Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  ‘Beelzebub!’

  I followed the direction of her gaze to where a stocky man in a short, fur-trimmed robe and a dark draped hat stood with his back to us, talking to a tally-man in a loose tunic and coif, with a writing table slung from his neck. Hilda pushed me unceremoniously behind a pile of canvas-wrapped bales, mouthing the word ‘Simon’ as she did so.

  Automatically my hand went to my sword hilt; then I thought better of it and quietly slid my dagger from its leather sheath instead. The two men were talking together but were far enough away to be inaudible to us. From what I had seen it was obvious that Simon was checking progress with the warehouse foreman and, with any luck, when he had satisfied himself of that he would make his way to the main house. If we managed to remain hidden, we could slip out of the door at the far end as planned. I placed my hand gently on Hilda’s shoulder and beckoned her further round the pile of bales so that we were out of sight both of the two men inside the warehouse and those working in the yard outside.

  ‘Will the other door be unlocked?’ I breathed the question at the place on her wimple where her ear would be, fleetingly relishing the faint scent of lavender from the linen cloth.

  Hilda lifted her shoulders, opened her eyes wide and raised both her hands, indicating that she did not know. We would have to wait and hope. Simon wore pattens to keep the bottom of his robe free of street detritus and the sound of his iron-shod footsteps on the wooden floor prompted us to slip further round the bales as he walked past and out into the yard. To my relief the foreman was at his heels. Neither of them saw us but we caught a snatch of their conversation as they passed.

  ‘Shut the yard gates now, Seth. The men can leave by the warehouse door when they have finished loading – and not before. Make sure you secure it well after them and you can leave through the house.’ I had not yet seen the man’s face but Simon’s voice had a whiplash tone which I instinctively did not like and the cringing note in his foreman’s whine told me all I needed to know about the young merchant’s relationship with his men.

  ‘I will do as you say, Master. Yes indeed. Exactly as you say. You can rely on me.’

  My fingers itched on the handle of my dagger. I hated to think how a man who caused his workers to grovel in such a way had treated Hilda in her subordinate position as housekeeper. There was one thing I knew for certain; she would never have grovelled.

  I re-sheathed my dagger and took her hand. Together we moved up the aisle between the piles of stores, creeping slowly so that my spurs should not clink. Knights do not dress to slink in alleyways but to stride or ride purposefully forward in confrontation. The door was fitted with brackets to take a heavy securing bar but I muttered an oath when I saw that it also had two heavy iron bolts which were both rammed home. As I reached for the top one I hoped it had been oiled and would not squeak. The first one slid back easily.

  ‘I will do the bottom one,’ Hilda suggested. ‘You move one of those crates up here if you can and we’ll push it through and leave it against the door in case they follow us.’

  The crate was heavy and as I manhandled it I had to admit that it would seriously delay any attempt at a hasty exit if it was rammed against the outside of the door. It confirmed what I already knew, that as a travelling companion Hilda would be a help, rather than a hindrance.

  At the inn I managed to arrange the hire of another horse, albeit a somewhat flea-bitten mare with a cast in her left eye. I told the innkeeper that I would leave the nag at the inn in Tadcaster, the next posting town on our route south. We decided it was too risky to leave the city by the Walmgate and headed instead across town in the direction of the Micklegate Bar but as we passed the top of the Fossgate I heard Hilda exclaim in alarm.

  ‘Oh no! Simon is coming at the run. He was shouting at another man so I do not think he saw us but he is not far behind.’

  With difficulty I controlled an oath. Inevitably one of the porters had told him about the stranger who had entered the warehouse with Hilda. Now it was clear that he had questioned the innkeeper who had hired us the mare and learned that we were swapping horses at Tadcaster. Even if Simon did not manage to stop us at Micklegate, he would have plenty of time to assemble a search party. Sandal Magna was a long, hard day’s ride away and I realized that if I wanted to protect Hilda from Simon Exley I would have to get her to a closer place of safety, and quickly. It was only ten miles to the Earl of Salisbury’s castle of Sheriff Hutton. It would mean riding through the dusk over wild moorland, running the risk of footpads, but we would not have Simon Exley on our heels because we would be heading in the opposite direction to the one he would believe we had taken.

