“Mercy, dread lord,” one of them begged, a scrawny greybeard who looked to be the steward of the household.
“Where is your mistress?” Martin demanded fiercely. He knew how terrifying he must appear to them, a giant slathered in their master’s blood.
“Upstairs, lord,” the old man quavered, “in her chamber.”
Martin placed one foot on the stair. “And where is that?”
“The first door on your left, lord.”
“Traitor,” one of the maids spat at the greybeard as Martin charged up the steps.
As he expected, the door to Kate’s chamber was locked. He hammered on it with his fist.
“Kate,” he roared. “Open the door. It’s me, Martin. For the love of Christ, open!”
He stopped pounding on the door, and leaned against it, panting. Shouts drifted up the stairwell from outside. Some of his men must have followed him into the yard. God help Ramage’s servants if they were in a bloodthirsty mood after watching the duel.
There was the found of a heavy bar being shifted. A key turned in the lock, and the door opened a fraction. Sighing with relief, Martin gently pushed it open and stepped inside.
He had expected Kate to rush into his arms, careless of the blood and filth that spattered his breastplate. Instead she had retreated to the far end of the room, and stood with her back pressed against the wall, between the window and her bed.
Her extraordinary green eyes, that had never regarded him with anything other than affection, now looked at him with fear.
“Kate,” he said, taking an uncertain step towards her, “don’t you recognise me?”
She swallowed before answering. “I do not,” she replied. “Come no closer. I don’t want you near me.”
He halted, wondering at her attitude. “I came here to rescue you. Did you see me kill Ramage? I did that for you. Your husband is dead, and we are free to marry.”
To his amazement, tears glimmered in her eyes. “I did not ask you to kill him,” she burst out, “I did not ask you to come here. I asked for none of it. None of it!”
There was a dagger in the belt at her waist. Before he could react, she had plucked it from the sheath and was holding the blade level at him.
“No closer,” she whispered, “I will not let you use me.”
Martin held up his hands, to indicate he meant no harm, and tried to think. This was the last thing he had expected, and he had no idea how to cope.
Kate was in the grip of some sort of nervous fit. That seemed clear enough. She had always been over-sensitive, which was one of the reasons Martin had fallen in love with her. He had wanted to shield her against the buffets of the world.
Perhaps witnessing the fight had driven her over the edge. It had been a bloody affair, unfit for a woman’s eyes.
“My love,” he said, choosing his words with care, “I had no choice but to kill him. He challenged me, and would not give you up.”
His feeble patience snapped. “For God’s sake, he claimed to have broken you!” he cried. “Why should you care if he lived or died? The whoreson stole you away, forced you to wed against your will, and…”
He stopped, unwilling to say it. The mere thought of Edmund Ramage taking Kate’s virginity made him sick to the stomach.
“He did not touch me,” she said, pre-empting the dreaded question, “vile as he was, there was a trace of nobility in him. I begged him to spare me on our wedding night, and so he slept on the floor beside our bed and lied to the servants in the morning. Nor did he insist on his rights in the weeks after.”
This revelation struck Martin like a blow. He had fought against Ramage with hatred in his heart, inspired by the knowledge (or so he thought) that the man had violated Kate.
A terrible sense of worthlessness and self-loathing swept over him. Ramage had proved the better man after all. Martin had slaughtered him, without pity or remorse, for the sake of a lie. It was murder, not justice. He had intended to rid the world of a monster, but instead committed a terrible sin.
Martin’s mind struggled with the paradox. His was not a very able mind, and tended to run along straight lines. Loyalty and honour, sin and virtue, faith and piety, were all absolutes, not abstract concepts to be pondered and debated. He had never had much time for learning, and the consolations of philosophy were alien to him.
“Kate…” he said, reaching out to her.
She pressed the blade of her dagger against her jugular. “No closer,” she whispered, “you are just another killer. I will not let you touch me.”
