“My lord, I know not what disaster has brought you to this pass, but if you’re in need of assistance, I’m your man. I’m John Dyneham of Devon. You were acquainted with my late father, I believe. I have a manor near Newton Abbott. If your lordships aren’t too weary for further travel, we can be there before dark. It would be a great honour if you would accept the hospitality of my poor house.”
Warwick looked him up and down with the shrewd eyes of a man accustomed to assessing other men and obviously liked what he saw. “I remember your father. I was sorry to hear of his death. As for your offer of hospitality…” He shot a questioning glance at the older man whose jutting promontory of a nose, the same shape and dimensions as Warwick’s, proclaimed a close kinship, who said cryptically, “Anything for a decent bed.”
Somehow Warwick managed to produce a smile for their benefactor. “We should be pleased to accept, Master Dyneham. In truth, we are all weary. Lead on then.”
As they rode south over the trackless moor in an increasingly heavy rain, John learned the bare details of what had happened at Ludlow and also that he was in the presence of not one but three earls. His companions spoke desultorily if at all, their words so weighted with weariness of body and soul that John made a conscious effort to curb his rabid curiosity.
Instead, he sent Gilbert on ahead to warn his mother of impending arrivals and gave himself up to fantasies of what she would say when he entered the hall trailing three great lords in his wake: Warwick, whose exploits had made him a national hero, no less in Devon than anywhere else; March, a Plantagenet Prince, eldest son of the man who – to the great peril of his life – was second in line for the throne; and Salisbury, a hero of Agincourt, no less!
Mother of God, he thought in amazement, I’ll be the toast of the neighbourhood when this gets out.
The low-ceilinged hall of the Dyneham’s manor house was a smaller version of the great hall of a castle and served the same purposes, as both dining and living area. The walls were hung with panels of linen, charmingly embroidered by the women of the house, instead of the vast tapestries and banners which often hung on the chilly walls of a noble house to trap vagrant draughts. The furniture consisted of the usual trestle table, which could be dismantled and set aside, and benches, as well as two comfortable chairs drawn up near the fire and several stools. Dominating one wall was a huge cupboard bearing enough silver plate to show that the family was not a poor one, as well as pewter and tin vessels for everyday use. On another wall, a fire burned under its hood, shared by the kitchen behind. The fire was usually banked for the night and stirred up in the morning. It was never allowed to go out because relighting it was a great inconvenience. Clean rushes covered the floor, sprinkled with herbs that released their fragrance when crushed under feet.
Waiting to greet their noble guests as John ushered them into the hall was his widowed mother. Glancing quickly around to make sure all was in order – and of course, it was – John made the introductions, hoping that he didn’t break any rules of protocol – about which he knew nothing at all. The quintessential mother, Joanna Dyneham was a practical, efficient, patient, good-hearted woman, sturdy of build and rosy of cheek. Clucking over the woes of these scions of ancient and noble lineages as if they were children whose hurts could be soothed by kind words, she produced a hearty meal, for she was one who believed in the power of good simple food to cure the world’s ills. And she wasn’t far wrong. Whether it was the food, the new ale or the warm welcome accorded them by the Dynehams, the visitors found their spirits somewhat restored.
Then, scolding and chaffering the servants, she organised baths for all. She supervised the baths herself, often rolling up her sleeves and bending over the tub to scrub a noble back or soap a filthy head of hair. She wanted no lice in her house. When a servant had given them a somewhat rough shave, they looked presentable again.
There was some difficulty with the sleeping arrangement. It was that tricky business of protocol again. Mother and son went into a huddle.
“As a Prince of the Blood, I suppose my lord of March is the ranking earl,” Joanna said uncertainly.
“But my lord of Warwick is… well, Warwick. What more can one say?” John said uncertainly.
“And yet my Lord of Salisbury’s grey hairs make him worthy of the utmost comfort. I don’t know how the poor man is keeping upright. He almost fell asleep in the bath.”
“Mercy, what a coil.”