  I turned my horse about. ‘Change of plan; we must go east,’ I said to a surprised Hilda. ‘We can cut through the Shambles. Simon will not set foot there, even in pattens!’

  She did not argue. Explanations could come later. I made Hilda go first, keeping close on her horse’s heels in case of trouble and we plunged into the dark, stinking lanes of the Shambles where butchers gutted carcasses in the street, leaving entrails clogging the gutters and bloody hides hanging out for collection by the tanners. The stench and the flies were appalling and I almost wished I had a veil I could pull over my nose like Hilda did but I shut my mind to them and concentrated on finding the right alley that would lead us to the eastern side of the city. As we left the Shambles behind, we passed close to the magnificent twin towers of St Peter’s Cathedral and the bells began to ring for Vespers, indicating that the sun had set. There was only an hour or so of gathering twilight by which to find our way.

  At Monkgate Bar people were streaming into York from outside the walls; farmers, friars, pedlars, merchants, all manner of folk hurrying to beat the curfew and reach their homes or locate some lodging for the night. We seemed to be the only ones travelling the other way and as we passed the gatekeeper’s lodge under the archway he called out to us, ‘I hope you are not planning to cross Heworth Moor, friend. Percy bandits hunt there. It is not safe unless you wear the blue lion badge.’

  I called my thanks but we did not stop. We needed to shed the stench of the Shambles and made speed to the Monk’s Bridge over the River Fosse. Wading the horses under its arches, we were free to talk for the first time.

  ‘Where exactly are we going, Cuddy?’ Hilda asked, loosening her reins to allow her mare to drop her head and drink. Although the sun had set, it had still been hot and stuffy in the narrow streets of the town. It was pleasant to feel the breeze on our faces.

  Heeding the gatekeeper’s warning, I removed my hat and set about unpinning my York white-rose badge from its crown and tucking it away in my purse. ‘To Sheriff Hutton,’ I said. ‘We might get there by dark if we set a good pace.’

  ‘If Percy thugs do not accost us on the way.’ Hilda had heard the warning as clearly as I.

  ‘I would rather run my sword through a Percy out on the moor than through Master Simon Exley in the streets of York,’ I said ruefully. ‘That justified act of retribution might attract too much attention. I suppose you do not have a weapon hidden about your person?’

  She gave me a dark look. ‘I am not in the habit of carrying a knife up my sleeve, no. Especially not when I am in the midst of making soap, as I was when you knocked on the door.’

  I grinned and bent to grasp the hilt of the small dagger I always wore in the top of my boot. ‘Well nasty Master Exley will have to find someone else to wash his linen now, won’t he?’ I handed her the dagger. ‘Can you handle this without cutting yourself?’

  She returned my grin with one of her special sideways glances, which had always set my blood racing. ‘I should be able to, since it was you who taught me,’ she said, taking the sheathed blade and tucking it away carefully in the sleeve pocket most ladies’ gowns seemed to contain.

  ‘I am glad you remember.’ It pained me to think that it was nigh on twenty years since I had instructed Hilda and Cicely in archery and self-defence at Raby. How many opportunities had I wasted du
ring those years to tell this lady of my heart how I felt about her? And this would be another one, I thought grimly, as I hauled on my reins to bring my horse’s head up from the stream. Getting her to safety was more important at this moment. ‘And now we must ride, fast and with caution. Our route takes us straight across Heworth Moor so you keep your eyes peeled for trouble on the right and I will spy out the left.’

  ‘Who will watch our backs?’ she asked pertinently as she pulled on her mare’s bridle.

  ‘Did I not also teach you the rules of scouting? How remiss of me. If they come up behind us it means we have missed their hiding place. Look back every time you see a copse or a cove where they might lie in wait. If they come from both sides, flight is the only hope and you must follow me.’

  She made a face. ‘I will not have much choice on this old girl,’ she said, giving the mare an encouraging pat on the neck. ‘Please do not leave me behind!’

