The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “Camomile and honey,” said Kat firmly, presenting her posset. “That’s what ’ee needs, after ridin’ in that hot sun.”

  “We’ve seen to the horse,” said Roger as he and Higg came in. “He’ll be all right, given time and a few good feeds.”

  Richard was suddenly seized by aggression. “I hope sho. It’ll take more than that to put me right!” His voice went up to a shout. “Bring me cider!” he bellowed and struck out, knocking the goblet from Kat’s indignant hand.

  “No cider, and none of my elderflower wine either. I’ll brew ’ee another,” she said, picking up the goblet. “Lucky this is pewter and not damaged,” she added.

  “You’ll bring what you’re told, woman!”

  “Bring the elderflower wine,” whispered Liza, “but water it.”

  This seemed to work. Richard growled but accepted the homemade wine in lieu of cider and didn’t seem to notice that it was weak. More quietly, and more clearly, he said, “There were battles. I got through ’em all and so did the Sweetwaters, right till the end. It was in Yorkshire, Towton it was called. That’s where the Yorkish…Yorkists did for us. The queen got away, went to Scotland, took her son—Prince Edouard, they call him, French-fashion—with her. We’ve got a King Edward now—so they shay…say.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “King Edward the Fourth. But there was no word of you, or Sir Humphrey Sweetwater or Reginald.”

  “No. They won’t come back.” Richard leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he said, making a determined and obvious effort to speak clearly, “Sim Hannacombe’s come home with me—Toby Searle, too. We were together—parted just outside Clicket. They couldn’t face Walter Sweetwater. Us three, we’re the only ones to come back. Sir Humphrey, Reginald, all the other men they took, they’re dead and…Liza, I’m sh…sorry to carry bad news here as well, but five of your kinfolk went to war along with the Luttrells, and they won’t come home, neither.”

  “Young Laurie?” Liza whispered. She had always liked Laurie, the son of her father’s cousin Laurence and his prolific wife, Elena. Laurie and his own wife, Katy, had been a fond couple, both skilled at the yarn making which was the speciality of their side of the family and anxious to teach their trade to their own three children.

  “Katy’ll live on and find another, I daresay!” Richard snapped harshly. “What else can she do? Harry Rixon died early on and most of the others at this place Towton. Geoffrey Baker, too.” His voice grew heavy and slurred again. “I shaw his body and Reginald Shweetwater’s. They were on foot, not in heavy armour. Dear God, what a big axe can do to a man! I didn’t know. Never ’magined. Horrible! Reginald…chopped near in half. Baker’sh head two yards from his body. I saw the Weavers, too, when I was getting away afterward. They was all together, in a heap. As for Sh…Sir Humphrey…”

  He gulped at his drink and once more forced his speech to clear. “I used to want to murder all the Sweetwaters. Once said I’d like to see all their heads on chopping blocks. Don’t feel like that now.” He fell silent, apparently lost in some dreadful memory.

  “What happened?” Peter asked at length.

  “The Yorkist soldiers, they did Humphrey and Reginald in for me,” Richard said, “and Walter Sweetwater can stay alive, far as I’m concerned. Death like that—it’s shick…sickening. I didn’t know! But someone had to tell Walter Sweetwater. See now why I want this wine? I went to Father Bernard first. They were in his flock, and it put off seeing Walter—only I didn’t say much about Geoffrey Baker, just in case that old tale’s true….”

  “What tale?” asked Liza.

  “Oh, you didn’t know about that?” Betsy, with a sudden chuckle, interrupted. Richard didn’t seem to mind, but closed his eyes again. “Geoffrey Baker’s mother—Annet her name was—was widowed young, went to work as housekeeper to Father Bernard, and there was talk. Then all of a sudden she says yes to Jimmy the Baker, who’d been askin’ her for months and bein’ stood off, on account of he got hisself done for putting chalk in his bread flour the year before.”

  “Probably true, too.” Richard’s eyes opened again. “Too well dressed for a baker. Made more money than he should by the look of him.”

