“It’s horrible,” Christopher said. “Those two boys have done no wrong, apart from being born to a king who died before they were old enough to fight for themselves. Their poor mother!”
“Ah, well. Some people still remember the Earl of Desmond’s two little sons,” Hilton said sardonically.
“But these boys weren’t responsible for that!” Christopher drummed his fingers on top of the wall, and then sighed. “There’d be public fury if word got round that the boys had come to harm, but without a rival to put up against King Richard, what could anyone do? There are no Lancastrian claimants left.”
“But there are,” said Hilton.
Christopher was startled enough to step back from the wall and turn to the steward in astonishment. “Are there? Who?”
“Well, there’s one, anyway. Descended from John of Gaunt, Edward III’s third son. It’s a senior line to the house of York. His mother’s Margaret Beaufort, Gaunt’s great-granddaughter.” Hilton seemed to have royal genealogy at his command. “That line’s been attainted and cut out of the succession but attainders can be reversed—by law or by force. The last Lancastrian’s got royal blood on his father’s side, too, though not English blood.”
“But who are you talking about?” asked Christopher.
“Did you ever hear about Catherine of France, queen to King Henry V? When he died, she married a Welsh minstrel called Owen Tudor. She was a French princess by birth. The Lancastrian claimant is her grandson. He’s in France now, in exile. Henry Tudor, that’s his name.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
HEATHER, GORSE AND HENRY TUDOR
The news that England was now ruled by King Richard III rather than King Edward V, caused both surprise and disapproval at Allerbrook.
“Can it really be true?” Liza wondered. “If it is, then he’s stolen the throne from his brother’s children!”
“That’s what’s being said in Dunster, and they get their news from the castle and the priory.” Richard, primed with information, had just returned from a visit to Dunster.
“If the children aren’t lawful…” said Liza doubtfully.
“Bah! All this gossip that the old king had a precontract before he married his queen!” said Richard. “That’s been used as an excuse often enough when someone wants to break a marriage, but as an excuse it’s never been all that good.” Peter had tried to lay claim to it once, he remembered. “Both the parties are dead,” he said, “and the only witness, seemingly, is this Bishop Stillington. Bishops have been bribed before this.”
“I can’t see Gloucester wanting to snatch power and bribing his way to it,” protested Peter. “I’ve met him. I think…”
“Power goes to men’s heads, boy,” said Richard. “Gloucester was generous to you once, but you weren’t standing in his way! Well, he’s got the crown. I wonder if he can keep it on his head. There’ve been rumblings already, from what I hear.”
They heard more before long. Ned Crowham might say they lived out in the wilderness and might as well be on the moon, but the years of peace under King Edward had made it easier for news to travel. Time had brought a sense of security, giving people the confidence to move about because they no longer feared they would ride straight into a battle, or be cut off from home by one.
The roads had grown busy with travelling merchants and wool buyers, itinerant pedlars, tooth-drawers and strolling players, and the ships sailing into Bristol Channel ports came from everywhere from Plymouth to Palestine. These travellers carried news with them. Sometimes it seemed to be borne on the air like dandelion seeds, spreading through the population even before well-connected families had heard it from contacts at court and given it to priests like Father Matthew to announce.
“I can see what happened, I think,” Peter said, returning one July evening from a fair in Dulverton, where rumours were circulating briskly. “The dowager queen’s family, the Woodvilles, apparently tried to hold on to the person of the young prince so as to rule through him. Richard stopped that, and there were executions. Well, one of them was Prince Edward’s favourite uncle! People are saying that if the boy had been crowned, the first thing he’d have wanted when he was old enough to take power—and it wouldn’t have been long—would have been his uncle Richard’s head on a nice silver platter, and that’s why Gloucester stepped in and took the crown himself. It was self-defence, not ambition.”
