The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “What? What are they called?” said Peter.

  “Brecher, that’s the name, so I heard.”

  Not Sweetwater, then. He detested the Sweetwaters, but he didn’t want to think of either Baldwin or John pinioned, terrified, swinging and choking on the end of a rope. He was surprisingly glad it was neither of them. “Poor devils,” said Peter, and lay back once more, closing his eyes.

  He heard the Welshman leave the tent, and let himself release a sigh of thankfulness that he had had the sense to lie at the right moment. Otherwise, he would probably have found himself hanging beside that luckless father and son.

  As it was, he was alive and free. Where had Ned said he would find Nicky? In a village called Stoke Golding, at the sign of The Seven Stars. He must get there as soon as he could. He wouldn’t need to search for Jarvis as well, not now.

  Had young Hannacombe really died trying to defend Ned Crowham? Jarvis had been angry on Nicky’s behalf. He had said that one day he and Crowham might have a reckoning. In the confusion of the battle, thought Peter as he lay there, physically weak but privately seething with impatience, had Jarvis seized his chance and made Crowham pay? Very likely, but he’d never know for sure.

  The Seven Stars inn at Stoke Golding was the most unpleasant hostelry he had ever seen. It was a rickety timber building that looked as if it might fall down at any moment and the groom who offered to take Plume did so with a slouch and a scowl which caused Peter to insist on stabling and unsaddling the pony himself. The stable was dismally dark and badly needed mucking out, but while he was seeing to Plume, he realised that the animal in the next stall, a chestnut pony, about fourteen hands, with white socks and a blaze, looked familiar. Surely it was the pony Ned Crowham had given Nicky to ride when they set out from Crowham’s manor-house.

  With, Peter observed in alarm, an empty manger and a coat that hadn’t been groomed for days. He began to feel afraid. He had taught Nicky to take care of his pony. Why hadn’t he?

  You cared for your horses before yourself, or even other people’s horses if necessary. He put fodder in the chestnut’s manger as well as in Plume’s before he went hurrying into the inn. It was as bad inside as outside—gloomy and smelling of mice and mildew. He stood, nostrils twitching, in a cobblestoned room with a sagging wooden ceiling, and shouted until the landlord came, a thin man with an air of despair about his bent shoulders and watery eyes, as though life had long since defeated him. Oh yes, he had a boy called Nicky here. Brought in by three elderly fellows two days back. Marched in was what it looked like, with one of them holding the lad’s arm good and hard.

  They’d paid in advance, he said, a week’s money for each of the four, and the old men had watched the boy like cats watching a mouse hole. Looked as if they thought he’d run away. In fact, he had an idea they had him tied to the bed in the room they’d taken. “Not my business,” said the landlord when Peter wanted to know why he hadn’t offered Nicky any help. “Thought maybe he’d done something wrong.”

  “Well, are they still here?” Peter demanded.

  “Not the old ones. They came from up Nottingham way. Someone brought a message to them, about the battle and how the Tudor had won the day, and then they were off. Just left the boy behind, as he’d fallen sick….”

  “Fallen sick?” shouted Peter. “Where is he?” He wanted to grab the landlord’s bony shoulders and shake him.

  “Up there,” said the landlord, pointing to an unreliable looking staircase. “Something wrong with his stomach.” Peter went up it two at a time. It made his head thump again but he didn’t care.

  Nicky was in a tiny room under the thatch, lying on a straw pallet beneath a grubby coverlet. If he had been tied up at first, he wasn’t tied now but the place was filthy and the contents of a bucket by the bed stank horribly. Nicky’s hair was soaked with sweat and his eyes had the look, both filmed and bright, of fever. But he struggled to sit up when Peter came in.

  “Father! I thought I heard your voice but I’d been dreaming…I thought I’d dreamed that, too…. It really is you? Father, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come after you. Please don’t be angry! I couldn’t help being brought here. I couldn’t…”

  Relieved and panic-stricken both at once, Peter strode across to the bedside. “I’ve found you and that’s all I care about. But I had no notion you might be sick! I know you couldn’t help being captured. Ned Crowham died in the battle, by the way,” he said.

