The Rufford Rose

by Margaret Lambert

  The Rufford Rose

  Margaret Lambert

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  Great Harwood 1523

  ‘Where is my brother?’ demanded the grim looking woman as she swept in through the main entrance door of the hall, ignoring the small servant boy who was staggering past with an armful of logs.

  ‘My lord is in his private chamber,’ replied an older man, hurrying forward.

  ‘Inform him that I am here,’ the lady said, drawing off thick leather gloves and thrusting them into the hands of the man.

  ‘I understand that he does not wish to be disturbed.’ The steward of the household, for that is who the man was, knew that his lord would not welcome an intrusion at this time, especially from this lady.

  She drew herself up to her full height, which was not very much, even in the thick soled boots that she always wore when travelling in winter, and looked at him with steely eyes.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she demanded.

  ‘Of course, my Lady Kighley, and he will see you I am sure, when he has completed the business he is engaged in. May I offer you refreshment whilst you wait?’ He bowed and indicated the entrance to the Great Hall of the house.

  ‘What ‘business’ can be more important than receiving his sister, his eldest sister?’

  The steward coughed nervously, smiled and went on, ‘He has his priest with him.’

  ‘Why should that be an impediment? I can wait in another room until his prayers are finished, unless the priest is taking his confession. Come, take me to him.’

  ‘I really must insist …’

  ‘Insist? Insist! How dare you? I will see my brother now. You forget yourself, John Assheton. I could have you thrown out for this, this … insolence.’ She made as though to sweep past him but he stood in her way again and she raised an imperious eyebrow at his temerity.

  ‘They are not alone,’ persevered the steward. She looked suspiciously at him.

  ‘What are you hiding? Who is with my brother and the priest that I cannot go to them?’

  John looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  ‘It is a young … gentleman.’

  ‘What gentleman? Out with it, man.’

  ‘It is his … his son, my lady.’

  ‘His son! He has no son.’

  ‘It is his son, Robert.’

  The lady went so red in the face that John feared she would have a fit. She spluttered and fumed, unable for the moment to speak, then her hand flew out and caught John a resounding smack across his left cheek and ear that made him stagger back.

  ‘How dare you call that bastard my brother’s son?’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘How dare you? His name is never to be mentioned in this house. Do you hear? Do you?’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ replied the steward, holding a hand to his stinging face.

  ‘I will go to my brother’s chamber and I will see him … alone, and that … imposter will be thrown from the house, never to be permitted entrance again. Is that understood?’

  ‘If my lord wishes to see …’ began the poor man.

  ‘Is that understood or do you wish me to speak to my brother about your further employment here?’

  ‘No, my lady, I mean, yes.’

  With a snort of annoyance she swept past him and across the entrance hall to the private chambers of the family. The steward followed, wishing he could warn his master of his unwelcome visitor. Lady Margery was a fierce opponent, used to getting her own way and a mere steward was not going to stop her now. There was going to be trouble and he wished he could spare his master at a time like this. He was far from well and the physician did not expect him to recover from his malady. Having his domineering sister descend on him in a temper was not going to be at all welcome but there was nothing that poor John could do.

  Lady Kighley burst into her brother’s private rooms and stood in the doorway glaring across the room at the three men there. All three were looking at her with surprise at the sudden intrusion. The priest was the first to recover and came across the room towards her with the benign smile on his face that he habitually wore when faced with possible trouble. He may be as tall and thin as a reed but he had a core as strong as oak and would not be cowed by this fearsome woman with her mean face and sharp eyes. He sensed a smouldering anger that would burst into full fury if provoked.

  ‘Lady Kighley,’ he began, but got no further. She swept past him and made straight for the chair where her brother was sitting, smothered in fur rugs and covers, his feet raised on a stool, his thin hands plucking at the blanket across his lap. Even she could not fail to be moved at the sight of him. She had not seen him since the Christmas celebrations and a distinct change had come over him. He had been ill then with a racking cough but he had still been the devastatingly handsome man he had always been. Now here was an old, old man, thin and wasted, his skin grey and wrinkled as though all the life was being sucked out of him. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken into his skull with dark shadows beneath. His glorious head of hair was thin and straggled across his cheeks from beneath the cap he wore on his head. What she could see of his neck was scrawny, like a chicken’s, looking hardly strong enough to hold that once noble head upright. He looked ancient, yet he was not yet even sixty.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said, bending down to look into those blue eyes now dulled with pain and weariness. ‘What is this? You, ill and no word to me? Who is caring for you?’

  ‘Margery,’ he said, his voice thin and rasping from a throat sore from coughing. ‘I am well enough. I have faithful retainers. I lack for nothing.’ He began to cough and his frail body shook with the effort, a cloth held to his mouth as he tried to clear the irritation that plagued him constantly. When, at last, it ceased, he was gasping for breath, one hand to his chest as though by sheer effort he could still his racing heart. His brow was wet with fever.

  ‘You should be in your bed,’ said Margery, taking the thin hand in her own. It was cold as ice. ‘Have you seen the physician? He should bleed you immediately. I will send for my own physician. He can treat you better than this.’

