‘But what of those Earls who have each promised three thousand men?’ Thomas wonders.
‘If my lords of Pembroke and Devon raise that number, they’ll only set them against each other,’ one says. The other agrees.
It is no wonder the mood in the room is muted. Thomas looks over at King Edward, who sits at the end of the hall, raised on the usual dais, half-hidden by silverware, surrounded by his gentlemen, hovered over by servants, in glum, food-picking silence. He sits with the youngest of his gentlemen at his right hand, and the hawk-nosed Earl of Worcester a little way along. Halfway through the meal, King Edward sends Thomas a dish – beef bones in cinnamon – and raises his cup in a toast. Thomas is honoured, but he catches Worcester’s eye with a lurch and turns quickly away, and he knows without looking again that Worcester is smiling to himself, and that he’s given himself away. Thomas sits and regards the beef dish. He feels naked, exposed, and frightened of what Worcester now intends.
Also, is that the extent of the reward that King Edward had promised? A dish of beef bones?
The man beside him seems to understand.
‘Fine words butter no parsnips,’ he says, leaning forward to stab a chunk of meat the size of a fist and transfer it to his own bowl.
The next morning dawns fine again, and Thomas tries to leave Nottingham, to ride back to Marton, to get away from Worcester, but he is delayed searching for his horse and then when at last he has found it, not in the stables but in among the lines in the castle’s bailey, he must negotiate with a short-tempered ostler reluctant to give up any mount, and then he must find his bow and the bag of arrows, and his pollaxe without which he will not leave, since only a fool would go out on to the roads unarmed when there are armies milling around, and anyway, he cannot imagine where he will find the money to get a new one.
By the time he has done this, the castle is in chaos, with men coming and going, and its gates are jammed with traffic, as are the streets below, all the way back to the bridge across the river to the south, where the roads have become impassable with carts bringing the stuff an army needs to fight a war. There are flocks of sheep and herds of cattle to block the ways, too, as well as bored and anxious soldiers with sharpened weapons and ale in their bellies.
Into this, riding from the south, comes William, Lord Hastings, with five hundred men on good horses. Because of the crush of soldiery within and around the castle, Hastings has to leave most of his men to set up camp on the common land the other side of the bridge, and he forces his way up through the crowds with only a handful of men, and he emerges through the gatehouse looking harrowed and angry, just as Thomas is trying to get out.
The two men stare at one another.
‘My lord,’ Thomas says. He has to raise his voice above the din of men and horses.
‘Thomas,’ Hastings calls, ‘what in the name of God above are you doing here?’ He pushes his horse through the crowd.
‘I came to find you,’ Thomas tells him, ‘but I found the King instead.’
Hastings dismounts and passes his reins to a steward.
‘You have news?’
‘None that you have not already heard,’ Thomas tells him, ‘save that the Earl of Warwick is supposed to be about to issue some manifesto in Calais, calling all the true men of England to rise up against King Edward.’
Hastings nods.
‘I have it here,’ he says, indicating the bag around one of his escort’s shoulders. He looks grim. ‘How did King Edward take the Duke of Clarence’s news?’ he asks.
‘He accused me of sedition.’
Hastings’s eyes become round.
‘Sedition!’ he says. ‘Is my lord of Worcester here, by any chance?’
‘He is.’
‘But you are free to go?’
‘The news I brought was confirmed, and the King toasted me with wine last night.’
Hastings laughs.
‘You are ever the lucky one, Thomas. Now, where is the King?’
Thomas indicates the hall, where he supposes him to be.
‘Come with me, then,’ Hastings orders. ‘I would benefit from your luck.’
Thomas tries to explain.
‘There is no point you leaving now,’ Hastings tells him. ‘You will never get through the town. A cart is jammed on the bridge and has broken its hub. The carter will not let anyone tip it over into the river unless they pay him for it and its load of goose feathers.’
Thomas hesitates. He does not want to face Worcester again.
‘Won’t they float?’ he asks.