Joanna’s practical nature asserted itself. “Look, son, all we can do is our best. Methinks their lordships have graver concerns than who sleeps in which bed.”
After further discussion, they decided that father and son should have Joanna’s bed, which was the best in the house, and the Earl of March should have John’s, which was the second best. When he learned this, the young earl graciously insisted that John should share it, and although he was quite aware how great was the honour, John was so nervous he was afraid he wouldn’t sleep a wink.
Before going to his rest, Warwick thanked John for his hospitality. “But now, I must ask another boon of you,” he added. His face was haggard, but his eyes met John’s with the unblinking stare of the predator he so closely resembled. “I need a ship, John Dyneham. And I need it right fast.”
So it was that John Dyneham, a gentleman of Devon, got to sleep in the same bed as a belted earl, a Prince of the Blood and, if he had it right, third in line to the throne. John teetered on the very edge of the bed, made acutely uncomfortable by the fact that his bedmate slept naked. Edward initiated conversation by asking how old he was.
“I’m twenty, my lord,” he answered shyly.
“It’s a good age. I hope to be twenty myself one day. Now I’m seventeen, and it’s shaping up to be not such a good age.” His voice was tired, words slurred and punctuated by a huge yawn that cracked his jaw. Nevertheless, the underlying humour was unmistakable.
“Perhaps it will get better now,” John said and winced at the inanity.
“Aha, an optimist. I like that. I rather think you’re right, John. When things are very bad, the likelihood is they can only get better.” Another huge yawn. “Have you brothers or sisters?”
“Two sisters, asleep in the room at the end of the passage.”
“How old are they?” The weary voice suddenly perked with interest.
“Ten and twelve.”
“Ah.” A murmur of waning interest.
“And you, my lord?” he asked out of politeness.
“Three brothers and three sisters. One of my sisters wed that wretch Exeter, another to that buffoon Suffolk and the third is still waiting for her Duke to come along. She deserves better than an Exeter or a Suffolk. I see my siblings seldom – except my brother Edmund. He and I have shared a household at Ludlow for as long as I can remember. This is only the second time we’ve been apart.”
“When was the first time?”
“When I accompanied my father to St. Albans.”
“St. Albans!” John was startled into exclaiming. “You were at St. Albans, my lord? But you must have been a young lad. What – thirteen or so?”
“Aye, and a more cock-sure thirteen-year-old you never did see! I thought I knew as much about battle-lore as Alexander and Caesar rolled into one. I’ll tell you about it sometime if you care to hear. We old campaigners love to relive our exploits!”
“Where is your brother now, my lord?”
“On his way to Ireland with my lord father. And we are for Calais. Now cease your prattling, John Dyneham, and let me sleep!”
No sooner said than he was asleep. How likeable he is, John thought in surprise. Not at all what you’d expect of a duke’s son. He has none of the arrogance of a nobleman. Even when he’s bone-weary, his sense of humour is irrepressible, full of irony, sometimes self-deprecating. And I think he likes me! Me!
Chapter 32
November 1459 – Nutwell, Devonshire
Edward stood at the huge table in the Dyneham’s kitchen, skinning and gu
tting a brace of hares he had trapped that morning in preparation for the cooking pot. It was a task he was not altogether unfamiliar with, for as young lads he and Edmund had gone through a phase when they had insisted on preparing their catch. That period had yielded to other novel experiences, but he remembered how to do it even if his fingers lacked the dexterity of long practice. He had set the snares, too, and was feeling proud of his accomplishments. When Joanna had teasingly suggested he should cook it also, he admitted that his accomplishments didn’t extend so far. She would make a civet of hare for supper. The meat would be grilled, then cut up and cooked again with onions, vinegar, wine and spices, and thickened with breadcrumbs.
He thought about Edmund frequently. The last time they had been apart, the truth was he had thought about him seldom, except to pity him, and hardly missed him at all; there had been so many new experiences to distract him. And he knew it wouldn’t be long before they would be together again. This time it was different. He had too much time on his hands, and he missed Edmund.