Martin stared dumbly at her, and then at his gauntleted hands. They were still wet with blood.
He shook his head slowly, willing the chaos in his head to resolve itself. Triumph and joy had turned to defeat, love had turned to ashes. His own actions, done in ignorance, had robbed him of everything.
“Go,” said Kate, and the hardness in her voice caused his heart to break, “leave here. Don’t come back. I will not see you again.”
A woman’s scream erupted from below, mingled with shouts and oaths and the sound of breaking furniture. His men had started to plunder the house.
“Save the servants,” Kate added, “do that one good thing. If you can.”
Without another glance at her, Martin turned and stumbled out of the room.
Chapter 11
Angers, France
At just eight years old, Elizabeth Bolton was in many ways already the spit of her late grandmother. The ability to influence and intimidate others came naturally to her. She had appointed herself the leader of the children of the Lancastrian exiles, and her voice rose shrill and commanding above the others as they played in and around a fountain in one of the palace courtyards.
Mary sat and watched the children play from a first-floor balcony. October in Angers was mild, certainly by comparison with the icy blasts of the English winter that she was used to. There was a chill in the air, but not enough to induce her to go inside. She loved to watch her daughter play. It reminded Mary of her own youth, playing with her brothers in the orchard and surrounding woods at Heydon Court. The memories were bittersweet, and as such suited her mood.
“The girl needs a father,” said James.
Mary looked up at him with some irritation. He had entered her chambers uninvited and unannounced, and slid into her presence without her noticing.
Her middle brother moved like a shadow, and was just as enigmatic. She could scarcely believe that he had once been a selfish drunk, of no use to God or man. The terse, subtle creature that stood before her now bore no resemblance to his former self.
“She has a father,” said Mary, turning back to her vigil, “in Heaven, where he waits for us both.”
James took his time before responding. Scarcely a word escaped him without being carefully weighed first. At times she longed for the old James, though not without a sense of guilt. Mary had despised him then, but at least he had not frightened her.
“Your husband is nine years dead,” James said eventually, perching his bony rump on the chair beside hers, “a woman can only grieve so long. You must forgive me for saying this, but I struggle to recall any great love between you.”
She coloured. “You are not like to recall anything from that time,” she replied warmly, “you spent your days staring into the bottom of a cup, or warming the beds of unfaithful wives.
Her angry words did nothing to shake James’ composure. It would take a great deal more to slice through the layers of self-possession he had built up around himself, as tough as any armour.
“I know,” he said, the corners of his mouth hitching into a smile as he watched Elizabeth dunk one of her companions in the fountain, “I apologise. I did not mean to insult you, or cast a slur on Henry, God rest him.”
He turned to face her. “I will speak plain, sister. The Queen favours you. That is good, and to the advantage of our family. But royal favour can be capricious. Her Majesty could withdraw her friendship as easily as she gave it.”
“Her son favours our brother,” Mary reminded him, “they forged something of a bond, before Martin returned to England. I am not our only link to glory.”
Her voice was laced with sarcasm. She had not sought Queen Margaret’s favour, nor particularly wanted it, but her success in assisting Warwick’s daughter when she went into labour in the Channel had brought her to the attention of royalty.
“I said I would speak plain,” James went on, pointedly ignoring his sister’s tone, “the Queen wants to see you wed, and has a potential husband in mind.”
“I know,” Mary said scornfully, “one of those poor ragged exiles who cluster around her court like starving birds. Some penniless, attainted Lancastrian knight, whose lands in England have all been seized and parcelled out among the Yorkists.”
James put a finger to his lips. “Lower your voice,” he muttered.
“You see spies everywhere, brother,” said Mary, rising from her seat. The children had tired of splashing each other with water, and were now sitting in a circle on the grass beside the fountain. She smiled to see that Elizabeth was still their leader, dishing out instructions in how to make flower-chains.
