Love's Intrigue

by June Francis

  When at last John spoke it was to inform her, in a voice that showed he was making an effort to behave as if nothing had happened between them, that during the great rebellion thirty years ago his father and mother had fled from the peasant army along this same road after her father had been killed. ‘Were they married?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘She was betrothed from girlhood to his brother and he was taking her to him.’

  ‘Then how did they marry?’ Her gaze shifted from the road to his face and away again, having him so close she possessed a desire to reach out and touch him.

  ‘They fell in love and my mother determined to marry him.’ His voice was bland.

  ‘I presume she got her way,’ said Louise brightly.

  ‘Father used to say that once Mother decided then he didn’t stand a chance. It almost caused a scandal but they managed to avoid that and it all ended happily enough.’ He had slowed his horse to a walk and now took out the napkin with the food from his saddlebag.

  He balanced it on the pommel and handed Louise some bread and sheep’s cheese. She ate hungrily.

  ‘I cannot say that my parents, or even my grandparents, ever caused any scandal in our family,’ she said, almost wistfully, in between mouthfuls. ‘Their lives always sounded extremely dull the way my father used to tell it. In truth he made marriage sound an unenviable state.’

  ‘It can be,’ said John grimly. ‘I went into marriage, believing that our relationship could be like that of my parents. But Dorothy made it clear from the beginning that it was due to her being a dutiful daughter to her mother that she had made a match that was merely one of convenience.’

  ‘And then she betrayed you?’

  ‘Ay,’ he said shortly. ‘I’d hidden Harry, who had escaped from a disastrous plot, in our stables. She told her uncle of it and we were both imprisoned. He took the opportunity of torturing us in an attempt to find out the names of any Lollards we knew who were actively involved in spreading the gospel. Fortunately the King had a change of heart and for a price we gained our freedom. He needed the money, you see, to finance his wars in France.’

  ‘And how did your wife behave after you were freed?’ A sharp laugh escaped him. ‘She told me that she had had no choice but to inform her uncle! The skin was still raw on my back from the hot irons when she said that! Not that she would look upon my naked body. The flesh is unclean,’ he said sarcastically, ‘and she could never understand why God couldn’t find a different way for mankind to beget children. And in like spirit she told me that she betrayed me so that my immortal soul could be saved from hell’s fire. And that could only be done by my being persuaded of the error of my beliefs by my suffering.’

  Louise’s eyes sparkled. ‘How could she bear for you to suffer so?’

  He looked at her, and his face softened. ‘Has it still not sunk in, my sweet? She cares nothing for me, for all her talk of being concerned. So what if I suffered pain? She inflicts pain and discomfort on herself with continuous fasting, and with scourgings by her uncle.’

  Louise flashed him a look. ‘Her uncle whips her? Why do you allow it?’

  ‘How am I to stop it when I am away from home?’ he said grimly ‘She has said that she is proud to suffer just as Jesus did.’

  A shiver raced through Louise. ‘I do not like pain. There is too much of it in life.’ She hesitated, before adding, almost reluctantly, ‘There was a time when I was betrothed.’

  John glanced at her. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He died in a squabble between the Armagnacs and Burgundians. He was a follower of Duke John, who was murdered recently in Paris and the Dauphin was implicated.’

  ‘Harry told me about that. It caused a storm among the French.’ He frowned. ‘Apparently there was hope of the two sides joining forces and halting Henry’s progress.’

  She said vehemently, ‘It’s so stupid! The Armagnacs’ quarrel is years old and should have been put aside for the good of France.’

  ‘True,’ said John lightly. ‘Especially when it’s all over a woman.’

  ‘You know about it?’ Louise was taken aback, and not a little dismayed.

  ‘Your queen had an affair with Louis of Orleans, the King’s brother, after already having had John of Burgundy, the King’s uncle, for her lover. There was bound to be a fight sooner or later, especially when he who has the Queen’s support controls the King when his madness is upon him.’

