In shadows cast by a stand of stunted willow a heron stood like a statue. I pondered the riches that this small lake brought to the manor folk; fish, roofing material, baskets, wildfowl, irrigation and, above all, fresh drinking water. As well as refreshing the spirit with its beauty, its products were the reason the manor was here at all.
I wandered down to stand on a lichen-covered rock that jutted out into the lake. The water tempted me to squat down and scoop up water to splash my face, and as I did so I became aware of footsteps behind me, then a flat stone skipped across the surface of the lake four times and sank, taking me and a busy pair of moorhens by surprise.
‘I had a feeling I would find you here.’
I sprang up, my face dripping, to find Sir John not ten feet from me, bending to pick up another stone.
‘The lake is Aycliffe’s jewel. It is the only thing that makes it habitable.’
‘It is beautiful,’ I said, dashing the water from my eyes. ‘And the peel could be also. Why does the earl not make it so? Drainage, a barmkin, some byres and stables, a church tower. These things are soon built.’
‘The necessary funds, my lady, have gone to swell your mother’s dower.’
I could not let that pass. ‘Every widow must have a dower. That is enshrined in law.’
‘Not three quarters of her husband’s estate.’ Sir John’s face was stern. ‘What widow needs so much?’
I fought down an urge to agree with him by reminding myself that it was my mother’s closeness to the throne and the king’s patronage which had brought such wealth to my father.
‘My mother’s dower is one third until her death. The rest is entailed for her sons. All widows have as much. That is why so many younger sons fight to win them in marriage, is it not? Even if they are ancient crones! You could do so yourself, Sir John. If funds are so urgently needed I wonder you do not.’
‘I have no inclination to the wedded state,’ he retorted. ‘The earldom has its heir and due to my brother’s infirmity I am its steward. No, it is Thomas whose future is threatened because his betrothal was made when your father was alive, before the terms of his will became known. His bride-to-be is Margaret Beaumont, a widow with a substantial dower. She was married as a child to Lord Deyning but he died before they were bedded and she was betrothed to Thomas soon afterwards. Her father says now that he will not allow that dower to be squandered on a penniless younger son, even one who is the brother of an earl, and he is taking legal steps to break the contract. His strongest argument is that Thomas cannot provide a home suitable for the daughter of a viscount and he is right. Thomas will lose a valuable marriage to a girl of whom he has unfortunately become fond, because your mother hoards all the best Westmorland lands, which she does not need as your father ensured that all her children made advantageous unions. That is why I brought you here, to see the effects of her avarice for yourself.’
This remark stirred my capricious temper and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. But though greatly tempted to deny my mother’s employment of the third deadly sin, I reminded myself that only one thing mattered, to escape back to Raby. Angrily confronting my abductor would not help achieve this and so I bit back the furious protest that sprang to my lips and took a deep, steadying breath.
‘Thomas is young. There will be another marriage. But I still do not understand why you cannot solve your family’s difficulties by making your own advantageous match. Whether inclined to matrimony or not, it is surely your duty, unless you are drawn to the religious life.’
It was his turn to exercise control. I could see his chiselled jaw clenching and unclenching as he turned away and let his gaze wander across the lake to where a pair of water birds were performing an elaborate ritual, shaking their crested heads to alternate sides, rearing up in the water and making each other gentle gifts of dripping weed. It was a charming sight but I was not prepared to let him retreat into ornithology. Leaning round to catch his eye, I shot him an encouraging smile and waited patiently for his response. When it came it took me completely by surprise.
He gestured towards the birds, busily involved in their courtship and unaware of the human passions building beside the lake. ‘I have been told that grebes like these mate for life and rekindle their relationship every spring by performing this extraordinary dance. I have seen it many times and I believe it demonstrates God’s intention that all creatures should make faithful partnerships. Did He not tell Noah to take only pairs of animals into his Arc? The Church teaches us that birds do not have souls and cannot experience human emotions like love and happiness but such behaviour indicates to me that they can only build their nest and lay their eggs if they have established some sort of bond. This ritual allows them to trust each other.’ He turned to face me and his expression was one of extraordinary intensity, grey eyes boring into mine. ‘I feel like that about marriage. Of course as noble men and women we must go through all the formal procedures of betrothals and contracts but I will only make a match with someone I can love and with whom I find a mutual understanding. So far I have not found such a one and I do not feel obliged to set my feelings aside to enter into a loveless marriage just because protocol declares it to be the right thing to do.’ Once again he turned away. ‘There, does that satisfy you? Or perhaps you now think me weak and hopelessly romantic?’
I was seventeen. Like most teenage girls I had cherished the notion of courtly love portrayed in the songs and lays of the minstrels who entertained us at feasts and celebrations, but ever since childhood I had been schooled to accept that such romances were fairytales; fairytales which were not for Nevilles. We were overlords, the rulers of the north; we had to make alliances with other noble families to perpetuate the power we had accumulated. Marriage was one way of achieving this. It secured treaties and preserved loyalties and I had to fulfil the role which God had given me by doing my duty and marrying the man my father and the king had chosen for me. Adolescent yearning for romantic love must be denied. I was, therefore, dumbstruck to encounter a man of power and position who not only cherished the concept of love and happiness but felt able to deny his obligation to God, king and family in order to do so.