“Are you hungry, my lord?” Joanna Dyneham asked.
She was bending over the fire, where a huge iron kettle full of water was kept hot. Other pans and cauldrons stood on trivets that could be swung over the fire. Utensils hung from pegs against the chimney breast. Next to the hearth was a barrel of water, conveniently placed for general use and also in case a cinder fell and started a fire. Hanging on one wall were various sizes of pots and a shelf full of smaller utensils such as colanders and a mortar and pestle. Above the table, and grazing Edward’s head whenever he forgot to duck were the herbs Joanna had collected and was now drying: yarrow, sage, rosemary and thyme. In a very small locked chest, she kept her supply of spices, some of which were worth more than their weight in gold.
Before Edward could speak, she answered her own question. “Of course, you are. Young men are hungry always. It is the same with my John. I sometimes wonder if he isn’t secretly feeding the whole neighbourhood.”
She came to Edward’s side with a generous slice of fragrant bread right out of the oven, oozing butter and spread with golden honey. Edward tore off a large bite and spoke with a mouthful of delicious flavours. “If we should eat you out of house and home, you’ll have only yourself to blame, for you have the ability to turn the simplest fare into a feast for the senses.”
Joanna’s chuckle was rich and hearty. “And you, my young lord, if you’ll forgive the observation, have a right facile tongue. I hope it gets you out of more trouble than it gets you into.”
“It does, indeed,” Edward said complaisantly. “You’d not believe how adroitly I can extemporise when the need arises.”
“Oh, I believe it. Joanna laughed again. She wasn’t in the least in awe of him.
The Dynehams were of the landed gentry, without pretensions, as steadfast in their beliefs as in their loyalty, the kind of people Edward’s father called ‘the backbone of England.’ In the few days he had spent under their roof, Edward had come to like and trust the Dynehams. He never doubted that he and his fellow fugitives would be safe. Of course, there had to be precautions. John Dyneham had gone to Exmouth in search of a ship, but before he left, he gave instructions that the manor house was to be closed to visitors. None of the household, save Joanna or Gilbert, were to be permitted beyond the estate, just in case a heedless word should fall in the wrong ear and betray the earls’ presence.
They imposed the same prohibition on themselves. Edward chafed at the confinement. He was accustomed to filling his days from dawn to bedtime with exhilarating and demanding activities in the company of like-minded companions. Now he had nothing to occupy his time but endless games and discussing plans with his uncle and cousin. It was not enough to tax the boundless resources of energy of a healthy youth or to keep him from missing his brother and brooding about what might have happened at Ludlow after their flight.
Which was why he was in the kitchen, knife in bloody hand, removing the entrails of a hare and feeding them to a hound that sat under the table, tail wagging in delight at this unexpected treat. Meanwhile, he teased Joanna, who was more than a match for him, and the little kitchen maid, who retreated into excruciating shyness whenever he spoke to her. Her name was Nan, and he would have happily diverted himself with her had she given him the slightest encouragement.
“It’s John,” Joanna exclaimed, hearing a commotion in the hall. “Oh, I do hope he has good news.”
Edward drove the knife he had been using deep into the block table. Joanna was holding out a towel for him. He wiped his bloody hands and then impulsively leant down and kissed her plump cheek, grinning when she blushed as rosily as Nan.
John had already entered, and while he went to greet his mother, Warwick said in a voice rich with relief, “He’s done it! Didn’t I tell you he was resourceful? John, come and tell us the whole story!”
Ale was provided for the thirsty traveller and wine for his noble guests as they sat around the table. Gilbert and some other members of the household leant against the wall, eager to hear the tale. It hadn’t been easy. John had spent an entire day prowling the docks of Exmouth, talking to sailors and stevedores, complaining that he had a load of goods for the Low Countries, a buyer pacing the docks waiting for him, but no ship available to transport it. He offered more than the going rate, but there were no takers.