  “Jimmy got away with it for a long while,” Betsy said, “but in the end he went too far, put too much chalk in and folk could taste something wrong. Harry Rixon’s dad was parish constable then, and had Jimmy marched through the village with a loaf of chalky bread hung round his neck and put him in the stocks for half a day. Annet said he was no man for her. But all of a sudden she changes her mind, and less’n eight month later she tripped over a step goin’ into her house and Geoffrey was born. Who’s to say? He didn’t look like either Father Bernard or Jimmy, but that’s the tale.”

  “Father Bernard believes it, I reckon,” Richard said. “Turned the colour of old cheese when I told him Baker was dead, and I didn’t say about his head being cut off, even. I think I hoped he’d go to the Sweetwaters for me, but he looked so stricken…couldn’t ask him to. I had to be the one. Not pleasant, bringing news like that to a man’s son, a man’s brother, even Sweetwaters! Walter’s wife and youngsters were there, too. The boy Baldwin’s an arrogant brat, but he’s only about thirteen and his sister Agnes is younger. She was there, with her mother. She’s pretty….”

  He paused, plainly unwilling to come to the point of Sir Humphrey’s death. Then he said, “Mary Sweetwater and Agnes both cried, hearing the news. They’re decent enough womenfolk, I suppose. Baldwin just went white. Cocky, like I said, but I pitied him then. Didn’t tell them all of it. Couldn’t. Must tell someone, though.”

  They were listening intently now, and in silence. Richard braced himself. “Sir Humphrey, he was up on a great big charger, in full armour. Horse was killed and he tried to run. Can’t run fast wearing a lot of iron plates. Pack of Yorkist infantry caught him. Knocked him over, took his armour off. Hardly took ’em a minute—they knew how to do it—then one of them shtuck…stuck…a sh…sword in his guts and…and dragged it…he screamed and screamed. Like drawing a pig but not killing it first. I saw his insidesh spilling out….”

  “Oh, no. Oh, don’t!” Liza was appalled. Kat stood with a hand clamped over her mouth. But Richard had begun at last to empty the horror out of himself and now couldn’t stop. His voice grew slurred again as he remembered. “Shaw…saw…his legs jerking about and the blood shoot up. I wash…was…hiding in a ditch, quite near. Didn’t see the finish. Cowered down, let the long grass droop over me. Couldn’t help him. Eight or nine of them, there were. Told his family he died quick. Thass what you have to shay. Everyone sh…says it, breaking news like that. Shometimes it’s true. Sh…sometimes not.”

  Liza was trembling. Betsy had an arm around her. “Master Walter looked sht…stunned when I told him his father and his twin wouldn’t be coming back,” Richard said. He tried to steady his voice again. “Messengers bringing bad news aren’t welcome mostly, but he was polite—I’ll shay that for him. Paid me for my trouble. Gave me a drink and I gave him back the dagger his father lent me. Me and Sim and Toby, we’ve been monthsh…months—three or more—getting home from the north. Didn’t have much money then—everything’d been in a muddle for so long; Sweetwaters couldn’t pay us. Toby got sick on the way, too. We had to stop. Sold the spare sword to buy food—didn’t like shtealing, but some places, where we’d passed through before, there weren’t much left to buy or steal! Folk were trying to get back on their feet. Twice we stopped to help on farms where there was some provender going, got our keep and a bit more to take with us, moved on. That way I could keep shome of the money I got for the sword. Slow journey…dead shlow…”

  He fell silent again and seemed about to fall asleep, but roused himself. “Give me your arm upstairs, Peter. I’m giddy and I want my bed.”

  Liza’s stomach turned over and she saw Peter gnaw his lip, but Richard was already getting shakily to his feet. There was nothing Peter could do but help him up the stair
s. Liza watched them go, hoping that Richard was too fuddled to notice that someone had been using his room, and that while he lay asleep, Peter could tiptoe around him and remove his own belongings.

  It didn’t work. Even when drunk and dazed with sleepiness, Richard was still remarkably observant. Liza, waiting nervously downstairs, flinched when she heard the roar of rage.