  ‘I have been bled regularly but it has no effect. I have had leeches applied, I have been purged and taken draughts and potions until I am sick with them. I have nothing left to fight with, nothing left that can be taken out of me for the curing. I am dying and there is an end to it, Margery. I have made all arrangements necessary and you will comply with them.’

  ‘At least go to your bed. You will be more comfortable.’

  ‘No, no. I cannot breathe unless I sit upright. I live here in this chair now that the coughing is worse. I do well enough though I know my days are numbered.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Margery, conveying a cheerfulness she did
not feel. ‘With proper care you will soon be back to your old self, riding out to the hunt, visiting your tenants and dear, dear family.’ She put special emphasis on the last word. ‘Why, I came to invite you to come to stay awhile with Henry and me. It is long since we spent time together.’

  ‘It was the Festive Season,’ replied Thomas, ‘and you and that husband of yours could not wait to get away from here. Your attempts to match me up to some woman young enough to be my granddaughter did not go well with me, sister dear. No, do not deny it. Ever since Grace died thirteen years ago, you have been trying to marry me to someone or other. I tell you, I am happy with my Alice.’

  ‘Then why do you not marry her?’ blazed his sister, all pretence of concern gone.

  ‘We are happy as we are. We have three fine children who are strong and healthy.’

  ‘Unlike that weakly son your Grace managed to bear you, I suppose. Hardly surprising he died.’

  ‘Yes,’ persisted Thomas, ‘strong and healthy, and the eldest stands there beside the fire.’

  He pointed to the youth watching this domestic scene from the far side of the great fire.

  Margery ignored him.

  ‘You have no legitimate heir,’ she shouted. ‘No one who can take the title when you are gone. No son to bear you sons.’

  ‘I have declared Robert my heir,’ Thomas said quietly, a new strength flooding through him as he tackled his sister. ‘Father Egbert here has drawn up the necessary papers and it is all recorded legally and rightly. Copies have been made and the papers will be lodged with my Lord Derby. When the time comes they will be read and accepted and there is nothing you can do to change that. Robert will inherit everything, he will be the next Lord Hesketh.’

  ‘Never! Never, never, never! As long as there is breath in my body I will defy your ridiculous claim. That … that boy will not inherit something he has no right to, no right to whatsoever. You have nephews who have precedence over a, a … bastard.’

  ‘Bastard he may be but he is a far better man than any of your sons or those of your sisters will ever be. I have watched them all grow and I do not like what I see. I would not entrust the Hesketh name and fortune to any of them. Your husbands are all wealthy men. They can provide for their sons and I will provide for mine, no matter which side of the blanket they were begot. Now, leave me sister, you tire me with your incessant arguing and pleading. Robert is my heir and nothing will change that.’

  ‘I will say that you were out of your mind when you drew up those papers, that you were mad. I will have what is rightly mine and my family’s.’

  ‘You will not. There are witnesses who will swear that I was of sound mind when the papers were written. Desist from this and leave me. I am weary.’

  Thomas glared at his sister with all the venom he could muster and with an impatient hiss of rage she swept from the room, knocking a servant boy out of her way as he carried a tray of food to tempt his master. The tray flew into the air and crashed to the ground, spilling food and wine across the floor. Lady Kighley struck out at the innocent youth and sent him to the floor amidst the mess with a hearty smack across his face then marched out of the house, snatching her gloves from the steward who was standing by the main door. In a welter of hooves and flying mud she tore down the drive, her manservant following in bewilderment.

  Back in Thomas’s room the priest was gently settling Thomas back against the cushions of his chair. The mess outside the door was being cleaned up and Thomas called the servant to his side.

  ‘Did she hurt you, boy?’ he asked kindly. The boy, a child of twelve years stood before his beloved master, his face scarlet from the blow and tears threatening in his huge dark eyes.

  ‘Not much,’ muttered the boy, his ears ringing.

  ‘Good boy.’ Thomas smiled weakly at him. ‘My sister has a temper. I have felt her anger more than once as a child, and she was younger than me. The hurt will go and I doubt she will be back. Go back to your work and put it behind you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered the boy. He had had worse beatings from his drunken father before he had come to work for Lord Hesketh. Now he had a safe home, good food, a roof over his head and clothes on his back, more than his father had ever given him. He was devoted to his master and would do anything for him, even take a beating from his mad sister.

  As soon as the boy had gone Thomas leant back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Father Egbert gestured to Robert to follow him out of the room but Thomas heard the movement and without opening his eyes, called,

  ‘Robert, stay a moment.’

  Father Egbert left them alone. Robert went to his father’s side and sat on the low stool at his knee, waiting. Thomas opened his eyes and looked at this fine son of his. So young to leave to face the world, a world that would not accept him readily.

