Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  “Some things take time, my lord.” Her long lashed eyelids closed, and tiny smile played at the corner of her lips. They turned east on Tower Street.

  The Tower of London. The great royal fortress loomed vast, stretching near a quarter of a mile with walls rearing forty to sixty feet high. They entered through the Lion’s Gate, named for the royal menagerie kept there. The cries of strange animals rose around them. The captain of the guard saluted them, and exchange familiar words with Peter. Penetrating deeper into the fortress, they crossed the stone causeway to the Middle Tower. There they rode over the second causeway to the Byward Tower and up the Water Lane to the Green Tower, the main entrance to the inner fortress.

  An orderly man in sober black hurried forward, and smiled, his close cropped beard bunching. “Good to see you, Peter. Who is your beautiful companion?”

  “The new Lady Trobridge, Robert.” Dismounting, they handed their reins to their men-at-arms.

  “By the King’s command,” Catharine interrupted, her grey eyes challenging.

  “With a tongue to match her hair,” Peter added. “Sir Robert Brackenbury, this is Catharine, Sir Humphrey Clifford’s daughter.”

  “A pleasure, Lady Catharine.” Robert’s infectious good humor created the proper response in Catharine. She relaxed, smiled, then seemed to remembered herself and curtsied.

  “Sir Robert, I apologize for my rude behavior. This marriage worked a rather alarming change in my life. Five days ago I lived as a Ward of the Crown. Today, I am a Baroness. My family lands have been restored. Westmoreland is now part of the Trevor holdings.”

  Peter coughed, and caught Robert’s eyes.

  “Of course, my lord thinks having this Barony will hurt his credibility at court,” Catharine said. “‘A hot bed of contentious idiots’ he called those who populate his new barony- my people.” Her lips tightened.

  “Peter has a point, Lady Catharine,” Sir Robert said, his face serious. “His Grace does not bestow lands easily. He is a careful man, and not given to explaining himself. But then the Trevor family has a history of wise decisions when it comes to dealing with the Throne and treachery is not one of their vices. They have always kept a distance from involvement in politics. There is more to this than meets the eye.”

  “You knew of this marriage?” Peter asked, stomach tightening.

  “Richard mentioned it in passing before he went north on his current progress.” Brackenbury smiled lightly. “I know the House of Trevor has never had a bride forced on its heir before. But this might not be a bad thing. Richard knows Westmorland is in safe hands now. That’s worth a good night’s sleep or two. Kings rarely sleep that well, you know.”

  “His Grace and the Queen were in good health?”

  “Yes, though the Queen’s Grace suffers from a persistent cough.” Peter sensed foreboding in his voice. “The princes are eager to renew their acquaintance with you.”

  “They came with King Edward two Christmas’ ago,” Peter said. “Bess has been asking after them. Perhaps she can visit another day.”

  “Of course.” They walked on the Tower Green where two young boys were shooting at butts. Prince Edward’s blond head turned. “Peter!” His brother, Prince Richard, let out a whoop. They threw down their bows and in seconds, Peter found himself wrestled to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, and grinning faces.

  “Your, Graces!” The shocked voice of their attendant rang out, almost drowned out the barking of a young spaniel.

  “It’s fine, ” Peter said. “A romp is just the thing sometimes.” They wrestled for several minutes until Richard jumped up, and Edward leaned back breathing hard. Peter grinned. “You remember well what I taught you, Your Graces.”

  “You were good with the princes, my lord.” Catharine’s soft voice floated over the clip-clop of the horses hooves as they crossed the causeways and moved under the portcullis of the Middle Gate and Lion’s Gate, returning to the busy streets of London.

  “I enjoy them. The princes liked the daggers I gave them.” Peter smiled, satisfaction working inside from the joy of the friendships. Splendid children. To have sons like that. Mayhaps I will. God willing. If we can get past this problem ...

  “Why did you bring me along?” Sharp curiosity edged her voice.

  “I wanted you to see the world I live in. The people I deal with. As the new Lady Trobridge, you will be part of that. These are the people and places of power.”

  “What do expect of me as Lady Trobridge?”

  Good. She’s thinking and curious. How do I guide her? How do I turn her natural resentment into something else? He glanced over at her. Chestnut hair framed her pert face, and tumbled down long over her shoulders onto the blue cloak.

  “You, of course, have the ordering of the households wherever we may be,” he said. “Anthony can help you. I also want you to become familiar with the running of our trading and counting houses. You’ll have to meet a great many people. Do you know how to read and write, and keep estate ledgers?”

  “Yes,” she said stiffly.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “I don’t like being Lady Trobridge.”

  “Perhaps it’s time you got over that feeling,” Peter said, checking his anger. “Lord and Lady Trobridge always act like a team. That is what I need.”

  “You need? You need? With all this wealth, and competent people to do your bidding?” Catharine said in angry astonishment.

  “I have never been stripped of everything and forced out on the road as you have,” Peter said trying to be reasonable. “It is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

  “And if I cannot find it in myself to give, to fulfill this need?” She tightened her lips and stared at the ground.