  ‘You are well informed, Master Milburn.’ Her chagrin showed on her face. ‘What hope is there for France when its nobility behaves in such a way?’ she said angrily. ‘Now it’s rumoured that the Queen has taken the Burgundian side and they are allying themselves with Henry — that a marriage will be arranged between the princess Catherine and Henry, and that he will be declared heir to the throne instead of the Dauphin.’

  ‘It’s common talk that the Dauphin might not be the King’s son anyway, but a bastard by one of her lovers,’ said John. ‘If Catherine and Henry have a son, maybe — ’

  ‘And which throne will this son sit upon?’ she asked tersely. ‘England’s, or France’s? You said yourself some such words as it would be impossible for one king to rule both.’

  ‘Perhaps it would be best if we talked of something else,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Ay,’ she muttered, wishing that she had never mentioned her betrothed, whom she could barely remember now.

  A silence fell and they did not speak for some time.

  They came to Faversham, crossing the river Swale, and still neither of them had spoken. Louise felt depressed, wondering whether she was quite mad to have started on her quest to find her sister. The weather was cold and grey and she was completely dependent on an Englishman for all her needs. She felt a need to stir up her old hatred of the English, because of such dependence. It would be so easy to begin to rely on him totally for all her needs. Had he not offered her rest and comfort with his mother? It had been a kind thought but she must not ever consider acceptance.

  It was just upon dusk when, weary to the bone, they stopped at an inn. It was noisy inside, and the smoke from the fire caught Louise’s throat, and hurt eyes already watering from the cold wind. John fell into conversation with a couple of travellers as they sat at the table over a supper of pottage, bread, herrings and ale. She was cut off from their talk because she knew so little of the language. She felt more than a little angry at feeling an outsider, as they went upstairs to the communal bedchamber. Fully clothed, she fell asleep immediately on the straw pallet, next to John’s, on the floor.

  Stiff and sore, they set out next morning with several other people, whose destination was London. Louise resigned herself to passing the time with nothing to do but look at the landscape. But they had not gone far when John terminated his conversation with a pilgrim, and turned his attention upon her. His dark brows were knit in a frown. ‘You have hardly spoken since yesterday morning. Are we enemies again because of our conversation yesterday?’

  ‘How can we be enemies when I have accepted your help?’ she muttered, her hazel eyes glinting a little. ‘If I have not spoken, Master Milburn, it is because I cannot join in the conversation when you speak to your fellow countrymen.’

  He stared at her and nodded his head. ‘Forgive me, Louise! I was so caught up in seeking to find out how matters have stood in England while I’ve been away that I did not think. Perhaps we could use this time for you to learn some English?’

  ‘It could be useful,’ she agreed, thinking that there might come a time when she could find herself without him near at hand.

  ‘Good lass.’ The intense blue eyes were warm as they rested on her face, and she could not help but respond.

  ‘Let the lessons commence,’ she said gaily.

  In such a mood the journey passed pleasantly enough. Rochester came in sight and by then Louise was in command of a little more English. John had proved a good instructor, patient but persistent.

  The December days were short, so John calle
d a halt at an inn in the city. After they had stabled their horses, Louise said hesitantly, ‘I would like to go to confession and Mass before I sup. Perhaps you could come with me?’

  His blue eyes were thoughtful as he took in the expression on her face. ‘I’ll take you to the cathedral.’ They walked along the narrow high street, made up of gabled buildings, to the cathedral. ‘It is dedicated to St Andrew the Apostle,’ he informed her. ‘Mass is held in the nave for the common people. There is talk of a parish church being built because since the great rebellion there have been frequent disputes between the Benedictine monks and the townsfolk.’

  ‘It’s a magnificent building,’ she murmured, glancing up at the turreted west front with its rich arcading and elaborately carved doorway. There was Christ in majesty, supported by his angels and the symbols of the Evangelists. ‘Will you come inside with me?’ she asked hesitantly.