Hastings laughs.
‘Come, please. Wear my livery. Just for this day. It will make me invincible!’
He makes the man carrying the messages give the bag and his coat to Thomas, and he waits while Thomas puts it on, and then they walk up the steps together to find King Edward. There is a press of bodies through which they must make their way.
‘This is like old times, Thomas,’ Hastings says. ‘I recall standing with you in Westminster, with old Sir John Fakenham – may God keep his soul – waiting for an audience with King Edward’s late father. Do you remember? It was the night the Earl of Rutland told Warwick to keep quiet. Ha! A long time ago now. Here we are.’
But he hesitates.
‘Oh,’ he says, as if something has just occurred to him. ‘Before we go in. Thomas, have you had any word of that other matter we mentioned?’
The ledger. By Christ, Thomas thinks. Why does it always come back to the ledger?
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head sorrowfully, and seeing the lines between Hastings’s eyebrows sharpen.
‘No?’ he asks. ‘You are sure?’
Thomas nods.
‘Yes, sir. We were not in Senning long enough.’
Hastings nods in his turn, but there is a twinge of sorrow in his expression, and Thomas sees he does not quite believe him, and so everything gets just a notch worse. One of Hastings’s other men opens the door and they resume their bustle into the centre of the room, and Thomas finds himself standing slightly behind Hastings’s right shoulder, bending his head before King Edward for the second time in two days. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, falling in reds and blues on King Edward and his gentlemen as they sit in tight groups, coiled and tense.
‘William!’ King Edward calls, and he advances down the steps and embraces his old friend. You can see some of the lightness return to him with this reunion. Hastings greets the other gentlemen, including a youngster, who is the Duke of Gloucester, and of course the Earl of Worcester, who smiles at him and holds his hand a little too long, so that Hastings has to wrench it free.
‘Have you brought the manifesto?’ King Edward asks.
‘I have.’
Thomas takes it from the bag he has been given, and passes it to Hastings. It is a broad square of good-quality paper that has been softened from recent handling. Hastings takes it and passes it on to King Edward, who unrolls it and begins to read in silence, his lips moving quickly. His frown deepens.
‘That goddamned little weasel,’ King Edward says. ‘I will settle with him. Oh yes. I will settle with him. If it is the last thing I ever do. I will settle with him.’
‘It is Warwick’s hand, isn’t it?’ Hastings asks.
‘Of course it is his hand! Have you read it? Look at it! It is just as we sent out back in 1460, when we came back from Calais and wanted the commons of England to rise up against bloody old King Henry. Yes, yes. “We come not to evict the King but his deceitful and covetous council, whom he has been favouring with largesse over these past years” – as if I have not given him everything I could and more! – “and because of this the country is plunged into turmoil, and law and order has broken down”, as if he were not responsible for breaking it down, the little shit! Yes. Yes. It is all there. And look! Look at these conditions! You cannot tell me that some hairy-arsed Yorkshireman with a made-up name like Robin of Redesdale is worried about anyone diverting tunnage and fucking pound
age from the keeping of the seas! He is behind it! Of course he is, the mercantile, devious, slithering little shit snake!’
King Edward balls the paper and throws it on the floor and then he scuffs it towards the fire.
‘There is more, I am sore to say,’ Hastings tells him, ‘an addendum.’
He opens the bag Thomas holds and removes a smaller piece of paper that he passes over with a wince of regret.
‘It is nothing we did not suspect,’ he says.
King Edward takes it, opens it, reads the few words once, frowns, looks again. Then he is incredulous for a moment, holding the paper in slack fingers, looking blank-faced into the distance.
‘Great God above,’ he murmurs. ‘Great God above. George! What have you done? You – You bloody fool.’
No one says a word. They wait.
After a moment King Edward gathers himself, and turns first to Hastings.
‘You have read this too?’
Hastings nods.
Then he looks to the youngster, the Duke of Gloucester, to whom he says:
‘It is George again.’
And the boy – not as young as he looks, in fact, but small – shakes his head sadly.
