Red Rose, White Rose

by Joanna Hickson

  Cuthbert shrugged. ‘He had a reputation as a young hothead. He probably got himself killed in some scrap somewhere. I believe he was knighted though.’

  ‘Yes, and married too, if rumour is right, to Harry Holland’s half-sister Anne.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what Sir John wants to talk to you about.’

  ‘How far is it to Nostell Priory?’ I asked abruptly. ‘Could we get there and back in a day?’

  ‘Easily, if we leave at dawn.’

  ‘We will go tomorrow then, just you and me. Dress very plainly, Cuddy – no armour and no white rose livery.’

  He nodded. ‘And you leave off the jewels, Cis, and borrow some plain clothes from one of your maids. I will organize the horses.’

  The ride to Nostell lifted my spirits. The stifling humidity which had made the journey from Tattershall so taxing had cleared, blown away by a brisk easterly wind gusting down the valley of the Don off the cool mudflats of the Humber estuary. Even the horses responded to the tug of the breeze in their manes and we made swift progress. It was many months since I ridden out so freely, without the restriction of a large escort, or a pack of hounds, a posse of hunt servants and a bevy of noble companions. Cuthbert and I set our horses’ heads north east and rode across country, skirting fields where the harvest was well underway and plunging through forest where deer leaped nervously from our path. I wore boots and a moss-green kirtle and hid my distinctive auburn hair under a wimple and a goodwife’s hood, all borrowed from Hilda, and Cuthbert had found a plain grey hooded tunic and hose and travelled hatless in the mild temperature. For the first time I noticed grey hairs in his thick dark thatch but made no mention of them, nor did I ask if he had a dagger concealed in one of his buskin boots, assuming he did. Well before noon we spied lay-monks wielding scythes in open fields and picking fruit in the grey-walled orchard beyond. Nostell was a remote religious community nestled in a fold of wooded hills above the River Went, its monks living according to the rule and writings of St Augustine of Canterbury. Although it was not ten miles from our castle of Sandal Magna in one direction and the royal castle of Pontefract in the other, it was a good choice for a clandestine meeting-place.

  Cuthbert approached the gatehouse, calling for the porter. ‘Has a pilgrim called Neville passed here, I pray you?’ he asked of the grizzled lay-monk who responded.

  ‘You will have to see the sub-prior,’ the monk replied. ‘I do not keep a record of visitors and, anyway, all females have to report to him.’

  I kept my head bowed modestly under my hood but managed to peer through the gate arch to the paved courtyard beyond where an ox-cart was being relieved of its load of barrels, perhaps the winter supply of salted herring or the prior’s store of fine wine. The place had an air of busy prosperity overlaid by the sound of bells, which began to call the monks to their noon office.

  ‘You can wait in the prior’s parlour until he is free to see you,’ muttered the porter, crossing himself as the bells sounded. A file of cowled brethren crossed the court towards the church, hurrying from their work in cloister and scriptorium. We consigned our horses to another lay brother and were guided to a fine stone-built house and a panelled room within containing several cushionless benches, a table and a large crucifix hanging over an elaborate stone fireplace, carved with figures of saints. After a few minutes the door opened to admit a tall, thin man in a short rust-coloured gown and a dark-hued chaperon hat. For the first time in thirteen years I found myself face to face with John Neville and it was like being struck by lightning.

  I had to bite my lip to prevent myself crying out. One glimpse of that sensitive face with its piercing grey eyes released a whirling surge of emotions and every ounce of guilt and remorse I had felt since creeping away from the myrtle bed seemed to resurface. I heard myself whisper ‘Holy Mary!’ and put a hand to the wall for support.

  A sudden pallor beneath John’s weathered complexion revealed the jolt he too experienced. ‘It has been a long time since we met, your grace,’ he said with a punctilious bow. ‘And, Sir Cuthbert, I believe we served together as very young men on the Western March.’

  Cuthbert was staring at me, concerned and curious about my state of shock but he dragged his gaze away to respond with a brief bow of acknowledgement.

  Meanwhile I had struggled to regain my composure. ‘God’s greetings, my lord,’ I said, my voice sounding high and strange, even to myself. ‘It is Baron Neville now, is it not?’