  ‘I know that you will have a struggle to claim what I say is yours but be strong. Names she may have called you but you are my recognised heir, you are the one I know will do this family proud, not those mealy-mouthed nephews of mine. It is all in writing, as I told her. With Lord Derby’s protection you will inherit. Make me proud of you Robert. If you have any trouble, go to my Lord Derby. His family have been good friends to this family and I have no reason to doubt that he will champion your cause. I talked to him about it before I had the documents drawn up. There is nothing any of my sisters can do about it.’

  ‘Thank you father, but surely, there will be years before …’

  ‘Robert, I am a sick man, a dying man. I know it and I believe, in your heart, that you know it too. When I am gone you must take your place in the world. It is time, I think, that we had a house that we can be proud of, somewhere where you can build a place that is yours, all yours, not something that you inherit and make do with. Build one to impress all these doubters who would deny you what I say is yours. Do not skimp on size or design. Find the best craftsmen you can, build something to be remembered by. Stamp your presence on our estates. But remember, treat well those who work for you and they will work the better. Always be fair and just. Live your life as well as you can for it is by our deeds in this life that we are judged in the next. I know that I have not perhaps treated your mother as well as I should by not marrying her but we loved each other and we were happy. Take care of her when I am gone. You and your brother and sister have never wanted for anything, have you?’

  ‘No, father. We were well loved always, but father, how can I build such a place. It will take a great deal of money, will it not? Do we have that much?’

  Thomas laughed and started another coughing bout but when he had recovered he smiled fondly at this beloved son of his, so young in some ways but so wise in others.

  ‘There will be money enough.’ He pointed at the strongbox on the table in the corner where Robert had seen the copies of the will deposited by Father Egbert. ‘In there, there is a paper which you must take to Father Abbot at the Abbey of Whalley. Father Egbert will advise you. I have put a little money away for you which will help you realise your house. Do not fear. All will be taken care of.’ He laid his thin hand on Robert’s head. ‘My son,’ he murmured. ‘I give you my blessing. I love you so much. Remember me when I am gone.’

  He felt a tremor pass through the boy.

  ‘Leave me now and send Father Egbert to me. Do not fear, I will see you again nearer the time. Go to your room and pray for my soul.’ He lifted Robert’s face to him and saw the tears lingering on the lashes. ‘Shed no tears. Not yet.’ Then he kissed the top of his head and lay back on the cushions, closing his eyes as Robert stumbled from the room.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chester 1528

  Nobody saw him fall. There was no cry of alarm, no scream of fear, no sound at all until the body landed with a heavy thud on the stone floor of the hall in the middle of the morning on a June day in 1528.

  For a moment there was a silence that was palpable, then everyone moved at once, as they converged on the distorted figure in their midst. It wa
s obvious from the impossible angle of limbs and neck, the wide open but unseeing eyes and the growing halo of blood that was spreading about his head that Jethro Milton was dead. Even so, one man knelt by his body and laid his ear to Jethro’s chest, listening for sounds of life. Eventually he sat up.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he announced. ‘Couldn’t be deader, poor bugger. Neck’s broke, I reckon.’

  ‘That and every other bone in his body,’ said another. Several heads nodded in agreement. Accidents on a new building were common, especially on such a big building with its towering walls and huge wooden beams high up in the roof. Jethro wasn’t the first to die in the building of this Great Hall, nor would he be the last.

  ‘Best fetch the priest,’ someone suggested, and ran off, out into the sunlight, heading for the church.

  ‘Who’ll tell his wife?’ asked another.

  ‘Where’s Cuthbert? He should tell her,’ said a third.

  ‘Went to fetch a ladder. Said they needed a longer one.’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’ A youth who was standing near one of the pillars turned towards the door. At the same moment a tall young man entered backwards carrying one end of a long wooden ladder. He was talking to someone outside.

  ‘Mind that pile of wood there. What fool left it in the doorway?’ He turned back as he manoeuvred the unwieldy ladder through the doorway and suddenly became aware of the group of people standing in the centre of the Hall. ‘What has happened here?’ he asked, for everyone was looking at him and there was a strange tension in the air. ‘What is it? What are you hiding?’ He lowered the ladder to the stone floor and stepped tentatively toward them.

  The group parted as Cuthbert approached and he saw the crumpled and broken body on the floor behind them. He instantly recognised the bloodstained tunic of his master.

  ‘No!’ he cried in a strangled voice, and flung himself down on his knees beside him. He made as though to touch him then drew back and looked into the face of the man he regarded as close as a father, as well as his master, the man who had taken him in, a bewildered child of eleven and raised him as his own after Cuthbert’s parents died. Tears stung his eyes and his face paled as he noted the blood and the awkward angle of the man, the ultimate stillness of death already on him. With a trembling hand he felt for the beat of his heart, held a finger to his lips to feel a breath that would not come. Only then did he put his hand over the face and gently close the eyes for the last time, eyes which had seen and recorded so much in his life, eyes which had watched him as a child and seen the potential in him then nurtured that skill to make him the man he was, the respected worker in wood that he now was. The finality of it all hit like a blow to the heart. Never again would they work together, plan and discuss what they were doing, laugh and joke and be together every day in their work and in the home they shared.