He knew that he hadn’t ridden himself of the disloyal elements in the garrison, only the boldly disloyal ones, the ones with the balls to look him in the eye and spit in his face; but the ruthlessness with which he had acted had stunned the rest. It was a very different garrison that greeted his uncle, Lord Fauconberg when he arrived to take up his post as Lieutenant of Calais. A score of men was trotted out to escort him from the docks to the castle in refurbished and clean uniforms, arms in good order, chins shaved or the occasional beard neatly trimmed and eyes following the Earl respectfully.
“You would not have believed what a sorry lot they were when I arrived,” Warwick said as they settled in the hall to share news and a late supper. “I hanged some and ensured the loyalty of the rest by negotiating a loan with the merchants of the Staple to pay their wages, which were several months in arrears as usual. Since then they’ve been as well behaved as choirboys in the presence of the archbishop. That was the root of the problem, of course. Lacking pay, they were disaffected and thought they could do as they pleased.”
“You hanged some?”
“Hanging’s good for discipline.”
Fauconberg chuckled. “Well, Nephew, you may have to hang more because you’ll get blood from a stone before you get money from the treasury.”
Warwick propped his feet up on the table, one slim ankle resting on the other. “How do you like Calais?”
“So far so good,” said Fauconberg, stolid and unimaginative. Like Salisbury, he was small and compactly built, with a seamed face that had arranged itself into a permanent scowl. Also like Salisbury, he wasn’t the man to waste words. “You?”
“I love it. It’s my own little kingdom. I rule it as I please.”
“Don’t get above yourself, Nephew. You’re a captain, not a king. I’ve news.”
“Anne and the girls?”
“They’re well. Your lady has made a full recovery from her ordeal. All the family’s well. But that reminds me. Your cousin, Humphrey Stafford, finally died of his wound. Requiem eternam.”
“A blessing,” said Warwick, unmoved. “God grant him rest.”
Both men crossed themselves and spared a moment to consider the fleeting life and lingering death of their young kinsman, the Earl of Stafford, Buckingham’s son before Fauconberg passed on to the next item of news. “More trouble with Redface.” James II, the young and pugnacious King of Scotland, had correctly perceived war brewing in England and taken advantage by launching an unsuccessful attack on Berwick, the northernmost fortress on the Scottish border, at the time that the two forces were facing off at St. Albans. “Not that his notable lack of success at Berwick would dismay Redface. He took to leading raids across the border, burning farmsteads and driving off cattle just like one of his borderland brigands. At the same time, he tried to persuade his Majesty of France to join him in launching a concerted attack on Berwick and Calais!”
Warwick threw back his head and laughed uproariously, imagining how King Charles would have received that suggestion. “Oh, I wish he’d try. That would be such fun!”
“And, mind you, at the same time that this was going on, his embassy was at Westminster, complaining of English depredations in Scotland, which had caused great loss and injury to his subjects! Can you believe the effrontery? So in the end, your uncle of York, as Constable, hied himself to the border and drove young Redface back to his own kingdom.”
“I’m glad to hear my uncle still has his office,” said Warwick. He was a man who would always choose action over inaction, preferring to make things happen rather than wait for them to happen, and he found himself frustrated by York’s indecisiveness and caution. Since he had attached the cornucopia of his future to his uncle’s star, he didn’t intend to see it sink into a slough of uncertainty and equivocation.
“Likely not for long. It’s only the influence of men like Buckingham that keeps him there.”
Warwick grunted. He had been right about that: York was letting it all slip through his fingers. What could one do with such a… ditherer?
“Which brings me to my next news: The Bourchiers have been removed from office.”
“Both?”
“Aye. The Bishop of Winchester now has the Great Seal, and Wiltshire’s been installed in the Treasury.”
“Wiltshire! Dear God in Heaven! Why? Henry’s still as poor as a church mouse. He has the wool duties, which should be sufficient to cover his expenses but little else. There are men of ability available, like Worcester, a brilliant, learned man, and yet a man with nothing to recommend him – except that he’s Margaret’s toady – gets the job! With that repulsive little lackwit in the Treasury, Henry is going to be in worse straits than ever. I’m willing to wager we’ll see a steep decline in the receipts as soon as Wiltshire takes office.”
“His mandate will be to keep Margaret supplied with money, enabling her to continue her persecution of York, and worry about Henry’s debts later.”
“And my soldiers are never going to get paid. Was there nothing York could do?”
“Save his own shirt, which he did, but only just. He’s been reappointed Lieutenant of Ireland, to get rid of him, I suppose, but this time he swears he won’t go. All this happened at a council meeting in Coventry, where the court has taken up more or less permanent residence. Word has it that the Queen prefers it to London because she’s not cursed in the streets. At least not yet! One night a brawl broke out between the town watch and some of Somerset’s drunken men – he’d been invited to the council and confirmed in his dead father’s titles, by the way – with the result that some of the watch were killed. The town rose up in a fury, and there was a full-scale battle going on when Buckingham intervened in the King’s name and managed to restore order. This time Somerset’s men got the worst of it, and several of them were killed. Well, need I say, the Queen let it be known that she believed her darling’s sprat to be the innocent and injured party, but he left the council in bad odour. After that, I think she realised it would be unwise to make any move against York or you. She’ll bide her time until another opportunity comes along.”