  My eyes met hers. ‘I will never do that again,’ I said, giving the words a depth of meaning she could not have failed to understand. ‘Never.’

  23

  Heworth Moor & Sheriff Hutton Castle, Yorkshire

  Cuthbert

  Heworth Moor was ideal bandit territory. It was a stretch of undulating landscape rising from the valley of the River Fosse towards the steep fells further north. Pockets of dense woodland thrived in the moor’s sheltered spots, while its high ground consisted of wild tracts of sun-bleached grassland and rock, dotted with thickets of gorse. It was a place to approach with caution even in daylight with armed men at your back, as I had done in the past when commanding patrols for the Earl of Salisbury; tackling it at dusk with only a woman for company – albeit a feisty one – was a daunting prospect. However, I did not wish to alarm Hilda so I hummed a little tune as we left the water mills and workshops of the city suburbs behind us and followed the river through strip fields and common grazing until they ended and the wilderness began.

  ‘Your humming does not fool me, Cuddy,’ remarked Hilda. ‘I know you are nervous but I never could stand that tune.’

  I stopped humming. ‘I am not nervous,’ I lied, ‘merely cautious. Anyway we should step up the pace because we no longer run the risk of trampling a child or a stray fowl. The only hazards now are loose stones and potholes.’

  ‘And Percys,’ added Hilda.

  ‘Yes, so keep your eyes open,’ I ordered and kicked my horse into a slow canter. It was a pace I knew he could keep up for many miles but I was not confident about the stamina of the flea-bitten grey mare.

  At first the going was good; there was no roadway but a clear path had been worn by the spring migration of livestock up to the common grazings and where that became too stony we could take to the grass alongside. To right and left, brakes of gorse formed threatening clusters of cover for possible assailants, dark and menacing in the deepening gloom, but as the horses settled into their easy pace I became less anxious. If we managed to keep up this speed the chances of being waylaid receded and the likelihood of getting to Sheriff Hutton before dark increased. We rode side by side in companionable silence, broken only by occasional glances that passed between us and sparked the exchange of satisfied smiles. I had always admired Hilda for her unquenchable vitality and on that twilight ride I realized that despite the black gown, the widow’s coif and her shrunken frame, that energetic spirit was still in ample evidence.

  However, I knew that neither she nor her horse would be able to maintain the speed of pace I had imposed without occasional stops to draw breath and on the first of these I took the opportunity to dismount and put my ear to the ground. To my disappointment I heard the distinct reverberation of hoof-beats in the hard earth, which told me we were not alone on the moor. Before rising I gave myself time to consider whether or not to tell Hilda and had decided not to when she posed the direct question, ‘Well, did you hear anything?’ and I realized that we were in this situation together and it would be foolish to try and protect her from the truth.

  ‘Horses hooves,’ I said, ‘but they are some distance away.’

  She did not seem surprised or particularly alarmed. ‘Can you tell which direction?’

  ‘They’re definitely behind us but it is impossible to say how far or how many. More than two though, I think.’

  ‘Could it be Simon?’ Alarm had crept into her voice.

  I shook my head. ‘I do not think he could have learned which way we went and rounded up a search party in so short a time. But it is unlikely to be innocent travellers at this hour.’ I scrambled back into the saddle. ‘Let us keep going and in a mile or so I will look out for a likely place to hide, where I hope we can safely watch them ride on by.’

  There was no exchanging of smiles as we continued our journey. The mood between us had changed from optimistic to apprehensive and the dark, brooding moor ate away at our confidence as the light dwindled to a pinkish smudge on the western horizon and the comforting sounds of roosting birds vanished. In my growing anxiety I found my breathing falling into the rhythm of the horses’ gait, too fast for comfort. Making use of the little light remaining I began to look for a suitable retreat.