  “What’s this here, boy? Looks like one of your jerkins! You been using this room while I’ve been gone?” Then heavy footsteps—under the influence of fury, Richard had evidently recovered his sense of balance—and a door banging and another roar. “But Liza’s still in here, seemingly! Ain’t you two been shleeping together?”

  She heard Peter’s voice, quieter, trying to explain. A word or two reached her. “…last December…nightmare business…born dead…Betsy said…”

  “To hell with Betsy, interfering old cow! You get your things and get back where you belong and do your duty and see Liza does hers! Fine sort of a stud you make, boy! Bad enough she’s made a pig’sh ear of it again and again, but if you’re not even trying…should have let you wed that Marion! Wager she’d have had a baby nine months after the wedding!”

  Peter was annoyed enough to raise his voice in answer and the reply came clearly down the stairs. “I daresay Liza can hear you, Father. Just as well that she knows about Marion….”

  Richard rumbled something, on a questioning note.

  “Yes, I told her myself! And I’m damn glad I didn’t marry Marion. Maybe she would have had a baby straightaway, and I’d never have been sure it wasn’t fathered by a Norwegian sailor off a ship called Fjord-Elk!”

  Betsy and Kat came to stand beside Liza at the foot of the stairs. “Now, don’t ’ee worry,” said Betsy, while Roger, embarrassment written all over his lined face, scurried out of sight. Higg stood where he was, shaking his head in concern. “Master’ll calm down after a sleep,” said Betsy, “and as for the other, well, a man needs his wife. Nice rest ’ee’ve had. Likely enough everything’ll go right next time.”

  “I’ve one piece of good news for you.” Peter’s voice drifted down the stairs.

  “Have you indeed?” Richard barked. “And what might that be?”

  “Money. We’re doing well and Liza’s got more to offer than you think. You need new clothes and she’s weaving cloth now, from our own wool and she’ll see to it without paying a tailor—not that we couldn’t pay a dozen tailors if we wanted. You wait till you see inside our coffer!”

  “Really? Bloody good news, boy, given you and she provide us all with somebody to leave it to!”

  “Oh!” said Liza in a desperate voice. Betsy put an arm around her. “Crying’s no use,” Liza said. “I know that. But just what does he think I can do about it?”

  The Lanyons were not the only ones to receive news that day.

  “My lady,” said the gatekeeper’s boy—a younger one this time, since the youth who had once announced the arrival of Nicholas Weaver had followed Sir James Luttrell to join Queen Marguerite’s army—“my lady…there’s a man to see you. He’s got a string of knights with him.”

  Lady Elizabeth Luttrell knew that already. She had been in the grounds, not doing anything in particular, just roaming here and there and thinking about the past. Her son, Hugh, was at his studies. Her husband, James, Sir James, knighted at the end of the previous year after distinguishing himself in the service of the Lancastrians, had enjoyed his knighthood for seven weeks and then died in his next battle.

  She was still struggling to grasp the two great changes in her life—the fact that she was now Lady Elizabeth Luttrell and the fact that she was also a widow. She had had no say in her husband’s choice of allegiance, but she knew enough about the kind of passions which swayed both York and Lancaster to be afraid.

  Then she heard the horsemen arrive, hooves clattering and striking sparks from the cobbles of the steep road up from the village to the gatehouse. She hastened to the walls, to a place from which she could see what the visitors looked like. One glance at the standard-bearer who led the way was enough to tell her that her fears were justified. The new king himself wasn’t likely to be calling upon her in person, but his representative most definitely was. The standard displayed the badge of York, the spectacular Sun in Splendour.

  She made for the hall to take her seat on her dais, the lady of the castle in her own kind of splendour, ready to receive defeat and dismissal with dignity.

  Her visitors marched in, clanking as they came, since they were all in armour, with swords at their sides and spurs on their heels. Their leader gave her his name and rank, which was high, but somehow she was never afterward able to remember who he was. It didn’t matter. It was what he said that was important.

  “By order of King Edward, fourth of that name, the estates of the late Sir James Luttrell are forfeit to the crown. They will be granted to those who have shown loyalty to the house of York during the past few years.”

  “You are disinheriting my son?” said Lady Elizabeth.