“Oh, nothing is more certain than that! Is there more?”
“It’s a rumour only.”
“Let me hear it.”
“It’s said that Henry has given Margaret’s chancellor, Lawrence Booth, his signet.”
“Dear God, if that’s true he’s given her complete control over the machinery of government! She can do anything!”
“Exactly.”
Chapter 25
August 1456 – Thorpe Waterfield
It wasn’t until summer that Anne was able to return to Thorpe Waterfield, after suffering a genuine miscarriage that could only be ascribed to the will of God. Furious at her failure, Exeter had been almost as eager to see her go as she was to leave and so she had a blessed respite from him, from the evil Queen and the demands of the court, where her miscarriages and her marriage were avidly discussed among a litany of other miscellany.
Even before her return, she had begun to plot the seduction of Thomas St. Leger, an extremely difficult undertaking for a woman who was seldom left alone and whose activities spies regularly reported to her husband. Still, there must be a way, and she very determinedly refused to consider the risks involved as she went about finding it. The first thing she had to do was to set a pattern of behaviour that included a period of privacy when no one would know precisely where she was or what she was doing. She began to lay the foundations of her scheme by taking long solitary walks in the grounds of the priory in Coventry where they were staying. It was a good first step. When she disappeared from view for a time, she explained upon her return that she had been to the church to pray, or sitting by the river feeding the swans. After a while, no one questioned her or worried about her. Given her miscarriages and the deteriorating relationship between herself and her husband, her need for solitude was understood and accepted.
So when, at Thorpe Waterfield, she expressed a desire to
walk in the woods, she expected her household to be so accustomed to her ways that no one would object. However, to her chagrin, Jane said, “Madam, it is neither safe nor correct behaviour for a lady of your rank to go about alone. If you give me a moment to fetch a cloak and change my shoes, I’ll be happy to accompany you.”
“It isn’t necessary at all,” Anne demurred, hiding her irritation at being advised on correct behaviour by a woman who was the daughter of an impoverished Yorkshire knight. “There are no outlaws in these woods, no wild animals, no danger. I shall stick to worn paths so that I don’t become lost. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“You know if the Duke were here he wouldn’t permit it,” Jane persisted.
“Thank you for the offer, but I would rather be alone,” Anne said firmly, and went out, forestalling further argument.
Quite apart from the fact that it was necessary to her plans, it was wonderful to walk in the summer woods, a balm to her spirit. On her winter walk she had been embraced by a frozen white landscape that had been enchanting in its way, and now she was soothed and entranced by a luxuriant green tranquillity. She listened for any sign that she was being followed but with only half an ear, for it didn’t matter. Let them follow her and satisfy themselves that her walks were entirely innocent before she began the next stage of her plan, which would be anything but innocent.
The canopy of leaves above cast a benevolent shade on the ground cover of old leaves and crunchy mast, and filtered the heat of the morning sun allowing it to penetrate in shafts of golden light in which insects whirred and darted and spun in their intricate, busy flight. It was the season of campion and pimpernel. The blackberry was fruiting, and the dock leaves were huge. She plucked one and used it to fan herself. As she walked she looked for the place where she had first seen Thomas, but it was an anonymous place, under an anonymous tree, so like its fellows that she was unable to distinguish it and celebrate the happy event it had witnessed.
On her walks, she varied her route, and one afternoon she followed a small brook until she came across a rickety structure, so ancient that nature had almost reclaimed it and she nearly bypassed it. The roof, sunk at one corner where the wall had buckled out, had little of the original thatch remaining but had been almost entirely covered by creepers. Its walls were made of withies, with a mixture of moss and mud stuffed into the crevices to keep out the weather. No door remained, nor covering over the single window. As it stood in a clearing, with plenty of sunlight, weeds and shrubs had grown all around it, almost obscuring it from view. Probably it had been a charcoal burner’s hut and was now abandoned, but Anne approached it with caution – one could never be sure. Poking her head into the dim interior, she saw that it was indeed empty. It smelled of earth and rotting vegetation. Blown leaves and animal droppings littered the floor, and some hardy weeds had made their way in and taken root in one corner. Perfect, she thought. At least with a good sweep and a layer of fresh straw, it would be perfect.
She began at once, going around the little clearing collecting twigs, which she bound together with a length of sturdy vine. She fastened this to a stick of suitable size and thickness to make a passable broom, which she employed with housewifely industry on the floor of the ramshackle hovel, humming to herself all the while, until it was clear of debris. The weed proved far too stubborn for her. She tugged and tugged raising welts on her soft white hands, and when the weed yielded a little so did a section of the wall and a new hole appeared. Well, she was willing to share her trysting place with a weed; there was plenty of space left for her and Thomas.
By this means it became woven into the fabric of daily life that the lady of the house frequently walked in the woods alone and whenever someone bleated a protest Anne ignored them. She was never able to detect any sign that she was followed, nor any hint of suspicion on the part of her husband’s most diligent spies. She felt completely safe and ready to move on to the next stage.