  “Then, my lady, you will find yourself the ornamental broodmare you so aptly describe. Not pretty life. Treated like an adult child, as so many women are these days. I’m offering you more. Much more. A partnership that know only the limits we place on it.” He watched her tiny hands, white against her reins. God’s Blood, what does it take to get through to this woman?

  Her defiant grey eyes caught his. “Will you seek other partners if I can not ... ”

  “My lady, do not provoke me.” Peter clenched his teeth, feeling the blood rush to his face. He looked to the sky, shaking his head as much in rage as disbelief. “I will go where I will, and do what I must to fulfill the needs of my House and its future. I am beginning to think you have no conception of any of that.” He halted Grey Harold, and captured her gaze. “Are you so willful and poisoned that you will not, cannot, consider another way of acting and viewing things? For better or worse we are tied together until death us do part.” He stared at her, and watched her bitter eyes.

  “My lord, a runaway horse,” shouted a retainer, standing in his stirrups.

  Peter swung in the saddle. A wild-eyed farm horse bolted from behind them, eating up two hundred feet with racing strides. Peter side stepped Gray Harold, shouldering Catharine’s palfrey to the edge of the street.

  “Peter!” Catharine screamed. “The man! In front of us!”

  He jerked up. Directly in the path of the crazed horse a man walked, unaware. Peter spoke urgently to Grey Harold. The giant war horse leaped ahead of the frightened animal. Peter leaned down, preparing to lift the man out of harm’s way. Grey Harold’s momentum swept them up against the surprised man, who flung his arms up for protection. Peter closed an arm around the man’s chest and under his arm, but the man’s raised arms provided no support, and he proved heavier than Peter expected. His weight dragged Peter from the saddle. They sprawled on the cobbled street, Peter covering the stunned man.

  Time slowed. Peter could see the horse’s hooves coming down slowly, slowly, taking forever to arrive. Then they were there, cutting mercilessly into his flesh. And the horse was gone. The man under him moved. Peter rolled off, his body a sea of pain.

  A cool hand touched his cheek. Catharine’s voice broke through the pain. “M
y lord?”

  When he opened his eyes, a wet darkness greeted him. He brushed blood from his eyes with a hand covered with road grit. Struggling to sit up, fire ran through his legs and right shoulder. Wiggling his toes, he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving he wasn’t paralyzed.

  Catharine tried to tie a linen bandage around his head wound, but the pain from the pressure made him feel faint and nauseous. He pushed her hand away.

  “My lord?” The large man bowed. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

  “Harry Barristar.” Catharine exclaimed with genuine pleasure.

  Peter squinted through the blood. “How do you know each other?” He fought to breath and concentrate through the pain.

  “Harry is a gentleman servant to the Duke of Buckingham.”

  Peter laughed. Blood ran into his eyes, blotting his vision. Gently Catharine wiped the thick red away, bringing everything into focus again. God, can’t I get away from this plague? A ward, a duke, and a gentleman. What next?

  “I am pleased you survived the experience, Mister Barristar,” Peter said. One of his retainers helped Catharine bandaged his head, then he tried to stand. But his legs wound not hold him, and he sank back against someone warm and sheltering. Catharine. A wave of nausea welled within, then welcoming blackness took away the pain and everything else.

  He woke to the welcoming smell of chicken broth, and the satisfied cackle of an old crone. “Abby.” He sucked in his breath, trying to focus through the pain. “How long have you served the House of Trevor?” he murmured.

  “Since your grandfather was a young man, Lord Peter.” Abby poured steaming liquid into a clay cup.

  “Will I recover?” he asked, shifting, testing his body.

  “You’ll ride Grey Harold again, if that’s what you mean.” Abby’s wise eyes examined him. “There’s nothing that won’t repair with a lot of rest and good sense.” She cleared her throat. “Good thing your new lady has a knowledge of herbs.”

  “Where is Catharine?” he asked, trying to focus on her words through the constant pain. He eased to a half sitting position, and realized he was in his great bed chamber at Trevor House.

  “Fetching her bag of herbs.” Abby cracked a toothless smile.

  “What else do you know about my lady?”

  “Be patient. Catharine’s heart grew into scar tissue long ago.” Abby wiped her watery eyes, and pushed grey hair back over her thin shoulders. “She blames the pain and agony of having her family ripped apart squarely on York.” She tested the temperature of the liquid with a clean finger.

  “Do you know anything that will dissolve that hurt?” he whispered, wincing at the pain. A crashing headache made concentrating impossible.

  “Time, patience, and a great deal of love,” Abby said, face creased with concern as she examined his wounds. “The legacy of your house. You were born to this, Peter.”

  “Catharine was born Lancaster, raised Lancaster,” he whispered. “She’s so poisoned with hate, nothing else matters.”

  Abby held the cup to his lips. “Drink this henbane. It will ease the pain. A time will come when she will cross the threshold, that terrible boundary she has created.”

  Peter swallowed. I hope ... There has to be a way. To bring her to that point.

  Anthony came in, and rested a hand on Abby’s thin shoulders. “Excuse me, but Sir James Caxton is here to see Peter.”