James’s hand closed on her forearm. “Her Majesty wishes you nothing but happiness,” he said in a low voice, “but her mood can change. If she ever thought you were slightly less than grateful…”
“I will not marry on her instruction,” said Mary, brushing him off, “or anyone’s. When and if we ever return to England, I have thought of entering a convent. The peace of the cloister appeals to me.”
James puffed out his sallow cheeks, and ran his hands through his thinning red hair. “That might serve,” he said doubtfully. “The Queen respects piety. For now, however, I advise you to play the game. Allow her knight to court you, listen to his pretty speeches, thank him for his gifts, but make no promises or commitments. Once we are in England, you may scrape him from your shoe.”
The question of when they might return to England was a vexed one. Warwick’s invasion had been a success, save that he had failed to kill or capture Edward of March. Now Edward and his supporters were in Burgundy, feverishly raising money and men to take back his kingdom.
A constant stream of letters passed back and forth across the Channel between London and Angers. Mary knew something of their content, for the Queen confided in her to an extent. Warwick advised Margaret and her son to remain in France until England was completely secure, by which he meant that Edward’s counter-invasion had been repelled, and all the chief Yorkists slain.
“I miss my husband,” Margaret often said to Mary, “and have longed to see him again, these many years. But Warwick speaks sense. England is not yet safe for us.”
Mary smiled and agreed, but privately doubted the Queen’s words. She repeated herself rather too often, and Mary could not help wondering what sort of love could possibly exist between this proud, headstrong woman and her slack-witted husband. Henry had done little to defend his throne and family against the ambitions of York. God had made him an invalid, to be pitied rather than feared, and left his wife to defend their interests as best she could.
Much as she resented anyone intruding on her private affairs, Mary knew it was wise to heed James’ advice. His ambiguous position as a general messenger, spy and go-between for great lords meant he had his fingers in many pies, and knew things that ordinary mortals could only guess at.
Thus, when the Queen summoned her to attend court the next evening, Mary left her daughter in the care of a serving-maid and went with a due sense of foreboding and dread. If Queen Margaret really wanted to marry her off, there was little she could do about it without risking royal displeasure.
It was another warm autumn evening. Margaret had chosen to hold court in the open, inside a little private garden enclosed by high walls, safe from prying eyes.
Mary heard the dulcet tones of a harp as the guard admitted her, accompanied by a pleasant male baritone. She was slightly startled to realise that he sang in Welsh.
Queen Margaret was sitting on an elaborately carved chair made of polished dark wood. Her son sat at her feet, hugging his knees and dressed all in black that contrasted vividly with his spun-gold hair. His young wife, Anne, was seated demurely beside her formidable mother-in-law.
Anne was a meek-looking creature, just fourteen years old and very much a pawn in her father’s power games. She was fine-boned and slender, putting Mary in mind of a wren, and her gentle blue eyes possessed little in the way of intelligence.
Mary knew better than to judge her by appearances. If they wished to survive and prosper, the daughters of noble families learned to mask their true selves at a tender age.
The attention of all three was fixed on the harpist, a gloriously handsome young man with long, sinewy limbs and a mop of chestnut curls. He had the dark good looks of a born poet and seducer, and smiled lazily as his delicate white fingers induced a sweet, tumbling melody from the harp.
Mary had no eyes for him, or the various courtiers sprawled or standing around the garden. Most were men, and Mary’s unwanted suitor was probably among them.
“My dear,” said the Queen as Mary bowed and kissed her hand, “we are glad to see you, as always. Blunt, sensible Mary Bolton, who never fawns or flatters. I could do with more like you. Do you like my harpist? He was a gift from the Earl of Pembroke.”
Mary looked politely at the young man, who had closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy as he reached the climax of the melody.
In truth, she had little liking for him or his plaintive screeching. Her family had lived near the Marches for centuries, and she had been raised to regard the Welsh as bloody savages and a public menace. It would not do to say as much: blunt, sensible Mary Bolton knew that her bluntness had to be contained within acceptable limits.