She had selected her lover and her trysting place. But did Thomas even know of its existence? It was probably on his land, or it might be on the land of another neighbour for all she knew. She had paid no attention to boundary stones on her walks, which, unless cared for, were soon overgrown by encroaching greenery.
The next hurdle, and it was a difficult one, was to bring the three of them together. How to communicate with Thomas? As soon as he learned of her advent, he had come to pay his respects, as did other of her neighbours, merely observing the conventions. Nothing passed between them. So acutely conscious was she of his presence that at dinner she found she had no appetite. She nibbled from her plate, sipped from her cup, aching with desire, miserable with longing; trying not to look toward where he sat talking animatedly to those around him, occasionally bursting into laughter, showing those beautiful white teeth. He didn’t look as if he was suffering from the same exquisite torment that his nearness aroused in her.
How was she to approach him? She flinched from the idea of snatching a few moments alone with him and saying, ‘I wish to bed with you. Meet me in the woods.’ Or words to that effect. She was not entirely shameless. No, it would have to be a note. That way, if he rejected her, she could salve her pride by pretending the note had got lost. But who could she trust to carry it? Could she even trust Eleanor with a secret so vital? No, she dared not. There were any number of illiterate grooms and other lower servants who would be unable to read it, but how could she be sure they hadn’t been instructed to hand any of her correspondence over to one of the spies? There was no alternative: it would have to go from her hand directly to Thomas’s. She could manage that. And trust to his discretion.
In the manor was a small oratory that Anne used for her daily devotions. On Sundays, she went to the church in the village to hear Mass, as did Thomas. This was her opportunity. Once the service was over, she always paused outside the church door to accept the courtesies of her neighbours and the villagers. Sometimes she was asked to bless a new baby or the union of newlyweds, and there was always a needy family or two awaiting her largesse. It was here that she learned of the concerns of the district. And at some point Thomas would appear to bow over her hand, to ask after her health and pay his compliments.
It was a very small terse note stating when and where she wished to meet him, nothing more, and she had folded it several times to that it could be tucked into her palm and held secure only by her thumb. Thus it happened. Outside the church door, when Thomas took her hand, it slipped easily from hers into his. Her heart thudded frightfully, but he did not react. Thank all the saints in heaven for his wit. He palmed her note and stepped back as if nothing more than conventional pleasantries had passed between them.
But would he come? How did he feel about her? Did he feel anything beyond those abstract principles of duty and courtesy that she suspected passed for emotions in some men? Lying in her wretched bed at night, she tormented herself with sickening doubts. It was all too easy for her to believe that the Christmas kiss, whose memory she so ardently cherished, was to him no more than a lapse in the code of behaviour he embraced as a knight that he had immediately regretted and eventually succeeded in putting entirely out of his mind.
And what of her? Was she halfway in love with him, requiring only a little nudge to plunge over the edge as she wanted to believe? Or some poor pitiful creature so starved for love that she had been carried away by daydreams and fantasies? It was only a kiss, a light-hearted embrace, not a promise of… anything. Seven months ago and since then, not a sign. What if she had misread him? If he didn’t come how would she live with the humiliation?
She had chosen Tuesday, because it was the day they had met and because once the note left her hand, she wouldn’t have long to suffer. As it was, Monday was the longest day of her life. A summer day had never seemed so endless, so irritatingly tedious. The sun didn’t want to go down. It hung in the sky like a lush fruit, golden and ripe, refusing to fall.
“Are you anxious for some reason, Madam?” Jane asked her.
“No, why would I be?” She forced herself to smile. “It’s just such a lovely evening, I would like to go for a walk, but it’s far too late. The sun is already going down. I’ll walk tomorrow instead.” There, that was clever, she congratulated herself.
“All this walking in the woods cannot be good for you,” Jane said, and Anne glanced at her quickly. So, she noticed, did Eleanor. But Jane kept her eyes averted – she was pinning up the hem of a gown – and Anne preferred to believe the words were innocent. She had been careful. And what was there, at this point, to be suspicious of?
Tomorrow Thomas St. Leger was going to become her lover. Why not? Didn’t she deserve a little sip of happiness after drinking a cup of bitterness to the dregs? If Exeter found out, she knew he would be unforgiving. He had never hit her again after that blow at the priory, but if he learned of her infidelity he would surely take his fists to her, or a stick as he did with Eleanor. Not because he cared about her but because she was his. His property, not to be enjoyed by any other man without his permission. And what might he do to Thomas? A man of his temperament would not make a passive cuckold. She shuddered just thinking about it. But he wouldn’t find out. It would be just a little thing, over quickly. The scratching of an itch. It would hardly even be infidelity. For surely Thomas would disgust her as Exeter had and that would be that; things would return to normal, and she wouldn’t have to go through the rest of her life in an agony of longing.
Tuesday dawned fair and clear. Good thing too. Rain would spoil everything.
She prowled the clearing several times in widening circles to make sure no watchers were lurking there. Satisfied that none but the birds in the trees and the small creatures in the underbrush were spying, she spread her light cloak among the tall grass and weeds and sat down to wait. The sun was warm on her back, the wildflowers fragrant.
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