The Woodville Connection

by K. E. Martin

  “Poor foolish creature,” I murmured when Matthew reached this part of his story. “What fate befell her? Not the rope, I pray.”

  Matthew grinned at me, merriment and mischief dancing in his eyes.

  “Nay master, old Lynet didst not hang. Truth to tell, I cain’t say for sure that she dossent live yet.”

  The impudent lout then laughed aloud at the confusion on my countenance. A gentle nudge from me brought an end to his mirth and a resolution to his tale.

  With the woman’s confession ringing in his ears, the priest had hastened her from his church, intent on bringing her before Sir Thomas to answer for her crime. Yet on the way he was apprehended by a crowd of villagers who demanded he hand Lynet over to them, as they had their own way of dealing with witches. Frightened by the size of the mob, the craven priest put Lynet into their hands and retreated to the safety of his church.

  They took the woman to her house where she was held roughly as the angry villagers smashed and stamped on her meagre store of possessions. She was beaten, but not severely, and told that witchcraft was an abomination the God-fearing people of Plaincourt would never tolerate. Then she was told to begone and never return.

  “And that was it?” I asked, incredulous that her life had been spared. “She had confessed to attempted witchcraft at the very least, why was she not hanged?”

  In reply, Matthew held up one grimy finger.

  “Old Lynet were one of us,” he intoned.

  A second finger was raised.

  “Old Lynet were crazed, and with good reason.”

  A third and final finger arose.

  “Old Lynet didst only seek to work witchery on that Sir Thomas that didst her wrong. All folk knew she didst never work no harm on no other.”

  In time I would have good reason to recall this sad tale and the reasons Matthew had given me for the villagers’ leniency. For now, however, it seemed naught but a distraction from my pressing business at Plaincourt and so I steered our discourse towards my mission to uncover the real culprit behind young Geoffrey’s murder.

  Chapter 5

  Arrival at Plaincourt

  Dusk was fast approaching when I finally rode up to Plaincourt Manor, passing myself off at the gatehouse as a travelling musician who had lost his way. Gesturing vaguely at my lute, I said that it would be my pleasure to pay for a night’s shelter with music and song. Following this little speech I was ushered with sufficient courtesy through to a cobbled courtyard and instructed to wait there while the gatekeeper’s lad was despatched in search of authority. Excited as I was at the prospect of meeting the master of Plaincourt, common sense told me that he was unlikely to hurry out to greet a nobody such as I and in all probability my first dealings would be with the household steward.

  Dismounting from the tired rouncey, I used the waiting time to take note of my surroundings. My attention was drawn first to the handsome stone manor house which stood at the far end of the courtyard, facing towards the gatehouse. Its walls were neatly white-washed and the windows expensively glazed. On either side of the house, a series of neat buildings ran down to the gatehouse wall, creating the square, enclosed courtyard in which I now stood. To my left as I faced the house were stables and kennels while to the right I spied a granary, dairy and hen house. It was a pleasing scene, for all appeared well-ordered; the courtyard was tidy, free of dung and the air smelt fresh. Not a soul was to be seen but a gentle hum of activity came from the various buildings and from the vicinity of the dairy I heard an indistinct rumble of conversation interspersed with short bursts of laughter.

  Thus my first impression of Plaincourt Manor was that it was a prosperous place with servants who attended well to their duties and had leisure to discourse with one another. This was of a piece with my view of Plaincourt village through which I had been obliged to ride on my approach to the manor house. The thatched houses lining the village’s sole thoroughfare seemed tidily kept and although they had the usual confusion of livestock and ragged children roaming around outside, I could detect none of the sense of hopeless misery that pervades many such places. The few peasants I passed directly stopped what they were doing to study my progress, their faces alert with curiosity. One soul, perhaps braver than the rest, called out a polite greeting to me which I returned in kind. From this exchange I gratefully surmised that while the appearance of strangers might not be an everyday occurrence in Plaincourt, it was not such a startling event that the residents felt moved to pelt me with muck and stones, as I had heard sometimes happened to hapless travellers in remote locations.