  His eyes narrowed, but he took her elbow and they entered the building. ‘There is a shrine to St William of Perth in the eastern transepts,’ he said softly, ‘if you are interested in saints. They say many miracles took place after he was murdered, and buried here.’

  She nodded vaguely. ‘Will you make your confession?’

  ‘To a priest? No,’ he said softly. ‘We have a great high priest, who has passed into the heavens and stands on the right hand of God. It is to the Father through the Lord Jesus that I will confess, man to his Lord.’

  She stared at him in astonishment. ‘But how can you do that? We are not worthy to pray directly to God. And besides, who will tell you what penance you must pay for your sins?’

  ‘I know what God asks of me already.’ His face was serious. ‘A contrite heart, and — that I go and sin no more.’ He pressed her arm. ‘Louise, what I believe now I did not come to without a lot of thought. This my parents encouraged.’

  She was silent, considering how her father would cover his ears, rather than listen to what he called blasphemy and the babblings of the Devil. ‘Yet you still sinned,’ she murmured.

  ‘Ay.’ His voice was low and passionate. ‘Tempted by the flesh, I fell. And sorry I should be to confess that I do not regret a moment of it.’

  ‘You should not say that in here,’ she whispered, feeling her blood stirred by his words and the look in his eyes. She gazed up at the soaring roof and the beautiful raised choir and presbytery and was awe-struck. ‘Let us get out of here,’ she said in a scared voice. ‘I do not feel that I have prepared myself for righteous confession.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He was penitent. ‘It is my fault for making you say such things. You have done no great wrong.’ He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  ‘You shouldn’t be doing that here either,’ she whispered, closing her eyes tightly and praying for ice in her blood instead of heat. Even so she pinched John’s arm and nudged him in the direction of the door.

  ‘What now?’ he asked, once they were outside. ‘Shall we go back to the inn and have supper?’

  ‘What else is there to do on such a dull, dreary evening?’ she replied, letting out a heavy breath, wishing the journey over, and knowing that she should want it so because then she and Marguerite could be on their way back to Normandy.

  The food was good and hot, and there was a juggler and a minstrel, on their way to entertain the nobility in London, staying at the inn. They practised their arts on a willing audience, some ribald jokes were made, and the artistes were rewarded for their talents. Louise’s body drooped with weariness and she was already half asleep when they retired to the sleeping chamber upstairs.

  She woke in John’s arms. But there was nothing loverlike about his embrace, so she told herself, despite the look in his eyes as she dragged herself out of his arms.

  The next day passed in much the same fashion. They stayed a night in an inn in Southwark, and then they were on the road again. Louise felt as if she had been in the saddle half her life. One more night they spent in an inn, and then they were on the final stage of their journey to Burford. John became withdrawn and Louise, instead of being excited at the thought of seeing her sister, felt nervous and low-spirited.

  They skirted Oxford and travelled several more miles before they came to a valley, set among rolling hills, filled with the shadows of late afternoon.

  Burford’s high street was broad, with some houses built of yellow stone and others of timber and thatch, sweeping down towards the church. They walked their weary horses part way down before John turned off the street and up an entry into a courtyard. There was no sign of activity but a light shone through a leaded bay window on the ground floor of the large stone-built house before them. John glanced about him and up at the house. A dark shadow passed an upper window. He dismounted and helped Louise down from the saddle. ‘It’s unusually quiet for this time of day,’ he said in an undertone.

  ‘Perhaps they’re all ill?’ She clung to his hands a moment, before straightening her aching back.

  He made no answer, only indicating silence, before moving soft-footedly in the direction of the lighted window. She followed just as quietly, sidling along the wall of the house in like manner to him, watching as he peered round the side of the window. He drew back swiftly and bumped into her, then, seizing her hand, hurried her away past the main entrance, and round the side of the house. ‘What is wrong?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s Dykemore and Bradshaw, our man of business. They’ve always been as thick as bees in a hive. I wager they’re plotting something.’