“Charming,” she said, forcing a smile. She thought she kept any hint of irony out of her voice, but Prince Edward looked up and winked at her. She thought him a sharp boy, intelligent as well as aggressive, and a vast improvement on his hapless father.
“Be seated, Mary, and take your ease,” said Margaret.
Mary looked around, but there was nowhere to sit except on the grass. She heaved a little inward sigh as one of the male courtiers rose from his chair and bowed to her. This was hardly subtle.
“Take mine, lady,” he offered. Mary could hardly refuse, and gave him a tight little smile as she sat down.
A second or two was all she needed to take him in: tall and hard-faced, with the typically broad shoulders, wasp waist and slightly bowed legs of an active knight at arms. He wasn’t a young man. There were slivers of grey in his close-shorn black hair, and his roughly handsome face was marred by a plethora of lines and wrinkles.
“Sir John Dacre, my lady,” he said with another crisp bow, “I am honoured to meet you.”
Mary stifled the curt reply that flew to her lips. “I have seen you before, sir,” she replied. “You are one of Her Majesty’s household knights.”
“I am.” He spoke with quite a strong Lancashire accent, and seemed to have reached the limit of his eloquence.
A fighting man, Mary thought, pretending to pay attention to the harpist, more at ease with blows than words.
Much the same description could have been applied to the character of her late husband. Henry of Stafford had been a soldier to his core, and died a soldier’s death.
Sir John dithered by her chair. The Queen appeared to be paying no attention to their conversation, but Mary suspected that the royal ears were straining to hear every word.
“You have a daughter,” he said at last, folding his restless hands behind his back, “a bonny little creature. I have seen her running about the palace grounds with her friends. How old is she?”
“Nine,” Mary said coldly. She didn’t want to talk about Elizabeth, especially not with a stranger.
Sir John fell quiet. The harpist was now playing a drawn-out lament, and for a while the garden was silent save for
the spare, melancholy plucking of his harp. Mary did her best not to be effected by the tune, but it burrowed into her soul.
When the song was done, and the harpist was graciously accepting the applause and praise of the royal family, Sir John tried another sally. This time he was less hesitant.
“I left my wife in England,” he said, “under six feet of English earth. She died eight years ago. A twelvemonth after Towton.”
Towton. That battle cast a grim shadow. To those who still held to Lancaster, the mere name a curse.
Mary felt obliged to say something. “My husband died there,” she said, though she suspected he already knew that.
“At least you were left with something,” he replied, “at least you have your child.”
She turned her head to look at Sir John. Their eyes met. His were grey, and had a bleak, hard quality.
“No father should have to bury his sons, lady,” he went on, “imagine being denied the chance to do even that. Imagine watching both your boys die, spitted on Yorkist blades, and not being able to help them. A mace laid me low as I tried to reach them in the press at Towton. When I woke the battle was lost, and my sons lay dead on the field among the heaps of slain. My horse was gone. All I could do was cut a lock of their hair each, as mementoes, and struggle home.”
He spoke in a flat, even tone, devoid of emotion. Mary sensed that he had reached the land beyond grief: a cold, shadowy place that she knew well, where damaged souls could shelter from pain.
This is a court of ghosts, she thought, of the bereaved and the broken. This man has suffered just as much as I have.
“Your wife was unable to bear their loss,” she said softly. He nodded. “How did she…?”
“Death took her, madam, but not by her own hand. Even in the chasm of grief and despair, my Jane was mindful of her immortal soul. But she refused to eat properly after Towton. Her health broke down, and a chill carried her off.”
Mary shook herself. That damned music had affected her, made her sentimental. She felt sorry for Sir John’s misfortunes, and that he was alone in the world, but would not be moved by pity into falling in love with him. If he meant to manipulate her that way, he would be sorely disappointed.
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