  The last building I had passed before reaching the bridge that crossed to the gatehouse was a fine church of medium size. Its dominating feature was a large and very beautiful window which depicted several scenes from the life and death of some obscure saint. In the central section, the saint was wearing a crown and holding aloft a chalice. Since I know regrettably little of these matters I failed to recognise him but later learned that the crown and chalice identified him as St Oswald, a king of ancient times who sought to bring the teachings of the Church to all his people.

  Fielding had described Plaincourt as a ‘fair manor’ and it seemed that, in this at least, he had not been exaggerating. Lying at the foot of the Lincolnshire Wolds, to one side it had rich arable farmland from which, I guessed, the manor drew much of its apparent prosperity while to the other, so Matthew had informed me, was coastal marshland leading to the sea less than four leagues distant. I felt it probable that such close proximity to the coast must also prove advantageous to the Plaincourts from time to time. Certainly, before ever I had set foot under Sir Stephen’s roof, I had gained a sense of his wealth. Everything I had seen so far, the orderly village, the magnificent and costly church window, the attractive exterior of his house and the ordered calm of his courtyard, all spoke of a liberal application of gold over many years.

  Such reflections were banished by the return of the gatekeeper’s lad, accompanied now by a young woman of tiny stature whom I guessed at once must be Fielding’s Mistress Blanche. I had just enough time to conjecture ruefully that even the steward considered himself too fine to greet me, and then she was upon me. For a moment she looked me over without speech, apparently decided I seemed respectable enough and then turned on her heel and walked back in the direction of the house, indicating with a flick of her wrist that I was to follow. At once, and without a word of instruction being uttered, a groom emerged from the stable block to see to my horse. I realised I must have been under cautious surveillance from that quarter the entire time I had been waiting.

  Walking a few steps behind Mistress Blanche I had the opportunity to admire her graceful figure and elegant bearing. She skimmed across the cobbles on feather-light feet, moving purposefully yet giving no outward appearance of hurrying. I could see little of her hair which was coiled up on the back of her head, but an escaped lock which danced beneath her headdress showed it to be as black and curly as Fielding had stated. Knowing her to be a waiting woman of no great rank, I was much surprised by the richness of her figured velvet gown and fashionable heart-shaped headdress, and likewise by the fact that she had been deputed to receive me.

  Crossing the threshold of Plaincourt Manor I followed Mistress Blanche into a small antechamber which gave way into a vast hall, brightly lit even at this hour by dozens of torches. Glancing upwards at the high vaulted ceiling, I noticed a musicians’ gallery which ran along the left side of the hall. The sight gladdened me, for my task could be made that much easier with a convenient vantage point from which to watch and listen.

  As we walked, I noticed that the floor was covered with decorative patterned tiles and the plastered walls were painted with wheat sheaves, which I knew to be the heraldic device of the Plaincourt family, as well as fish, bees and flowers. Along one wall was arrayed a goodly selection of bows, swords, shields and pole arms, indicating to me that the manor would be able to defend itself should the need ever arise.

  I was
led to the upper end of the hall where a large table rested upon a dais. In the centre stood an impressive carved chair flanked on either side by oaken benches. To my astonishment, my silent guide took possession of the great chair and nodded at me to be seated on a bench. The moment we were settled her reticence disappeared and in a soft, cultured voice she welcomed me warmly to Plaincourt Manor in the name of its master. Sir Stephen Plaincourt, she explained, was away at the present but was expected to return within a few days.

  A clap of her small white hands brought forward an ancient retainer who had been shuffling in the shadows.

  “Bring refreshments,” she ordered peremptorily, and the old man went about his business as quickly as his hobbling gait would permit. Conscious of my travel-stained appearance I would have welcomed the opportunity to wash my face and hands before drinking but knew that mentioning it would highlight my hostess’s deficiency in not thinking of it herself.