  “His father disinherited him, my lady. Blame him, if you wish to blame anyone.”

  “Frankly,” said Lady Elizabeth, sitting very still and keeping her voice very calm, “I blame this new king, who takes vengeance on a young boy who has done him no harm and is not responsible for the actions of his father. Is that justice?”

  “You have a right to your opinion, my lady. It makes no difference. You are required, forthwith, to pack your belongings, take your maid, your chaplain and one manservant and your son’s tutor if he has one…”

  “Father Meadowes tutors him.”

  “All the better. You and the boy and three companions, then. You must leave this castle. You may take horses for your son and the two men. You and your maid must travel pillion. You may take a pack pony.”

  “One pack pony only? There will be clothes, plate….”

  “No plate or valuables beyond a little personal jewellery are to be taken. What you can’t put in saddlebags or on the pony, you must abandon.”

  He looked with dislike at the woman sitting in the carved chair on the dais. She was more slender and softer of feature than Queen Marguerite, but reminded him of Marguerite all the same. She had the same knack of leaning regally back in her chair, with her forearms resting on the chair arms and her hanging sleeves sweeping the floor. Marguerite always had a thronelike chair, complete with arms and high pointed back, in her baggage so that she could hold court impressively wherever she chanced to be, even in the middle of a field. Lady Elizabeth looked as though she were holding court now.

  He did not know that behind the dignified facade Lady Elizabeth Luttrell felt as though her inside were weighted with lead, and was holding back tears of longing for her husband, wondering tormentedly whether he had suffered much before he died, and making such an effort to hide her feelings that her body was rigid from crown to toes.

  After a silent moment, however, something of the anguish in her still figure communicated itself to him, and more civilly he said, “You have somewhere to go? Kinfolk?”

  “Yes. I have kinfolk.”

  “Good. You have today to prepare. You must leave tomorrow.”

  Edward Searle, his shepherd’s crook in his hand and Drover, his black-and-white dog, at his heels, strode down the path from the moor where the Sweetwater flock was grazing, toward the home farm where three ewes he had recently bought for Walter Sweetwater were in a field along with their lambs. He would introduce them to the flock on the moor in a few days’ time. A good year, except…

  At the gate of the field he found Walter, standing with one foot on the lowest rung of the gate and resting his elbows on top. He was staring at the ewes and their frisking offspring, but not as though he was really seeing them. Searle moved quietly alongside him and also leaned on the gate.

  After a while Walter said, “My father and my brother, both gone. And from what I hear, it could be my home as well, when the Yorkist king gets round to it. I have my son, at least.
Thank the saints that we all agreed Baldwin was too young to go to war. But what will happen to his inheritance, God only knows. You may have to work for a new master, Edward.”

  “Aye. It’s a strange new world we’re living in,” said Searle.

  As a boy, Walter had made friends with the shepherd, who was only eight years older than he was, but then they had talked only about sheep. Now, however, their conversation moved as smoothly into the sphere of power politics as though they had met there in the first place.

  “Seems to me,” said Searle, “that it’s nothing to most of us whether it’s York or Lancaster sits on that old throne in London. All we want’s a bit of peace to get on with things as matter, like shearing and reaping and all of that. Pity they can’t settle their squabbles without dragging us into ’em.”

  “It seems that they can’t. My father and brother were dragged in and now see what’s happened. They fought for Lancaster but York won, and this Edward of York is vengeful. He even wants revenge on the dead.”

  “If I were you,” said the gaunt man at Walter’s side, gazing straight ahead, blue farseeing eyes fixed on the distant outline of Dunkery Beacon, “I’d get in first. You’ll know who to tell. I wouldn’t, but you do, likely enough. Tell ’un you never went with your father and brother because you didn’t agree with ’un. Say you’re Yorkist and offer to…what’s the way you folk put it? Swear your fealty. Offer ’un your sword for the future. See what happens.”

  “Hmm,” said Walter. The ache of bereavement did not ease, because only time would ever relieve that, but the despair which had settled on him as word got out concerning the way the Yorkists intended to treat those who had upheld the enemy thinned a little. “I’ve not much to lose, when all’s said and done.”