  John nodded. ‘My nephew was killed a year ago, in an incident at Middleham.’

  My eyes rounded in alarm. ‘At Middleham?’ I echoed. ‘How did that come about?’

  John made an angry gesture, strode to a table which stood under the parlour window and pulled up a straight wooden chair. ‘Will it please you to sit? The prior promised that we would not be disturbed.’

  Having regained control of my legs, I walked slowly to the proffered chair and sat down, easing the homespun hood down to my shoulders with both hands. I could see him eyeing the white coif I wore beneath it distastefully, as if he wanted to pull it off to see what lay beneath, then he sat down opposite me leaning his elbows on the table, his chin on his fists. The polished surface stretched between us. Tactfully Cuthbert took a seat on one of the settles, at a distance but within earshot.

  I found myself feasting my eyes on John’s face with nothing to say. After a pause he spoke. ‘You came very quickly. I wondered if you would come at all.’

  I frowned. ‘You said there was danger to my nephew and his bride. Of course I came.’

  ‘The danger is very real.’

  I noticed that his hair was still exceedingly fair and straight, falling over his forehead. There was no sign of grey among the flax, just a dulling of the glossy sheen of youth. Prominent lines ran between his nose and his mouth and deep creases lined his brow but otherwise he showed little sign of ageing.

  ‘Did you know that Egremont and I have exchanged oaths?’ he continued.

  ‘Yes. My brother told me. I found it hard to believe.’

  He lifted his chin, releasing his hands in order to indicate no help for it. ‘Egremont is a useful ally. He is aggressive and daring and I need such friends now that I have lost Jack.’

  ‘Can a Percy ever really be trusted by a Neville?’ I asked.

  ‘Not by your brother Salisbury and his ilk, that is certain,’ declared John, casting a glance at Cuthbert. ‘But Jack was always on good terms with his Percy cousins. They were very alike in many ways, proud, ambitious, foolhardy perhaps at times but intensely averse to your brother’s encroachment in Yorkshire and united in their hatred of his braggart son Warwick. When he was Constable of Middleham his Bear and Ragged Staff standard flew everywhere and his men behaved like bears – violent and dangerous. He claimed to be loved but he was feared.’

  ‘How was your nephew killed?’ I thought of my recent conversation with Hal at Tattershall and wondered why he had made no mention of the death of the young Lord Neville. Middleham remained his honour, despite Dick of Warwick’s recent command of the garrison; he must have known about it.

  Pain snatched at the muscles of John’s face. ‘Jack wanted to avenge a brawl his men had with Warwick’s bears. He decided to break up Saint Alkeda’s Fair. You probably remember that it is held at Middleham on the feast day of the town’s patron saint. I advised against the raid, fearing that blood would be spilled but Jack said he only wanted to show the folk of the dale that the strutting Earl of Warwick could not protect their property. His plan was to creep secretly into the market and release all the pigs in the swine pens. He thought it would be a fine sight to see them run amok through the town.’ John grimaced. ‘That was his sense of humour I am afraid. He only took a handful of followers and they all dressed as dalesmen, no badges or armour. But the bears were waiting for them; they must have known they were coming. It was a lynch-mob.’ His face suffused with anger. ‘That devil Warwick sent Jack’s bloodied body out of the town naked and tied to a mule. I
t was ignoble treatment of one knight by another. For all he is your nephew, the man is a scorpion!’

  I did not say, as I could have done, that if a knight dressed as a peasant he could expect to be treated as one because in my opinion no unarmed peasant should be treated thus and I had been no great admirer of Warwick before I heard John’s story anyway. I merely said, ‘So now you want revenge on Warwick.’

  John gave a fierce nod. ‘That is no secret. And I want your brother out of Yorkshire; that too is no secret. But Egremont plans to ambush Tom Neville and his bride on their way to Sheriff Hutton and I do not consider a newly married couple a legitimate target.’ He flicked the hair off his forehead. ‘After much deliberation I have decided to warn you of the ambush. You should be able to get them to change the route, or delay the journey. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course I understand!’ I snapped. ‘But why do you not simply refuse to support Egremont’s scheme?’