  “I know. There was a message for the old men that brought me here—”

  “On Ned Crowham’s damned orders!”

  “Yes. The message was about the battle, but the messenger said Crowham had been killed. Then the old men said they wanted to go home, and I could go home, too, when I felt ready, but they didn’t want to stay here till I was well. So they just left me. They came from Crowham’s Nottinghamshire place, I think.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’ve got a fever and I keep being sick. I think it was the salted pork the second night here. It tasted funny. The old men didn’t have it—they had pottage. I tried to get away, Father, I really did, but they gave me no chance. I was roped to the bed at first, until I got ill….” He gagged suddenly, and reached in haste for the bucket.

  “I’m not surprised. This place is a disgrace. Now, listen. I’m going into the village to fetch some clean, fresh milk and wholesome food for you. And I’ll find someone to make you up a cooling draught. Don’t worry.”

  It took Nicky over two weeks to recover. Not wanting to move him while he was still so feverish and liable to fits of nausea, Peter ordered the inn’s only maidservant to clean the attic room and change the bedding, while he himself scoured the district for trustworthy victuals. He compelled the landlord to prepare them under his eyes. He also found a village woman with a name for making medicinal herb infusions, who supplied a purge and a febrifuge. The purge made Nicky wretched for several hours, but it seemed to clear his system. After that, the cooling medicine took effect. His fever dropped and he began to eat again, while Peter groomed Plume and the chestnut and bullied the groom into cleaning the stable and feeding its occupants properly.

  Ned Crowham had at least done one thing right. He had not expected his followers to bring their own subsistence money as some men did, but had paid them. Peter could buy what he needed—oats for the ponies as well as food for himself and Nicky.

  There came a day, at last, when he could pay their bill, put saddles on the two ponies and, with Nicky, leave thankfully for home.

  Henry Tudor, in a sense, was home already.

  He had been firstly an exile at the French court and then an adventurer trying to seize the estate of England by force, with backing from French troops and a handful of English Lancastrian nobles and some Welshmen who owed allegiance to his Welsh ancestry, but with very little real support in the land he wanted to conquer. All this had turned him into an impressive-looking but privately petrified armoured figure sitting motionless on a large horse and glad of the ironclad fence of French and Welsh knights in front of him.

  They had destroyed his enemy for him and he had metamorphosed again, this time into a triumphant new king, riding into Leicester, meeting dignitaries, getting to know those English lords who had fought for him but had hitherto not met him personally, presiding over meetings and banquets, sending out proclamations to announce the outcome of Bosworth Field all over the land, and also attending a few hangings, which he didn’t enjoy though he kept his countenance and didn’t look away.

  This was followed by another triumphal march to London, and a formal reception with entertainments and more banquets. Here he ordered new silk shirts and embroidered doublets, had his hair washed and trimmed and purchased a new cap of soft velvet to put on top of it. His plate armour and helmet were, he trusted, laid away for good and he hoped he would never have to hang a sword from his belt again as long as he lived.

  In London he was reunited with his mother, Margaret Beaufort, whose d
escent from Edward III was his strongest claim to the throne. He also had his first meeting with King Edward’s daughter, Elizabeth of York, having summoned her from the north, where she had been living. He had sworn to marry her, to unite at last the warring clans of York and Lancaster, and was relieved to find her a pleasing girl, quiet and biddable. He did not wonder whether they would ever come to love each other. Henry wasn’t accustomed to love.

  Now, at last, in the quarters he had been given at the house of Thomas Kemp, the Bishop of London, he had embarked on the business and administration side of kingship and that was his true moment of homecoming. Living in tents, marching and riding, warfare and physical danger were not at all to his taste; nor was he truly at ease with ceremonies or making speeches or thinking of pretty things to say to young women. Desks full of papers and parchments, the scratching of quill pens, deferential clerks in decent black gowns, offering him things to sign and seal; this was the world where he belonged.