  ‘What of your wife? Was she in the room?’

  John shook his head. ‘She never interferes in business matters when I’m home, but I always suspected when I was away those two got their heads together.’ They came to a narrow doorway and he opened the door quietly.

  Louise glanced about her as they entered what appeared, from the jars and flagons on floor and shelves, to be the buttery. They passed through it and came out on to a narrow stone passage. The low murmur of voices could be heard coming from a room along the passageway to the left and near the front door stood a couple of men who wore weapons, but who were not looking their way. John took her hand and led her in the opposite direction until they came to a flight of stairs.

  They went up it in the dark and John paused a moment, listening, then headed along a passage till they stopped in front of a door. He lifted the latch but the door did not give under the pressure of his hand. Then he noticed the key in the lock and, turning it, pushed open the door.

  A boy, dressed soberly in a black surcote and hose, who had been pacing the floor in the darkened room, looked up quickly, and the misery on his face was replaced by surprised delight. ‘Father, you received my message, then?’ he demanded. ‘They said you wouldn’t — were furious at me for sending one!’ He flung himself at John, and his voice was muffled against his shoulder, as he added, ‘But you have come faster than the wind, and swifter than I prayed for! And I’m glad because it will annoy Uncle Dykemore no end.’

  ‘Hush, Peter,’ John said quietly. ‘Why are you not with Master Fulcombe? Where is your mother? And the servants — there seems to be nobody here but the two downstairs, some guards and yourself.’

  The boy pulled a little away from him. ‘So you didn’t get my letter. I wrote to you care of your agent in Kent. Mother’s dead! Over a week since and the funeral already been, and her buried in the churchyard.’ His square chin quivered. ‘The fever has raged here. Several people have died of it. Old Will! The new baby just down the high street! Jimmy, the shepherd’s brother!’

  John’s hands stilled on the boy’s shoulders and there was a stupefied expression on his face. ‘Your mother is dead!’

  Peter nodded, his eyes on his father’s face. ‘Have I not said so?’ he burst out. John hushed him and he went on in a whisper. ‘And I knew not about it until too late. Then Uncle Dykemore came and took me away from Master Fulcombe’s house, and brought me here. He sent Mab and Giles away, the only two not sick, and we have had only those guards wait upon us. He
said that he’s taking me to Oxford and that I can be a scholar and learn under him. But I don’t want to, Father! I want to be a merchant venturer like you! And now that Mother’s dead perhaps I can be!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ muttered John, hugging the boy to him. His eyes met Louise’s wondering gaze over his head. ‘But what about your prenticeship, and your learning your grandfather’s trade, so that you can take his place here?’

  Peter’s blue eyes were uncertain. ‘I don’t know. I just want to get away from here and be with you. I don’t want to become a priest like Uncle Dykemore says and burn people.’

  ‘Is that what he said to you?’ asked John in a tight voice.

  ‘I told him that it was cruel to burn people. Told him that I’d run away and find you.’ He pulled a face. ‘I should have kept quiet about that because he locked me in here, and said that I’d get nothing but bread and water for a week.’ He paused to draw breath and John put a finger against his lips.

  ‘Enough for now, son,’ he said softly. ‘I think I have the gist of things. Let’s get out of here before your uncle realises that I’m here.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ began the boy.

  ‘Hush,’ whispered John. ‘Later.’ He released his hold on him and looked at Louise. ‘Keep as quiet as you can.’ She nodded, aware of Peter’s curious gaze as they moved towards the door, wondering why John hadn’t told her he had a son. Perhaps he considered talking about anything connected with his marriage a sore point.

  They were along the passage, down the stairs and just inside the buttery, when they heard the door of the room further along open. It seemed as if they all stopped breathing as footsteps went past the buttery door in the direction of the stairway. John waited only a moment before seizing hold of Louise’s and Peter’s arms and hustling them through the buttery and outside.