  ‘Because it is the first test of our alliance and I cannot renege on the oath so soon. Surely Tom Neville could find urgent business elsewhere – at Middleham for instance. Then he need not take the road over Heworth Moor, which is where the ambush is planned.’

  I narrowed my eyes at him, carefully considering his words before I spoke. ‘Why should I believe you? The route to Middleham would take them very close to Spofforth, which I am informed is where you and Lord Egremont are mustering an army. I could suspect that you are trying to lure my nephew and his bride right into the spider’s web.’

  John slapped the table with his hand. ‘No,’ he almost shouted. ‘Why should I lie?’ He stood up and began to pace the room. ‘This ambush is not an action of which I approve. You can prevent it. It is in both our interests.’

  I rose also and moved to sit on the settle beside Cuthbert. ‘What is your opinion, Cuddy? Should we trust this man? Or is he diverting us into a trap?’

  Cuthbert’s gaze slid from me to John and back again. ‘Is there any particular reason why you should not trust him?’ he asked.

  I darted a swift look at John who now stood on the other side of the room, drawn up to his considerable height, his face stern and impassive, studying us both. ‘Perhaps there is,’ I murmured, my mind racing. John’s side of the family and mine had been adversaries ever since my father’s will had been made known. The passion that had flared at Aycliffe Tower had surely been but one aberrant instant in a history of family enmity, a mad, youthful kick at the traces which constantly reined us in. Was it logical to base trust on such a fleeting moment? Or had it been something more? John had told me that day that he believed that true love bred trust between a man and a woman. Did he cling to the memory of that one night of love we had shared and still feel the heat of the flame it had kindled? Or did he plan revenge for what he saw as an unforgiveable betrayal on my part? I could not find an answer in his face.

  I rose and walked over to him. We stood close together, eye to eye as we had at Aycliffe Tower. ‘Why have you never married?’ I asked.

  I saw indignation blaze. ‘I do not think it any of your business! However, as Westmorland needs heirs I intend to remedy that imminently.’

  I felt my heart beat a little faster. Had he now found his one true love? And could I trust him if he had. ‘Who will you marry?’

  He favoured me with a sly smile, as if he knew that what he was about to say would shock me. ‘I am going to marry my nephew’s widow.’

  I gave an involuntary gasp. ‘Surely you cannot! Legally she is your niece.’

  He shook his head. ‘She is still only thirteen. Their marriage was never consummated, therefore it can be annulled. She is my ward and she is willing. We will do well together. Besides she is related to the king and it would be a pity to lose that connection.’

  ‘She is Exeter’s half-sister, is she not? Anne Holland.’

  ‘The same,’ John agreed. ‘But happily she resembles her mother; more Montague than Holland. Your son-in-law is uncontrollable they tell me, whereas his half-sister is sweet and biddable.’

  I held his gaze, my expression stern, thinking of my Anne. ‘I hope you will not seek to sire the necessary heirs too soon, my lord. She is very young.’

  He laughed at that and his face lit up in a way that tugged sharply at my memory. ‘I can wait,’ he said. ‘I am a patient man.’ Fleetingly I felt absurdly glad that his new bride would be too young to share his bed, then he drew me resolutely back to the matter in hand. ‘Do we have a bargain?’

  I lifted the old-fashioned hood back onto my head, giving myself time to form a reply. ‘I will ask Tom to consider altering his route but I do not have much hope he will agree. I doubt he will want to appear a coward.’

  ‘Then our journeys have been wasted,’ John said with a shrug. ‘It seems a pity.’

  ‘Not entirely wasted,’ I responded, holding his gaze and smiling into his eyes for the first time. ‘It has been good to see you.’ I held out my right hand, ringless except for the gold York signet.

  He took my fingers in his, studied the engraved symbol of the falcon and fetterlock then bent and kissed the knuckle directly above it. The touch of his lips burned me like a flying cinder. ‘I trust it will not be another twenty years before we meet again,’ he whispered. As he raised his eyes to mine I caught a glimpse of the softness beneath the steel. Twenty years since our last meeting? He had forgotten our brief encounter at my mother’s funeral and remembered only the night of love. But did he also remember the betrayal that followed? I would not know until Tom and Maud crossed Heworth Moor.