  “And now,” she said, turning to face me fully for the first time, “I would know your name and where you are bound. The boy told me you have lost your way and crave shelter for the night. Here at Plaincourt we pride ourselves on our hospitality and since my lord is from home and his steward is attending him, it falls to me to act on his behalf. Yet I believe it would be folly to give you leave to stay without knowing something of you and your business.”

  I noted that this last was said with a small, playful smile that asked me to forgive any suggestion of suspicion inherent in her words. I made to answer her but to my chagrin discovered that I was temporarily struck dumb, my senses awry, giddy with surprise and confusion.

  The truth was that I had been wholly unprepared for the startling beauty of her face. Even though Fielding had described her as womanly perfection, and the little I had seen of her as she led me into the hall had chimed with his description, still the reality of her countenance was far from what I had expected. Without question, she was by a long way the loveliest looking woman I had ever seen, not excluding my beloved Margaret. Her large bright eyes truly were the exact hue of spring violets, her complexion a flawless milky white with just the right amount of delicate flush on her cheeks. How such an exquisite beauty had ever consented to have carnal relations with a brute like Fielding was beyond me, yet oddly enough, the fact that he had been entirely accurate in his description of her physical charms encouraged me to believe for the first time that the rest of his tale might also be true.

  Yet even more perplexing to me than her beauty was the way in which she behaved as though she were lady of Plaincourt Manor. She had welcomed me to Plaincourt in Sir Stephen’s name, and spoke with confidence of acting on his behalf, but how could a lowly waiting woman have such authorisation? Then again, why would a lowly waiting woman be so richly decked out in costly velvet and amber beads, and why would the manor servants rush to obey her commands? Especially since, according to Fielding’s account, she had risked her master’s wrath in order to release him from captivity. Had her part in his escape not been discovered?

  I realised now that in my hurried conversation with the kitchen boy the name of Mistress Blanche had not once been mentioned. In truth I had done little more than inform Matthew of my mission to uncover the facts behind Geoffrey’s death before making him swear a solemn oath to help me as much as it should be in his power to do so. Now I cursed myself most soundly for failing to ask him about Fielding’s lady love when I had had the chance. Frustratingly, here were many puzzling questions for which I lacked the answers.

  It was fortunate for me that Mistress Blanche was well accustomed to the effect her beauty had on men, for she paid no heed to my long hesitation, taking it, no doubt, as tribute to her manifest loveliness. When finally I did manage to pull my wits sufficiently together to speak, her sympathetic violet gaze told me she thought she understood the cause for my confusion.

  “My name is Francis Cranley,” I told her truthfully, having decided it was safe to use my real name as I was far too obscure for the people of Plaincourt to have heard aught of me.

  “I am a musician, as you see,” - here I indicated my lute case - “and am lately come from York where I was in the employ of a respectable merchant blessed with overflowing coffers and a comely wife.”

  I ventured an audacious wink at this point. My reward was an amused smile from Mistress Blanche and a toss of her dainty head. I took this as an invitation to continue my wholly fabricated tale.

  “It was a comfortable sojourn and I was well content to linger until word reached me through the usual servant tattle that a certain northern nobleman was hiring musicians for his Christmas festivities. I have long hankered for a place at Court and, knowing that this noble stands high in royal favour, I fancied that if I pleased him with my playing, he might be minded to give me an introduction to Court. Thus I bade farewell to my merchant, who was none too pleased and cursed me roundly for deserting him at such a time, and made haste to the nobleman’s home.

  “Alas for the sorry welcome I received! I was told, none too kindly, that I had come too late! His lordship now had all the musicians he required and more besides. News of his hiring had spread far and wide and thus for several days every half-competent minstrel within forty leagues had been beating a path to his door. The best had been selected and the rest sent on their way. I ventured to say that I came well recommended and begged his lordship to spare a few moments to listen to my art. Sadly, a vicious boot to my backside convinced me I was wasting my time.

