine.”

  The boy was called and sent running for hot gingered Malmsey. Once gone, Berkhampstead leaned forwards again across the table. “You’ve news of some kind? Something dangerous? Tell me.”

  “Not news. Suspicions.” Ludovic smiled slightly. “But your story first. What of the prince? Bad enough to be hung as a commoner, but surely not eviscerated alive? I’ve seen that done. It’s a torture no criminal deserves, let alone a prince of the realm.”

  “No, that sentence was passed by the court, but then mitigated. Prince Richard was hung, the wretched murder of a man innocent of everything except claiming his rights. But no other abuse was carried out in the end. I’m told the prince agreed to make no final announcement of his true identity on the scaffold, in exchange for mercy. Mercy indeed! I was there. I saw it from the crowd. I sobbed unashamed. Others did too. But when they behead young Edward of Warwick next week, there’ll be an outcry, that I know. Few realised who Prince Richard truly was and took Tudor’s word the boy was simply some false pretender from Flanders. But they know exactly who Warwick is, and respect his title and his absolute innocence.”

  Ludovic sighed. “Tell me the rest. Before I hear it from someone less sympathetic.”

  “Prince Richard was drawn all the way from the Tower. It was bitterly cold. He wore only a workman’s shirt, naked beneath with his legs bare and his head uncovered like a felon. He was roped to the hurdle and dragged through the mud and muck all the cold miles to Tyburn. He was filthy when he arrived at the scaffold, with his feet thick in shit and his face streaked in dirt. But he kept his dignity and said nothing at all. I watched from the crowd but my eyes were so full of tears I could barely see.”

  “And before his death?” Ludovic said. “He made no accusations?”

  “No. It was the price of escaping the quartering,” William said. “Tudor ensured all the foreign ambassadors were present, so he wanted a full confession. I don’t know if the prince had agreed to make one, but in the end he said very little. Tudor must have been disappointed.”

  “That’s a small consolation.”

  “Some official was sent up to make a statement of guilt on the prince’s behalf, but the prince just stood there, as if broken. He tried hard not to shiver. I could see how desperately he tried to keep his dignity, and act as a prince through the stench and the muck that covered him.” Berkhamstead shook his head. He was crying again, the tears filling his eyes and slipping over his cheeks. “They pushed him up the ladder to the noose. I was still terrified they might quarter him alive, but the prince showed no fear, only quiet acceptance. As if he welcomed the end of it all. All that miserable effort come to nothing. All that hope and suffering, the death of hundreds and the prayers of thousands.”

  “He said nothing?”

  “The official said it for him. ‘The traitor Piers Warbeck wishes it said that he admits his guilt ----.’ I could barely hear. The crowd were clamouring; those calling for blood, and those calling for pity. But he spoke briefly at the end, asking that God and the king and all others whom he had offended, would forgive him. Then they put the noose around his neck and pulled the ladder away. I wept.” He was weeping now, and continued in a whisper. “They usually struggle, you know, at the first drop. It’s natural perhaps. But the prince hardly moved. He just hung there, so thin and pale and mired by the city’s filth. He never kicked, nor cried out. He seemed already broken and so pitiful.”

  “They die quicker if they struggle,” Ludovic murmured.

  “It took a long time. The wind blew like ice. I stayed, trying to pray. He just hung there quietly, waiting to die. When they were sure he had died at last, the guards cut him down and took his head to spike on the bridge.”

  Ludovic looked away. “Is Gerald still there? He’d be proud to share a place beside his prince.”

  “I daren’t pass,” William whispered. “So I don’t know. But with so many new executions,
previous remains are disposed of after a month or two. Besides, there’s no recognising the identity after time, the weathering and the ravens. They boil and tar the heads to keep scavengers away, but the scavengers come anyway. Best not think of it.”

  “I don’t.” Ludovic stood suddenly and marched across to the window. He turned his back on the other man, and stood, his hands clasped behind him, staring across to the Abbey steeple. “The shame’s on Tudor’s head,” he said softly, “for the murdering of the innocents. And Warwick is to be beheaded? Poor wretched child.”

  “But you wanted the page sent away,” Berkhamstead interrupted. “You spoke of suspicions. What’s happened, then?”