  Before Cuthbert and I left the priory, I emptied all the coin in my purse into the prior’s grateful hands. It was more than I would normally have donated but I did not care. In his stark parlour, feelings had re-ignited in me that I thought had shrivelled and died long ago. As we rode slowly through the gatehouse arch I turned hesitantly to my brother. ‘Would you undertake a secret mission for me, Cuddy?’

  The formality he had used in the priory persisted. ‘You know I am always at your grace’s command.’

  I sucked my teeth impatiently. ‘I do not mean for her grace, the Duchess of York, I mean for Cicely Neville, your sister.’

  ‘I thought they were one and the same,’ he remarked dryly, dropping his official pose. ‘Why are they suddenly separate?’

  I could feel the blood rise in my cheeks. ‘I want to send a letter to John.’ My gaze slid sideways to gauge his reaction.

  He raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘John?’

  ‘Lord Neville!’ I cried in exasperation. ‘You are not blind or stupid, Cuddy. You must realize there was more between us than a failed abduction.’

  ‘Yes, but what am I to conclude from it? If you want me to carry correspondence between you and our brother’s arch-enemy there will have to be truth between us.’

  I took a deep breath and stared between my palfrey’s ears for a long minute. ‘We were lovers,’ I said at length but my words came out in a whisper.

  Cuthbert leaned nearer, his brow knitted. ‘What? I did not hear what you said, Cis.’

  Vexed, I turned and shouted the words at him, loud enough to flush a charm of goldfinches from a nearby bush. ‘We were lovers!’

  The birds flew over our heads, twittering in alarm. ‘I know you were, I just wanted to hear you admit it.’ He out-stared my astonished glare. ‘I am not stupid, Cis. There was no other way you could have given him the slip.’

  I gasped. ‘Ah! You never said.’

  ‘If I had you would have had to trust me not to reveal the secret and as there was no need for you to worry about that I did not tell you.’ He shrugged. ‘So now you know you can trust me, as I have kept it for twenty years.’

  ‘I always knew that, Cuddy, and always will trust you.’ We rode along silently for a few minutes before I plucked up courage to ask him again. ‘Will you take a letter to John, then?’

  29

  Heworth Moor, 24th August

  Cuthbert

  ‘Will you take a l
etter to John, then?’ Cicely asked.

  It had not taken much imagination to deduce how matters had progressed between Cicely and John when they were thrown together in such tense circumstances at Aycliffe Peel. She had been a giddy girl of seventeen, inexperienced and headstrong but she had preserved the secret of exactly who had seduced who and how she had contrived to make her escape as a result and I considered she had a right to keep it. However, having witnessed their meeting at Nostell Priory I understood without asking that the spark which had lit the original flame was still alive, despite the subsequent passage of years. I had seen the way they looked at each other and felt the fiery undercurrents flowing in that stark priory parlour.

  ‘I never told anyone,’ she stressed, ‘not even my mother, even though she quizzed me with grim determination before my wedding. But I have been a good wife to Richard, have I not? I have borne his children, kept his household, been his counsellor – and I swear before God that since we took our marriage vows I have never been unfaithful.’

  I was bound to agree that she had been all of the first and I presumed she had not been the last. Then I added, ‘But I detect a change in the wind. Am I right?’

  Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I have been dutiful and obedient to God and my husband but now I have discovered that something still lives which I thought had died and I cannot bear to let it lie unexplored. I cannot contemplate the rest of my life spent solely on church and children when I know that a spark of lost love lies waiting to be fanned into life. Is that so wicked?’

  I could almost see the devil’s imp clinging to her shoulder and said what was in my mind, despite the risk of stirring her anger. ‘You have spent twenty years building a successful marriage. I spent most of those years believing I would never have the chance of similar fulfilment but now that I have Hilda and Aiden and hold land to call ours, I set great store by faith and loyalty …’

  She cut me short. ‘And you think I do not?’