  “A sorry predicament I then found myself in, with no snug post at this inclement season. And yet, trust me, fair mistress, despair is not in my nature. I pondered on my situation and decided my best course was to hasten down to London, there to seek out an old comrade who once boasted of a useful connection at Court. So to London I am bound, or so I was until some fool ostler gave me the wrong direction and I found myself gone astray.”

  When I had finished, Mistress Blanche laughed and leaned forward to give my arm an affectionate pat. As she did so, I noticed a large and uncommonly ugly silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand. It had a crest, which I could not for the moment make out, but what drew my attention was the incongruity of such a crude object on her small, fine-boned hand. Then she laughed once more and her easy, familiar manner took my breath away, so at odds was it with her cultured voice, rich apparel and apparent status.

  “I hope you have greater skill at playing than travelling,” she joked. “You must know you are some way distant from the London road. It is lucky for you that you happened upon Plaincourt. Had you missed us, you might have journeyed on until you fell into the sea!”

  I laughed with her this time, as was expected, and took a sip from the cup of wine which the servant had set before me. She sipped also, and my eyes widened as I noticed that her own vessel was of enamelled silver-gilt. A singularly valuable cup for a waiting woman, I thought. Then she addressed me once again.

  “Well, Francis Cranley,” she stated, “you may stay at Plaincourt Manor tonight at least, and mayhap somewhat longer. My betrothed returns anon and then we shall see.”

  At mention of her betrothed, I clenched my cup tightly to prevent it slipping from my fingers. Fielding had made no mention of his beloved being betrothed to another. Had I had been mistaken in identifying my present interlocutor as his Mistress Blanche? Now I thought of it, I realised I had never been told the name of my fair hostess. Realising this needed to be rectified at once, I rose and swept her an extravagant bow.

  “Gracious lady,” I murmured, “you are as good as you are beautiful. Pray excuse my boldness but I beg you give me your name, so I may thank you properly for your kindness.”

  At this, she raised both hands to her mouth in an altogether charming gesture of dismay. “What a mannerless goose I am!” she exclaimed, “I have not introduced myself to you, have I? Well, let me put that to rights this very second. My name, Master Cranley, is Blanche St Honorine du Flers.”

  So saying, she extended to me a smooth wh
ite hand for kissing, in a gesture that was one part regal lady and three parts saucy doxy.

  Then you are Fielding’s Mistress Blanche, I thought, as I duly bent my head and pressed my lips to her knuckles. A deep, oversweet scent of roses filled my nostrils and I felt a strong urge to snatch my head away. Instead, I fought the impulse and lingered a moment longer than was strictly necessary, taking the opportunity to make careful note of the peculiar crest stamped roughly onto the central cartouche of her crudely wrought ring. As I straightened, my senses drowning in cloying, rose-scented confusion, I made a stern effort to gather my wits together.

  “It is a name nigh on as lovely as the lady who bears it,” I told her, unashamedly dripping honey since instinct told me that flattery was the quickest route to winning the trust of this exquisite little coquette.

  “And who is the thrice-blessed gentleman to whom you are betrothed?”

  “Now surely you are jesting with me,” she replied, speaking a shade more haughtily than before. “Since I greeted you in his name and offered you the protection of his house, I should have hoped it were plain to you that I am the betrothed of Sir Stephen Plaincourt.”

  She stood abruptly and drew away from me, as if aware for the first time that there might have been some impropriety in her manner.

  “We have had an understanding these last few months but chose not to speak of it until I felt fully settled here at Plaincourt. However, when Sir Stephen rode off two days ago he told his people of our impending nuptials, that they would harken to my command in his absence.

  “He returns soon to spend Christmas at Plaincourt and then after the Yuletide festivities we are to be married without delay,” she finished, before sweeping from the hall, pausing only to exchange a brief word with the servitor.

  Just before she exited she stopped and cast a penetrating glance over her shoulder at me. What the glance meant I could not think, save that when her eyes connected with mine I thought I read in them a flash of uncertainty or deep anxiety.