  “A good deal, but that needn’t interest you,” Ludovic said. “I’ve married the girl I’ve wanted for a long time, and that’s keeping me sane and wiping out the memories of Gerald, and the racking and the Tower. But as for suspicions, it was you I suspected.” He turned abruptly, staring again at Berkhamstead. “We were betrayed, but there were things only you knew. About where Gerald was and what we had planned. About the inn by the Fleet at first. Then later about our intention to embark at Margate. I know my captain told you that when you visited him. Even the wickedness of my brother Brice, and his friendship with pirates. Kenelm told you about that too, didn’t he? Information only you had, Will. I’ve suspected you for a long time.”

  “My God.” Berkhamstead had gone quite white again. “You thought I’d betrayed you to Tudor? I never would have,” he whispered. “Never. I loved Gerald as I loved the prince. Gerald was my dearest friend.”

  “Perhaps I believe you.” Ludovic nodded, tight lipped. “But if it wasn’t you, there’s only one other person.”

  William gulped, staring back. “She wouldn’t.”

  “She must have. You told me she was from an old Lancastrian family. She acts the innocent, but she can’t be, Will. Can’t you see how everything you tell her rebounds on others, yet you stay free? And this latest tragedy? Now there’s hangings, beheadings, accusations and attainders by the score, but not against you Will, never against you.”

  William had jumped up. “She’s the mother of my son. The woman I love. If you say that again, I’ll kill you.”

  “You’ve a lot to thank her for. I imagine she’s saved your skin from Tudor’s spite a dozen times.” Ludovic had walked to the door. “No doubt her family discovered you were under suspicion for involvement in the very first plots. Gerald certainly was. You must have been too. So she went to the king and made a bargain to spy for him if he promised your safety. I believe she caused my imprisonment and Gerald’s death, but she did it for you, and your sons. I wish you joy of the results, my friend.” And he turned on his heel, wrenched open the door and stalked out.

  The page was running breathless with the tray of gingered wine, and nearly hurtled into Ludovic in the long shadows.

  “My lord?”

  Ludovic nodded, took the brimming cup and drained it. The wine was thick spiced and very hot. It scorched his tongue, calming him. The aromatic steam stung his eyes. He nodded, returned the empty cup to the tray, and strode quickly back outside into the cold.

  Chapter Sixty

  “You’ve seemed happy for so long. Now you’re sad again.” Alysson laid her cheek on his breast, absently kissing the raised nipple nudging her lips. Her hand sought his. “You were away four whole days, but then you come home sad. I missed you so much while you were gone. But it feels like only half of you came back.”

  Ludovic brought her fingers to his lips. “Do I seem so dismal? How selfish of me. I promise to laugh again tomorrow.”

  “Silly.” She wedged herself up on one elbow, looking down at him. “You don’t have to humour me.”

  He smiled. “Unforgivably patronising?”

  “Yes. It is when you try to keep me happy without telling me about your troubles, hiding things from me as if I were a child who wouldn’t understand.”

  “Forgive me, my love,” he sighed. “But it seems our Sumerford autumn is over and winter’s here at last.” He pulled her back down within the feather warmth of the bed, and into the greater warmth of his arms. “I’ve been reminded of Gerald all over again, and remembering Gerald’s death reminds me of what the rest of my family did, and how I’ve lost nearly all of them within a few months. And now with Prince Richard executed, the time for royal reconciliations is come. We’ve been summoned to court for the Christmas season. I’m not important enough to require royal approval for my choice of bride, but my father informed Tudor of our marriage, and the king insists on meeting you.”

  “Our first celebrations together?” She scowled. “And I have to be on my best behaviour, and not speak out of turn and learn boring protocol and how to address kings and walk backwards and not kiss you whenever I want to? I can’t dance very well I’m afraid, and I don’t like clarions and pibcorns.”

  Ludovic caressed her cheek, kissing the curve of her neck beneath her ear. “There’s no escape, my sweet. It’s a Tudor England from now on, and we must live with the new rules. The king has annihilated every Plantagenet he could get his hands on, and has even set about annihilating their reputations, rewriting history to his own benefit. His power is now unassailable and the lords have been forced to accept it. So must we, my love. Will you hate court so much?”