  “Men who stood by me should be rewarded,” he said to one of the chief clerks. “And a few examples should be made of the major figures who stood against me. Gloucester was a usurper and never a legitimate sovereign and to fight on his side was an act of treason.”

  Several stacks of parchments were on the desk in front of him. He picked up a set, leafed through it, hesitated and then removed one or two sheets before shaking the remainder into tidy order and handing them to the clerk. “These estates are to be confiscated and we require the necessary documents to be drawn up, ready for our signature after Parliament reopens at the end of October.”

  “There should be no difficulty, sir. There is sufficient time.”

  “Such confiscations will of course require an Act of Parliament before they can go into effect.” Henry’s voice was formal. “We trust that the act will go through smoothly. We have made notes on each of these pages, suggesting the dates by which the present occupants must leave. Time must be allowed, of course. We are not a barbarian. These, on the other hand…”

  He reached for another set of parchments. “These concern families which are to be rewarded or, in some cases, reinstated. For instance, this one refers to a Lady Elizabeth Luttrell, whose husband was killed fighting for the Lancastrians. She was ordered out of her home at Dunster Castle in Somerset. The castle and its estates are to be restored to her and to her son—Hugh Luttrell. He must be grown up by now. Again, the documentation must be prepared for my signature. And these…”

  He paused, frowning, considering yet another pile. The chief clerk waited. “These are small ale, as it were,” Henry said. “Minor gentry who fought for Gloucester, but did so of their own choice and not because they were tenantry who had to follow their lord. We don’t wish to persecute them too savagely but on the other hand…although these properties aren’t large, the sale of a fair number would add up to a useful sum, and the exchequer needs money. War is expensive. We will consider each case with care. But we do need to make a profit,” he added thriftily.

  For Nicky and Peter, the journey home was slow, for Nicky was still not strong. It was a week before, at last, they saw the track underfoot turn from brown to the familiar pinkish-red, and Exmoor’s hills rose before them and the people to whom they spoke used the familiar accent of home.

  “The very air smells different,” Peter said, and was grieved anew for the two unknown westcountrymen, the Brechers, who would never draw a breath of it again. The Sweetwaters might well have fallen in that last conflict; but that was better by far than hanging.

  “Are you sure you ought to ride yet, with your arm not healed?” Walter Sweetwater said to his son.

  Baldwin, whose left sleeve still bulged with the dressing beneath it, merely snorted. “I’m well enough. It’s taking time to mend, but Catherine’s comfrey ointment is doing its work. I rode all the way back here! And now Blue Lyn needs exercise again.”

  “But you were feverish when you came home.” Catherine had brought some mending into the hall because in the morning the light was better there than in her solar. “You should take care,” she said with concern.

  “I’m well enough now, Kitten!”

  “I wish John could go with you,” said Catherine doubtfully.

  “So do I, but as John is out heaven knows where, training a hawk, he can’t,” said Baldwin testily.

  “At least he came back safe. I was so thankful to see the two of you home again, even though you were wounded. I prayed for you every morning and every night, believe me. You don’t know what women suffer when men are away at war.”

  “You don’t know what we suffer on the march or on the field,” retorted Baldwin. “You at least can sleep warm and safe while we try to get to sleep in draughty tents or out on the ground, under the sky at times! It was our duty to go and yours to keep Sweetwater House in order till we came home. That’s the way life is. And now I’m going to take the air.”

  As she watched him ride out of the courtyard, Catherine said, “I think his arm still pains him. It makes him irritable.”

  “It’s more than that,” said Walter. “I think I should warn you. There’s been a rumour. I heard it when Giles Northcote called on us yesterday. He didn’t go to the war but he has well-placed friends who did, who fought for King Henry and went with him to London. He is planning heavy fines for families that supported King Richard, and in some cases, confiscations of land. It’s possible that we are on his list.”

  “Oh, no!” said Catherine, horrified.