I stared at Sir John wide-eyed and he, in his turn, wrinkled his brow in challenge.
I managed to hold his gaze but my heart lurched in a bewildering way. ‘I understand the desire to break the rules,’ I said faintly.
‘But you will not?’ His frown of disappointment forced me into a desperate attempt to make light of it.
‘It would take a braver woman that I to defy the Church, the king and my mother!’ I protested and when he did not react I stumbled on. ‘Perhaps my parents had that kind of marriage. My mother certainly loved and trusted my father. Perhaps he repaid that trust in the way that he fashioned his will.’
It was not the response he wanted. With a sudden exclamation he stooped, picked up another stone and hurled it violently across the surface of the lake towards the grebes, causing them to break off their dance and dive underwater in panic.
His voice cracked with emotion. ‘No! The old earl was much too shrewd ever to let his heart rule his head. When I was young my father served with him on the Northern March and we lived in his household for several years but when my father decided to follow the fifth King Henry into France they argued violently. The old earl thought Neville duty lay in the north, defending the border, but my father was lured by the prospect of wealth and honours to be won across the Narrow Sea. The rift between them never healed and by that time the sons your father had sired with your mother were growing to manhood. When your oldest brother Richard came of age, the earl made it clear that he wanted him as his heir, but for all his wily diplomatic skills, he could not change the laws of England to achieve that.’
‘You did not like him then?’ For some reason the thought of this distressed me.
‘On the contrary, I loved him. He was always kind to us children, making us laugh and bringing us treats and presents. I was sad when
he no longer came to see us but too young to understand why. Now I do, of course. My father had crossed him and the first Earl of Westmorland could never bear to be crossed, especially by his son and heir.’ The knight cleared his throat as if struggling to continue. ‘I was not with my father when he passed away in London but it was officially recorded that he died of the plague. I have never really believed that.’
There was something in the tone of his voice that drew from me an expression of horror. ‘You surely do not believe that my father had anything to do with his death?’
Sir John shrugged. ‘Not personally no, but these things can be arranged at a distance. And you have to admit that it served his purpose well, if he did not wish my father to inherit.’
‘No, no!’ I was incensed. My father had been a good man. I was certain of it. He was a powerful lord and a strong leader who demanded nothing less than complete loyalty from his vassals, but to arrange the death of his own son merely because he had defied him – I simply did not believe he could or would have done such a thing. Apart from any moral issue it would have condemned him to eternal hellfire.
‘You are mad, Sir John! I swear before God that my father would never have killed his own son or even conspired in his death. I demand that you withdraw the accusation in the presence of the Almighty. What good would it have done him anyway, while your father had a son to inherit the earldom?’
Sir John’s lip curled at that. ‘A son who was a cripple and a minor might possess no power against the might of an earl who stood high in the king’s favour. My brother Ralph told me that after my father’s death the old earl sent his lawyers to demand that he give up his right of succession. It was in the face of Ralph’s flat refusal that your father spent the next four years until he died making sure my brother would inherit only a fraction of the Neville wealth. I will swear that is true on any holy relic you choose!’
Before I could prevent him, Sir John reached out and grabbed my hand and his eyes were so full of earnest zeal that I found myself powerless to pull it free. The touch of his fingers sent a shocking thrill up my arm which seemed to travel to my heart, causing it to race uncontrollably. Yet I continued to protest. ‘No, no, no. My mother would never have allowed him to make such a demand of your brother. It is a wicked thing to do.’
Even as I spoke the words, I could hear the weakness in my own argument. I knew nothing of what plans and schemes my parents had made during my father’s dying days. I had never spoken with him about the other half of his family. All his children by his first wife were strangers to me, as were their children. Apart from the man who now held my hand and his brothers, I hardly knew which of them still lived.
Sir John pursed his lips wryly and nodded. ‘You are right, it is wicked. But you are not as familiar as I am with the wicked ways of the world. Even as we fight our family wars here in the north, in the south there are forces gathering around the young king of which he is also unaware. You and he are both too young yet to know how power corrupts people and causes them to act against God’s commands and the laws of the land. But you must trust me, Cicely, because I do know and I can help you to understand. Justice is a fragile flower but if we treat each other fairly and deal reasonably together then justice can still be done.’
I tried to pull my hand away because the contact between us was confusing me. The messages passing up my arm were in conflict with the thoughts tumbling in my head. The first made me eager to believe the words of the man before me, while the second told me he was spinning a tale. Then his other hand rose to touch my cheek and my mind seemed to swim into a warm blue cloud and become lost to my rational self. I closed my eyes and let my starved senses relish the caress, then I felt his mouth close gently on mine and for what seemed like minutes I reveled in the first rush of fevered blood my body had experienced. The warmth of the spring sunshine was as nothing compared with the heat generated by the pressure of his lips on mine and the surge of pleasure it released. My bones seemed to turn liquid and I felt as if only our joined hands and lips were holding me upright. No carefully taught rules or commandments remained to order my feelings or actions. I did not care if I was on the steps to heaven or the road to hell; whether it was the devil or my own intoxicating desires that were drawing me along this unmapped path.