“Well, it’s no business of ours,” his father said. “A bit of peace and stability, that’s what we all need. And plenty of demand for stone,” he added. Despite the cost of the new house (and Peter’s dire predictions that they would all end up as beggars), the quarry was doing so well that the Lanyons had been able to afford some extra land, in Hampshire this time. Two farms and a village stood on it, and the rents would repay the price of it in due course. Meanwhile, the quarry went on making money. “I told you so,” said Richard to Peter, rather too often.
The name of Henry Tudor was spoken in rumour quite frequently and at one point was more than a rumour. Baldwin Sweetwater in fact rode off once to join the defence of the south Devon coast after Tudor had tried to land in Dorset, been driven off and was then said to be approaching Devon. But the attempt failed and Baldwin came home without having drawn his sword. Tudor had been repulsed; the Duke of Buckingham, hitherto King Richard’s friend, had tried to raise a rebellion to support Henry Tudor and had been beheaded for his mistake. The trouble faded away.
For the time being.
Two years after the crown had been placed on Richard of Gloucester’s head, Henry Tudor landed in earnest.
The day the news reached them, the Lanyons were immersed in a private combat of their own. Unintentionally started by Liza.
It was August 13, and sunny. Crops were ripening and the cattle grazed contentedly, enjoying the warmth on their backs; every lane was edged with musty pink foxgloves and the moorland glowed with the purple and deep gold of heather and gorse in full bloom, patched here and there by the paler gold of the long moor grass, rippling in the breeze.
Peter and Richard, coming into the hall one morning, found Liza there already, staring at a patch of sunlit panelling and frowning.
“What’s amiss, Liza?” her father-in-law asked.
“I was thinking that I wished we had just one tapestry to hang on that wall. There are merchants in Dunster who sell them.”
“Not tapestries, not yet,” said Richard. “The Sweetwaters don’t have much in that way, I believe, so we needn’t either. First of all, I want that panelling replaced by something better, with carving on it, and I still haven’t managed the stained glass I want for the chapel.”
“Well, if we ever do have tapestries,” Peter said, “let us have some lively colours. The hues of the moor are worth seeing at this season. The heather’s as purple as an emperor’s mantle, and the gorse is bright gold. Let’s have those.”
“God’s teeth, what poetic marvellings!” Richard snorted. “Heather? Emperor’s mantle? Bright gold gorse! Since when did any of us have time to stand about like gape-mouthed images, gawping at things like that! Tapestries will have to wait!”
Over the years Liza had grown very used to acting as a buffer between her husband and his father, though it was sometimes a tiring business and she was glad that she had kept her health, although she was nearing fifty, and thick around the middle despite her active life. “Perhaps one day,” she said pacifically. “What kind of carving had you in mind, Father-in-law?”
Peter cut in before Richard could answer. “Since we do have this fine house, though I’ve always said we didn’t need it, we may as well do justice to it. And I’d like to decide something once in a while and not be shouted down. This is my home, too, and Liza’s!”
“I’ve told you before—don’t lower your antlers at me!” retorted his father. “In this house, I’m the one who says.”
“Or shouts,” said Peter coldly. “Or strikes.”
“Oh, so that’s what this is about, is it? So
I gave my grandson a reminder or two when I caught him slipping off after he’d been told to help Hodge cut back those brambles. He came running to you, did he?”
“No. I saw, from a distance. You went too far. It wasn’t a reminder or two, it was more like a reminder or twelve.”
“Don’t get clever with me.”
“Oh, please!” said Liza.
They continued, however, to stand glowering at each other and in the end she decided to seek peace in her workroom. This sort of thing had happened more often of late; it was as though Peter was losing patience after holding himself in for years, and as though her father-in-law’s wish to rule his son as if Peter were still a boy was growing on him, like a bad habit.
She never reached the workroom, however, for Quentin, who had been outside collecting eggs, rushed suddenly into the hall without her egg basket, breathless and alarmed. “The beacon on Dunkery’s been lit! There’s smoke going up!”
“What?” Richard was out in the yard in a moment, the rest of them at his heels. Quentin was right. To the northwest, from Dunkery’s purple crest, a column of smoke was pouring into the blue sky.