  “I hope the rumour’s not true, but only time will tell. Oh, and the Lanyons won’t be on the list. We heard, just before the battle at Bosworth, that Ned Crowham was going over to the Tudor and taking all his followers with him, Lanyons included. There were some travelling tumblers in the same inn as Crowham and his companions, two nights before the battle. They overheard them talking, it seems. Anyhow, they turned up in Leicester next day with information to sell to the Earl of Nottingham. They didn’t reach him soon enough for anything to be done, but word got round. So we can assume that even if the Lanyons were important enough to be robbed by Henry, they won’t be, whereas we might. That’s why Baldwin is so angry.”

  “But…we only fought for the reigning king!”

  “This man Henry Tudor,” said Walter, “seems to be fond of money. According to Giles, he has an abacus where other men have hearts. He’d rather shuffle papers and count coins and wield a pen than ride in battle with a sword in his hand. King Richard at least died fighting! Henry never struck a blow. I can’t blame Baldwin for his short temper. I’m badly worried myself. But at least his wound is much improved, for which we must both be thankful to you.”

  “But if we lose our home, John will lose his inheritance!” Catherine cried. “The rumour can’t be right. Men can’t be called traitors if they fight for an anointed king!”

  “I wouldn’t place any wagers on it,” said Walter Sweetwater grimly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  FOES UPON A BRIDGE

  “Nearly home now,” Peter said to Nicky as they left the town of Dulverton, where they had crossed the River Barle, and set off northwestward through the moorlands.

  “Your Plume knows he’s going home,” Nicky said as the ponies lowered their heads to tackle a steep rise. “Look at the way his ears are pricked.”

  “Of course he knows it,” said Peter. “He can smell it!”

  They rode steadily onward, over a hillcrest thickly grown with bracken and then by way of a winding pebbly track down into a valley wooded with oak and beech, to emerge beside Walter Sweetwater’s packhorse bridge over the small river at the boundary of the Sweetwater land. Nicky fell back, because it was too narrow for them to ride across abreast.

  Stepping onto the bridge, Plume tossed his head and whinnied and Peter turned to call over his shoulder that he reckoned his mount was saying, “Nearly home!” in the language of horses.

  But before he had framed the words, there was an answering whinny, and out of the trees on the other side
of the bridge rode Baldwin Sweetwater, astride a big blue roan stallion.

  By rights, since Peter was already on the bridge and the nearest ford was some distance away, Baldwin should have drawn rein and waited for him to finish crossing. Instead, to Peter’s surprise and indignation, Baldwin came straight on.

  Baldwin himself could not have said clearly why he didn’t follow established custom and allow right of way to the rider already on the bridge. All he knew was that within him there was a seething anger, like a lidded pan boiling over a fire, and that he longed, somehow, to relieve the pressure, to let the lid blow off. His wounded arm had been badly infected and though Catherine’s treatment was gaining ground, it still had pus in it and it throbbed when he tried to use his left hand. On top of that, the warning his brother-in-law, Giles Northcote, had brought yesterday, that the Sweetwaters stood in danger of a heavy fine or even confiscation of their land, had outraged him.

  It hadn’t helped that Giles, though outwardly sympathetic, had been unable to hide his smugness when he admitted that no such threat hung over his own family. He had kept out of the war, and his property, including the estate that formed most of Agnes’s dowry, was safe. Giles was proving a good husband to Agnes, who seemed, judging from her letters, to be well content, but he clearly considered himself to be a wiser man than either her father or her brother, as well as several social rungs above them. Baldwin would very much have liked to encounter Northcote on that bridge, and force him to leave it backward.

  He had, however, recognised Peter Lanyon, and failing Giles, a Lanyon—any Lanyon—would do nicely as a substitute. The Lanyons had gone Lancastrian along with Ned Crowham, so no one was going to take their home away from them. What if the Sweetwaters were compelled to leave their fine house while the Lanyons stayed in untroubled possession of theirs? They were nothing but peasants who thought themselves equal to him, and that was an impertinence.