For two nights he had haunted the dockside stews, the most disreputable taverns, being uncommonly sociable to ruffians who looked as if they would slit his throat for the shirt he wore. On the second night, he had a scare thrown into him when he chanced to glimpse an acquaintance through the haze of an inn’s common room. Since he was playing the part of a trader looking for a ship to hire, and not even using his real name, he was forced to beat a hasty retreat before he, in turn, was spotted. Wherever he went, whoever he asked, the answer was always the same. There was, in fact, one ship available but since it belonged to the Duke of Exeter, he had not pursued that avenue further.
Having exhausted all possibilities in Exmouth, he went on to Weymouth. Just as he was beginning to believe his quest fruitless and move on to another port, he saw a glimmer of hope. There was a ship named the Catherine, which had been idle for several months since she was in need of extensive repairs. His informant had heard that she was now seaworthy and ready to take on cargo. Next morning he had gone to look over the Catherine with an admittedly inexpert eye and then went to find the owner, who also happened to be the master.
‘She was built in Sandwich,’ the one-eyed, bewhiskered fellow told him. ‘In her heyday – and I’m talking thirty years ago now – she used to ply the trade routes as far as Muscovy and the Black Sea. She was once captured by pirates off the Barbary Coast – ‘
‘Fascinating,’ John interrupted. ‘But I’m not concerned with her history, only whether she’s seaworthy.’
‘Got a certificate that says she is.’
‘From who?’
‘I just paid out a small fortune to have her overhauled. She’s had her seams caulked, new rigging, decking replaced, tiller replaced, a fresh coat of paint. Why I’d be hard put to come up with more ‘an a half dozen parts still in place from the old ship. Holt and Gregory, master shipwrights of Sandwich, did the work. Ask around. You’ll find they have as good a reputation as any. What’s your cargo?’
John gave him his best ‘none of your damn business’ stare and answered vaguely, ‘Commodities for the Low Countries.’
‘What manner of commodities?’
‘Why is that any concern of yours?’
‘Because it’s my ship, and I’ll be the one sailing her. I like to know what’s going into my holds. Is that unreasonable? A man can’t be too careful. I have nothing to do with smuggling. If some knave gets off without paying his dues, we all suffer. That’s my opinion.’
‘I’m no smuggler!’ John said indignantly.
‘So what’s your cargo?’
He had intended to hire the vessel, but had not thought to be closely
questioned and couldn’t think of a single commodity that would likely be going to the Low Countries at this time of year and would fill up the holds so that the master wouldn’t have to go looking for another cargo. Before the fellow became too suspicious of his evasiveness, he switched tack and evinced an interest in buying the ship instead. The price was agreed surprisingly quickly. Off went John at top speed to Exeter and returned with a letter of credit. The deal was concluded the next day over a tankard of gut-wrenching brandy that tasted as if seawater had leaked into it.
“How much?” asked Warwick, who certainly knew more about ships than John.
“Seventy-three pounds,” John said smugly. “A good price, wouldn’t you say, my lord?”
Warwick eyed him obliquely. “A very good price. I’ve paid more for a good horse. Either you’re a damned shrewd bargainer, Master Dyneham, or the tub will never make it out of the harbour. The latter, I rather suspect.”
John looked deflated. “But she has a certificate of seaworthiness, my lord. I made sure of that.”
“They’ll give a certificate to a horse trough if you pay enough.”
Edward burst into laughter. “Cousin, I think Master Dyneham should accompany us to Calais. If we’re to find eternal rest at the bottom of the Narrow Sea I, for one, would feel much better knowing the author of our fate is doomed to share it.”
He was joking, and John knew it, but he couldn’t let such an opportunity pass. “I should like that, my lords,” he said solemnly. “It would be an honour to accompany you.”
Edward’s glance shifted, slanted across John’s face in quick appraisal and he nodded. “I believe you could be useful.” Reaching for his cup of well-watered wine – Joanna’s doing, she wouldn’t have drunkenness in her home – he said lightly, “While you were busy buying ships and enjoying the experiences of our coastal centres, did you gather any news?”
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