“But why…what’s happened?” said Liza.
Peter said, “I can hear hoofbeats!”
Half a minute later Ned Crowham came in at a gallop, threw himself off his horse and said peremptorily, “It’s a call to arms. You’ve seen the smoke? There go the church bells in Clicket. I was at home in Crowham and a messenger reached me late last night, from my place in the Midlands. Henry Tudor’s landed in Wales, with an army. He’s marching on to England. I’m gathering my able-bodied tenants and I thought of you, as well. Peter, will you come and bring a man or two with you? We’ll have to be quick. Come back to Crowham with me now!”
“You’re going? Just like that?” Liza said. “But…”
“I must. Listen—we wouldn’t have this house, wouldn’t be able to afford half the things we have afforded, but for Gloucester, that’s King Richard now, and what he did for me after Tewkesbury. I have to go,” Peter said. “Jarvis says he’ll come, as well. He’s a good shot at the butts. Hodge and Alfred can stay here—someone must get the harvest in. Besides, Hodge is married with two children now and Alfred’s courting a girl in Clicket. But I’ll come and so will Jarvis. What do you say, Father?”
“Yes, you’d better go, and take one fellow with you at least. Liza, stop standing there looking as if someone’s banged you on the head, and go and put his things together. I’ll look for the old sword and helmet for you, Peter.”
“What’s happening? Is it a war?” Nicky, who had been in the fields, ran into the yard. “I saw the smoke from the beacon!” He looked in wonder at Ned and his sweating horse.
“Not for long,” said Ned. “King Richard will see the Tudor off if he has men enough. Your father and Jarvis are coming with me. The king’s at Nottingham and that’s where we’re going.”
“Can I come? I’m big enough to fight. I’ve got a bow of my own now and a dagger, too!”
“Certainly not!” Liza, turning to go indoors as Richard had bidden her, swung around again in a swirl of skirts and clamped a hand on her son’s shoulder. “You’re far too young! Ned! Peter! Say something!”
“King Richard was riding about raising help for the king when he was younger than this lad is,” Ned remarked. “And we always have boys looking after the baggage. He could be useful.”
“No!” said Liza passionately.
“I agree. He’s too young,” said Peter. “Go inside, Nicky, and help to find my war gear.”
“But I don’t want to be left here with Grandfather!” Nicky shouted.
“Oh, so that’s it! Well, you’d find a battle a lot more frightening than your grandfather is,” Peter said frankly. “You stay home and practise doing as you’re told. Go and help your granddad. Now!”
“Why didn’t you leave us alone?” said Liza furiously to Ned. “Why must Peter go? He’s not a tenant of yours, or anyone’s! The Sweetwaters will go, I expect, but we don’t have to follow them now!”
“I’m not following them,” said Peter. “I’m following Ned, if you like, but it’s out of gratitude to King Richard. I never wanted this house, but our prosperity made it possible and yes, I do like the prosperity. Well, it’s due to him. Now, Liza, don’t let your face crumple like that. Let us get my packing done.”
It had happened so fast that Liza felt giddy. One moment they had been arguing about tapestries. The next, Peter was wearing a helmet and a sword, saddling Plume and saying farewell. Plume, though old, was still very much alive, unlike Magpie, who had died a year ago. Richard had a new horse now, another piebald, called Patches. Peter, however, was content with his pony and didn’t intend to go into battle on horseback anyway. Jarvis, he said, could take one of the other ponies.
That suited him, Jarvis said. It looked to Liza as though Jarvis regarded the whole expedition as an adventure, an interesting break from his normal routine. Peter said goodbye with a grave face, but when, saddlebags bulging, the two of them rode away with Ned Crowham, Jarvis went off smiling.
They were gone, and who was to say when they would ever eat at the Allerbrook table again? Peter was forty-six now, not a young man anymore, not as fit for fighting as he was. Richard was irritable, probably because he was worried about Peter though he wouldn’t actually say so.