  The terrain was rising towards the summit of the moor and suddenly, ahead to our right, a silver sliver of twilight reflected briefly off the pale walls of a cove. I raised my arm and pointed in its direction, steering us off the track and into a gap in the gorse. Neither of us spoke, realizing instinctively that although the sound of our horses’ hooves would be disguised under those of the followers, our voices might carry above it. Behind the gorse brake we were forced to slow to a walk because the ground was scattered with broken shards of stone, the remains of a fall of rock from the horseshoe of cliff into which we had ridden. In the gloom it was hard to see the whole cove but I had noticed such features of the moorland landscape on previous visits to these wild northern parts and been told that they were useful hideouts for raiders and reivers, places where they could rendezvous for attacks on farms or villages, or temporarily corral the rustled livestock which were the usual plunder from such raids. I hoped this particular cove was not the intended destination of the riders heading towards us. More by feel than sight, I led Hilda behind a bushy stand of broom which hid an indentation in the rock wall, giving room for us to halt side by side and listen to the menacing sound of horses at the trot, approaching ever nearer.

  ‘What if they stop?’ Hilda asked in a whisper.

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ I whispered back. ‘Let us pray they do not.’

  The jangling of harness grew louder and louder, but through the broom and the gloom and the gorse we could see no sign of who or how many they were. Of course this also meant they could not see us, which was our only crumb of comfort and at this point I decided to dismount, mainly to lay precautionary hands over both our mounts’ noses. Nothing alerted troops to the presence of others quicker than the sound of a horse’s whinny, however slight.

  To our horror the pace of the invisible riders slackened gradually then stopped and a voice reached us. ‘A short halt, men, if you want to relieve yourselves. I am going to check the cove.’

  I froze, my mind whirling. This must be an armed posse but the only clue to its identity was the fact that our hiding place was known to the leader. I therefore doubted it could be Simon Exley. I moved round to whisper to Hilda, ‘Is it Simon?’ and at the shake of her head I added, ‘I am going to take a look at them. Stay here.’

  Moving cautiously over the stony ground I edged my way around the broom bushes. I could just make out the silhouette of a man weaving his way through the rocks at the foot of the cove and cautiously unsheathed my dagger as a precaution. There was no badge on his back and I did not want him to turn and see me before I had discovered if these men were supporters of Percy or Neville. I crept nearer to the gorse bushes beside the track to try and get a glimpse of the rest of his troop and spied one of them who had dismounted and was busy relieving himself only yards to my left. As he turned, adjusting his
clothing, I ducked out of sight but not before I had just managed to make out the badge on his padded gambeson – a bird with wings outspread. It was Salisbury’s Vert Eagle, meaning these men must be from Sheriff Hutton. I breathed normally for what seemed like the first time in minutes.

  Suddenly I felt my neck clamped in an arm lock and a voice growled in my ear. ‘Announce yourself, knave!’ My head was forced back and I felt the prick of a knife at my throat as I surreptitiously slipped my dagger into my boot. Being caught was bad enough but being caught with blade in hand might prove fatal.

  ‘Friend of Neville,’ I said as clearly as a man could who was being half strangled. ‘Friend of Sheriff Hutton.’

  ‘Name!’ demanded the voice.

  ‘Sir Cuthbert of Middleham.’ Giving my real name was a risk but I had to hope that it would be remembered among Salisbury’s retainers.

  ‘Drop the knife, soldier, or your blood flows too!’

  Both of us were so surprised by the female voice which gave this order that we jumped and turned and I heard the man’s blade clatter as he dropped it. Hilda held the dagger I had given her so close to my assailant’s gambeson that it must have made a slit in the padding as he swung round. He raised his hands and his teeth showed white in the darkness when he saw her.

  ‘Blessed St Michael, a nun!’

  I stepped up to Hilda and gently took the dagger from her because I could see it shaking in her hand. ‘Not a nun but a lady and a very brave lady at that,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Mistress Exley. You could very well have saved my life but actually I think we are amongst friends. Is that not so, soldier?’

  He eyed me suspiciously, still wary of the knife. ‘Sir Cuthbert of Middleham is a name I have heard mentioned around Sheriff Hutton but I have never laid eyes on the man and you wear no livery that I can see.’

  ‘A precaution,’ I told him. ‘We are on our way to claim hospitality from the Earl of Salisbury, being in the service of his sister the Duchess of York.’