‘What this time?’ he asks.
‘I think this may be the worst yet,’ King Edward says. ‘Our brother George has joined forces with my lord of Warwick and together they mean to come with their armies and force me to accept these – these terms.’ He takes another kick at the first paper among the rushes.
‘What shall we do?’ Gloucester asks.
And King Edward is silent for a moment, because however angry he is, he cannot bring himself to tell one brother that, together, they must kill another brother.
12
Katherine and Rufus and their newfound companion Liz cross the river at Gainsborough in bright sunshine and a light breeze. Katherine bargains with the ferryman, and gets a good price, seeing as they are two women on their own, but Liz is not having it, and after a further exchange the price is dropped lower still. The ferryman offers to steer the cart on to his craft, but Liz tells him she would rather dally with a pig than yield the reins to him. He will not look at them after that as they bring their horse and cart aboard, but others are more admiring, and happy to say so, until Liz turns on them, and then they turn their backs and watch the river surge by, and comment no more.
Katherine stares into the swirling turbid waters, too, until Liz tells her not to fret about Thomas.
‘He seems capable,’ she says. ‘Able to handle himself.’
Katherine is not so sure.
‘The last time I saw him go off like this, I lost him for two years.’
‘But he came back in the end,’ Liz says. ‘Plenty didn’t.’
And Katherine supposes this is true.
Liz has already told her about how Riven took them. Twenty well-armed men on big, fast horses had overtaken them easily, just as they feared. Jack and John Stump had not even tried to fight. They were just swallowed up.
‘Jack tried to stop them taking me into the bushes, but Edmund Riven held a blade to the pregnant girl’s throat and gave him the choice. It was either me, or her. I volunteered in the end just to stop her crying, and him having to make the choice. It wasn’t the first time, so I knew what to expect. And in the end it was only one of them – a right dirty bastard, but at least it weren’t that bloody giant of his.’
‘Does he keep the giant in memory of his father or something?’ Katherine wonders.
‘Maybe it’s a family tradition?’ Liz thinks. ‘You know what them families are like.’
‘Does he – does he put out men’s eyes?’
Liz frowns.
‘The giant? Not that I know of, but Riven’s been known to slit noses.’ She draws her finger down the length of her nose.
‘You were lucky,’ Katherine tells her.
‘Yes,’ Liz is quick to agree. ‘But he knew I were just a local, since he knows my father, like, so he were not so excited at finding me, but he was all het up about the others, and when he found he’d let you slip through his fingers, well. He – I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Katherine swallows hard. Dear God.
‘But there is no profit in you worrying,’ Liz tells her. ‘You did what you could. Anything else is on them. They understood that.’
Katherine nods, and wishes she could believe her.
‘So what is this place we are coming to then, Kate?’ Liz asks.
No one has ever called her Kate before. It feels odd, but also, from Liz, soothing.
‘It is home,’ Rufus tells Liz. He is clutching the little bow that John Brunt gave him, and in his blue jacket, with the russet hose, he looks like a small, unlined version of Thomas. Katherine puts a hand on his capped head.
‘It has been strange, this journey, hasn’t it, Rufus?’
He nods, but says nothing. Once they are unloaded from the ferry, they turn south, past a grand and new-built hall, and men stare at two women and a child riding a cart, and they open their mouths to say something, but Liz is usually in there first. A friar on a mule is resting in the shade of an oak tree, and tells them he marvels to see such a sight, though he wonders if it is pleasing to God. Liz tells him to be away now and wash his balls.
They follow the river’s meanders until they reach Marton. Everything is plump with life, saturated with it, burgeoning and verdant, and the wayside is filled with briar rose and alder, and there are butterflies below and swallows above, and the warm air is scented by lime trees and meadowsweet. Rufus shouts out that he has seen a kingfisher.