7
Aycliffe Tower
Cicely
After what seemed an eternity while all my senses swirled in glorious commotion, my eyes flew open and reality flooded back, bringing confusion. Guilt, shame and elation fought for supremacy in my bewitched mind and the sunlight flashing off the lake dazzled me as I jerked away from him, blinking and gasping.
I pressed my fists together against my chest so that my nails dug into my palms and the pain of it mustered my scattered senses. I gazed at him, lips parted and eyes full of questions.
‘You are beautiful, Cicely,’ Sir John said quietly.
‘No!’ I tossed my head, as if to shake his words away. ‘Do not say that. You do not have the right.’
His laugh was harsh with irony but his expression was tender. ‘Hah! What has right to do with beauty? I find you beautiful. What is there to fear from that?’
‘I fear where it may lead.’
‘Now there you are right. Where do you think it may lead?’
My cheeks burned and I turned my face away. I wanted to tell him that I, too, found him beautiful but the words froze on my tongue.
Instead I said, ‘I do not know. That is why I fear it.’
He was not so tongue-tied. ‘You felt the connection between us, though? I have never experienced such pleasure from another’s touch. Tell me you felt it too, Cicely. I cannot believe you did not.’
My gaze was drawn back to his as if by some external force. His cheeks were flushed, as I knew mine were, and they blazed even hotter when he sank down onto one knee before me, his eyes locked with mine, fiercely questioning. I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I felt it,’ I said. ‘It burned like a brand. What does it mean? Why do you kneel?’
‘Because it means you are my lady.’ He reached for my hand and again I felt a jolt of recognition, as if our fingers ignited as they met. ‘You are my lady and I am your true and faithful knight.’ His words were solemn and fervent but after he pressed his forehead to the soft flesh above my knuckles, he raised his head to favour me with a sudden brilliant smile, which transformed his Nordic features with a curious blend of joy and mischief.
‘Now, if I were a grebe I would bring you gifts of weed dripping with diamond drops. And I would build you a nest of rushes threaded with buttercups and yellow irises and you would float on lavender-scented waters and rule your besotted subjects with a green willow wand.’ Ignoring my startled expression he rose and threaded my arm through his bent elbow to draw me to the water’s edge. ‘You would be queen of the lake. No predator would trouble you for I would slay them all and spike their heads on bulrushes so that the world would know that I am your consort and we two belong together forever in our peaceful, fragrant haven.’
I found myself laughing at this preposterous fantasy, delighted by its glorious sensuousness. ‘And what would I do all day, lying among the buttercups and irises?’ I wondered, tilting my head in enquiry and catching his eye.
The antipathy which had flared between us had evaporated as though it had never been and I felt reckless and light-hearted. Aycliffe Tower had suddenly become a wonderland rather than a place of conflict and confinement. Perhaps I was also light-headed from lack of sleep but I did not pause to consider this.
Sir John swept his free arm in a wide arc to indicate the pastoral scene. ‘What do nymphs and naiads do in their watery idylls? Bathe in fresh springs and gossip in dappled shade.’
‘Have you been reading a little too much poetry, Sir John?’ I enquired with exaggerated concern. ‘I would hardly call the breeze balmy and those fresh springs are probably freezing.’
He tossed back his heavy fringe of flaxen hair. ‘That is no problem. To please his hon
oured lady a gallant knight would cause the breeze to blow warm and the springs to bubble hot from the earth.’
I pulled my hand from the crook of his arm and bent to dip it in the lake, splashing water up into his face. ‘Brr! I do not think your spell worked.’
He raised one eyebrow sceptically and smiled as he brushed the drops from his cheek. ‘We shall see. I think you may find it did.’
His air of smug male confidence suddenly annoyed me. I avoided his gaze and pretended to shiver. ‘I am cold. I think I will go to the church. If I cannot hear Mass at least I can pray.’
‘The priest is not of the kind you are used to,’ Sir John said. ‘He is only half literate and almost certainly not celibate. But the church will be peaceful. There will be a hot meal at dusk. I hope you will join us.’
I was already walking away and he raised his voice so that his invitation would reach me but I made no reply one way or the other. Instead I voiced what was suddenly uppermost in my mind again, my tone intentionally barbed. ‘Perhaps you will have heard from Raby by then. I presume you have been in contact.’
My back was turned but I could feel Sir John’s puzzlement at my abrupt change of mood. ‘Any message will reach me here,’ he said. ‘But I get no sense of urgency from that quarter.’
His words echoed in my head … No sense of urgency from that quarter … and they troubled me greatly. Kneeling before the simple wooden cross above the altar of the little whitewashed church, I could not pray for delivery from my abductor because he had suddenly assumed the guise of my admirer. With only a slight sense of impiety, I found myself praying that there might be a way I could achieve my own freedom – since my family was making no great effort to free me – while also pursuing the emotional fulfilment of which I had so recently and enticingly had a taste.
Red Rose, White Rose Page 7