  “Of course I shall. I just want to curl up here with you, and watch our own mummings and mysteries, and kiss you under the mistletoe bough.”

  “Kiss me now,” he said, and kissed her first.

  She clung to him. The sweat from across his chest trickled between her breasts, collecting in her navel where his own body flattened against her. His fingers followed its damp snail trail, smoothing wet heat across her belly and into the silky dark curls at her groin. His wandering continued down, caressing her thighs.

  A huge fire had been lit earlier that evening, the logs filling the hearth and the blaze hurtling up the chimney in brilliant crackles and sparks. When the ice wind blew back the smoke, it billowed out into the room like a dragon’s breath. The chamber wallowed in warmth. Ludovic did not visit his lady’s quarters, but had brought her permanently into his own. He would not leave her alone, both for her comfort and for his, so the bile of past memories stayed safe cosseted away. Now the fire was burning low but the hiss of spitting logs still flared and the swelter, trapped all around, remained. Ludovic’s bed cocooned them both in curtained shadows, the whispering rustle of the silks and the gentle giving sigh of soft feather mattress and quilt.

  Ludovic tossed back the covers. “I want to see you.” The light from the fire danced in cinnabar fingers across her body. His own fingers traced the dance.

  “I like it when you say that,” she whispered. “And I’m not shy anymore. I like seeing you too. I like the smell of you, all sweaty and musky. I don’t know what you smell of, as if you’ve been rolling in something secret and wonderful. You smell of you.”

  “That’s desire.” He grinned down at her. “I smell desire on you too. Rosewater, fresh herbs, sweet soap in your hair, and the great and glorious sweat of desire. It’s as arousing as touch.”

  Her palms clutched at his shoulders, drawing him tight. “No. Touch is the best of all,” she smiled. “Touching you is almost as wonderful as you touching me. Your muscles are so strong and hard.”

  “I was little more than rattling bones after those months in the Tower. Now I’m myself again.” He had eased his body between her legs, pressing against her so that she lay in his shadow. “Strong enough to protect you, little one. No one will ever dare threaten you again, I promise. Not here. Not at court. Not anywhere.”

  “I’m not frightened. I’m never frightened now,” she said. “There’s different sorts of happiness, but this is one I never suspected was possible.” He kissed her breasts, pulling like a suckling child on the nipples. His head rested against her collar bone so the bright springing light of his hair was on her lips and tickled her cheek. His bright silk merged with her thick
dark waves. “You make me feel powerful as well,” she murmured. “I used to pretend to feel powerful, but it wasn’t true at all. I used to be frightened about so many things. I lied about that too. I expected to be sad all my life. And I felt so weak. I don’t anymore. You’ve made me into a new person, with a whole new life. Now I know what power really means.”

  When he came up for air, he cradled her again, smiling and content. His hands crept between her thighs which his own legs had parted. “You are powerful, my beloved. Far more powerful than I am. Especially here, and here, and here.”

  At her groin her hair curled tight and very dark. His was thicker, but bright and sweat slick. His hands played between the two, black twined to gold, groin to groin, finding her entrance. She trembled and clung to him. He began to whisper, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt he entered her there, as well as below. When he finally pressed deep inside her, she groaned and arched her back.

  He moved very slowly, supporting himself on his elbows, smiling down at her as he watched her expression. She blinked, feeling his watchfulness, and opened her eyes. “What do you see?” she whispered.

  “The woman I adore.”

  “Did you expect to discover someone else? I want more than that. Tell me properly.”

  He grinned, still moving within her, creating an easy, rhythmic pressure. “I like seeing the faces you make when I touch you deeper inside. You screw your nose up and breathe very fast. Then, when you squeeze hard around me, drawing me in, just as you’re doing now, your face concentrates as if you’re waiting to explode.”

  “I am. And I do explode. It’s like those artificial lights they set off with the St. John bonfires. All sparks and flares.”

  “Then when I draw out a little, you take a deep breath, waiting for me to push down again. Your expressions echo my movements. I like to watch the pleasure written across your face.”

  “I’d like to watch you too, but I can’t make love with my eyes open,” she whispered, closing them tight again. “It lets too much of the world back in. It interrupts the feeling.”