But Katherine feels unease billowing within like a species of nausea. Will Isabella allow them back? She will have retired from life, properly, completely and finally, as she said she would, and she will have left her sons to make decisions. What will they say when the wife and child of the man who killed their hounds comes rolling back, begging for charity? And what about Borthwick? Isabella’s sons sent him away after their dogs had been killed, since there was nothing for him to do, but perhaps they have new dogs and have called him back?
They come to the village from the north, past the windmill Sir John had had built on a small rise above the river, and Rufus asks if they may stop to speak to the miller as he has in the past. Katherine is usually charmed by the pleasure he takes in windmills, even though she does not share it, for close to the towering linen sails seem alive, and remind her of the dragon’s wings in a mural she once saw in a church named after St George. Thomas, of course, was there to tell her that it was the other way around: that wings should remind her of the sails, because the painter painted the wings to look like the sails.
In any event, today the sails are stilled and when they approach, the miller is absent.
‘Where is he?’ Rufus asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Katherine says. Though, surely, on a day such as this, he ought to be at work, grinding his grain?
They stand on the small hillock while Liz waits with the cart below and they look out across what were once Sir John’s lands, and odd things catch Katherine’s eye. The pea crop: it is unharvested, and the plants are mobbed with birds when there should be a boy with a stick to keep them at bay. And the hay in the pastures beyond – which should have been cut by now, surely? – lies where it is, beaten and desiccated in parts, rotting in others. And where are the oxen? Katherine tries to think how long it is since they left. It seems ages, for they have been through much, but it cannot be more than a month, surely? And yet – look at the place: it is neglected just at the time of year when most needs be done. She shields her eyes and peers at the trees that mask the hall from this direction, and she is relieved to see a pale wash of wood smoke.
‘Come on,’ Katherine tells him. ‘Let us go and find Isabella.’
When they reach the hall, she is perplexed.
‘Where is everybody?’
The stable doors are shut, as are those to the hall, and there is a sense of dry, dusty aban
donment about the place, as if no one has been here for months; yet a thin line of smoke slips from the chimney that Thomas and Jack and John were so pleased to build, and so someone must be within. Katherine knocks. There is a long moment’s charged quiet.
Katherine shouts.
‘It is me, Katherine Everingham. Who is within?’
And then comes the sound of a shuffle, a creak, and the doorbar being drawn, but there is some fumbling, and it is done hesitantly, or weakly, at the cost of some effort, and then the door is opened on sighing hinges and a face appears in the gap. It is Isabella, opening her own door. Her face is pale and her blank white eyes are rimmed red from crying. She gasps when she makes out Katherine, as if she cannot really believe who it is; then she opens the door wide and pulls Katherine into a desperate hug.
‘Isabella! What is wrong? What has happened?’
Isabella has her in a drowning grip, and she sobs unashamedly.
‘Katherine, Katherine,’ she says. ‘Oh great God above, thank you for coming back.’
When she has soothed her a little, Katherine goes within, where everything is as she left it – almost precisely so. Nothing has changed, been moved, been cleared away. The air is claggy. There are a few sticks of wood left to burn from the great pile that usually filled the bay, and there are a few crusts of old bread, small, burned, stale, like the shells of walnuts, mouldering on the table that had in the past been the scene of such feasts and discussions. Isabella herself is a shrunken filament, bent and dried with some affliction, perhaps. She turns away from Katherine and covers herself so as not to be seen, not to be looked at.
‘Oh, Isabella,’ Katherine says, taking her in her arms, ‘what is wrong? What has happened? Why are you here alone? Where is everybody?’
Rufus comes to the door but stops in the frame, aghast at the sight of the place and at its smell. Liz looms up behind him.
‘Come on, lad,’ she says. ‘Let us leave these two. You show me around.’
But Rufus slips away and runs to Isabella and throws his arms around her, and she nearly falls, but Katherine has her, and Rufus has made her weep all the louder; they guide her back to the settle where Sir John used to sit and they lower her into it, and her bones are like those of a bird, and as they let her down Katherine can feel them creak and grind beneath her palms.
Divided Souls Page 16