Quentin was tearful and Nicky, angry because he had been left behind, sulked all evening and she made him go to bed early to keep him out of Richard’s way.
She and Quentin went to bed not long afterward. Whether Quentin slept or not, Liza didn’t know, but she herself did not. The long, slow hours of darkness went by and she hoped that Peter was at least in a comfortable bed in Crowham this night. She missed his presence, the comfort of his body next to hers. They no longer made love frequently; as the years went on, their daily work drained them more and at night they were usually content to embrace briefly and then fall asleep, but they gave each other company. The empty place beside her ached.
She began at last to drift toward sleep but then woke, abruptly, to find the world dark and silent, and yet with the certainty that she had been roused by a noise. The dogs weren’t barking, but they had been out all day and were now asleep in the kitchen. She sat up, listening. Yes, the hens were cackling. Something was wrong. Flinging off her covers, she went to look out the window.
She and Peter had one of the best bedchambers and, as Walter Sweetwater had so disparagingly remarked, it overlooked the farmyard. As she pushed the window open, the noise from the henhouse grew louder. At the same moment, the window in the neighbouring gable opened and Richard’s white head peered out of it. He noticed her and turned toward her, pressing a finger to his lips and then pointing.
Liza, peering accordingly, saw a slinking shadow close to the henhouse and then, momentarily, the brush of a fox showed in the moonlight. Glancing sideways, she saw that Richard had disappeared, but even as she looked, she saw a crossbow protrude from his window instead. He took aim and loosed the bolt. The Sweetwaters had said that he didn’t aim as true as he used to do, but he was as good a shot over short distances as he had ever been, and the fox had come unwisely close. There was a screech from below and something flopped out of the shadows into the moonlight, twisted, cried and then lay still.
“I’ll go down and finish it off if need be,” said Richard, sticking his head out again. “Go back to bed.”
Liza went back to her couch and this time slept, until she was awakened early in the morning by Quentin anxiously shaking her. “Mother—wake up! Please wake up!”
“What is it?” Liza sat up again. It was just dawn and time to milk the cows, but that was work, these days, for Quentin and Ellen. Liza allowed herself a little longer to rest in the morning now.
Quentin’s face was worried. “Mother, I went out with Ellen to see to the cows, but as we passed the pony field I couldn’t see Nicky’s pony, Sunset! Sunset’s the only bay pony we have just now, and it w
asn’t there! I sent Ellen on to fetch the cows and I went to the harness room. Nicky’s saddle and bridle are gone, as well.”
“What?” Liza was already out of bed. “Have you looked in Nicky’s room?”
“Yes, I did that at once, as I came in, before I came to you. His door wasn’t quite shut. I called but he didn’t answer, so I looked in. I don’t think he slept in his bed last night and his clothes weren’t there! You know how he just tosses them across a stool.”
Memory flooded back. The sound that had woken her had been mixed up with a dream and only now was she recalling the dream, a muddled fantasy of searching for Peter through a strange, dark house. He was always ahead of her, sometimes in sight, but she couldn’t catch up and he kept going through doorways and shutting doors in her face.
Nicky, creeping out, had left his own door ajar for the sake of quietness, but he must have shut the harness-room door after fetching his pony’s tack. In the hushed moonlit night, the sound had carried. And then the fox had come and upset the hens, providing another explanation. Meanwhile, Nicky had got away.
“But where can he have gone, Mother?” Quentin was asking.
“I would guess,” said Liza, “that he’s gone to Crowham. He could be there by now. Is your grandfather awake? I think he’ll have to go after Nicky.”
In the big stable yard at Ned Crowham’s manor house, horses were being groomed and saddled, armed men were talking in clusters and the air was full of a sense of departure. Isabel the Second and her women servants were walking among them, offering stirrup cups. Isabel was pale, but she came of a family whose menfolk went to war as a matter of course, and she knew how to seem cheerful. Ned would have his way, she knew. He wanted to fight and had gathered men to go with him, and all she could do now was wait for news and his return, if return he did.
The House of Lanyon Page 34