  Abby rose, laughing. “King Richard’s unnamed second, his man-in-the-know.” She left.

  Caxton, a square man with salt and pepper beard, strode up to Peter’s high bed. “I see you survived your encounter with the horse. The owner was fined for allowing it to run wild.”

  “Good to see you, old friend.” Peter grimaced through the pain. The effort to concentrate was making him nauseous. He fought it down.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” Caxton said.

  “Would you know why Buckingham has taken such an uncomfortable interest in my affaires?” Peter asked, voice shaking. “First, the marriage he engineered. Now my warehouse.”

  Caxton shook his head, eyes worried. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. Since becoming Lord Constable, he’s showing increasing fondness for other people’s business. This hasn’t endeared him to the merchants, nobility or the King.” He stroked his short beard with a square hand.

  “My new wife says Buckingham is chest deep into the money lenders.”

  “That’s what I hear too.” He gestured. “Miles Northrop, my secretary, has people in the duke’s household. He says the same. The man is trying to raise a large sum of money. And I need to know why.”

  Peter made an attempt to laugh. “So do I. Considering it’s my money he wants to use.” He grimaced at the effort to concentrate.

  “I have found out who the duke is employing.” Caxton sipped his wine from the silver goblet. His lips twitched, eyes cold. “A friend from way back. Butcher Carnahan.”

  Peter sucked in a startled gasp. God’s blood. The bastard’s finally come back. Images of a dying friend, the pain of his damaged face, came roaring back. The revenge he’s promised himself, framed with hate and pain, stood exultant before him. He tried to sit up, but the pain and effects of the henbane prevented action. “God,” he got out, “I’ve waited how many years.”

  “Carnahan’s trained the duke’s men in the west counties this last year. I just found out. Very secretive is our duke.”

  Feeling sleep pull him away, Peter tried to focus. “Why would the duke keep large masses of troops in constant training?”

  “Exactly, Peter. Why?”

  5

  Ten days later sunlight burst through the scattered clouds and streamed in the tall window lining the east side of the Great Hall of Trevor House. Catharine blinked, eyes hurting from the sudden light. She stared out over the angry wool merchants sitting around the trestle tables, and said a silent prayer her plan would work. Tankards, half empty plates of cheese, meat pies, and pastries lay around them on the polished boards. Low angry conversation hung in the charged air as the meeting waited to begin.

  Calling this meeting of the Fellowship of the Stable had been dangerous, calculated, and against Anthony’s advice. But she saw no other way. She wondered if Anthony and Jacob McBride had been as thorough as they discussed and she hoped. Peter, sick from his injuries, did not have the strength to deal with the crisis.

  Levi Stark, small, pale, grey, simmering with rage, stood. His high voice quivered with emotion, but did not break. “We need to do something. At this rate the Hanseatic League will take all our profits. They threaten even the Merchant Adventurers.” His pink mouth working in his short grey beard, he sat down abruptly, exasperation in every move and gesture.

  “Thank you, Mister Stark,” Catharine said. Theatrical, but he man summed up the situation neatly. The Hanseatic League, once favored by Edward IV for its financial support of the Crown, had started secret negotiations with individual members of the Fellowship of the Stable, trying to buy up the raw wool before it went to the Low Countries to be processed. The League then sold the wool at below market prices, causing the market to fall. The wool merchants were up in arms, some ready to go out of business.

  She turned to the tall thin man at her right. “My Lord Mayor.”

  His great gold chain of office laid neatly over his expensive black robe, Sir Edmund Shaa, clean shaven, rose and bowed to Catharine, then addressed his well dressed audience. “Lady Trobridge. Gentlemen.” The goldsmith’s austere features remained blank. “Legally we can do nothing. This is a trading matter. The solution lies with this group. If you remain steadfast and of one body, you will overcome this crisis. No laws have been broken. The King regrets that beyond making suggestions and speaking to both parties, he is powerless in this matter. He doesn’t feel that intimidating the League would help at this time.” Shaa sat down amid a rumble of displeasure.

  Schooling her face, Catharine surveyed the unhappy men. Their mood, resentful and next to violence, showed in their eyes. C
atharine smiled within, pleased at their agitation, and said in a hard voice. “We have a traitor among us who seeks no less than the ruin of us all. And this for the sole purpose of enriching himself, with no thought to the pain he inflicts on others. So great is his greed he will sacrifice anyone and anything to his avarice.” Loathing and scorn took her voice, and rent the gathered tension in the room.

  The men glanced around, faces suspicious. Hands fingered dagger and sword hilts. Wheezing, a tall man heaved his great bulk to his feet. “Lady Trobridge, my lords, gentlemen.” His tongue ran around thick lips, piggish eyes gleamed. He adjusted his fur trimmed robe. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I thank your ladyship for calling this meeting to address this unhappy problem. But surely you exaggerate.” He bowed to Catharine. “We are all making a profit.”

  “Some more than others, Mr. Hatch,” Catharine said. The listeners leaned forward, faces curious, alert.

  “What do you mean by that, my lady?” The beads of sweat began to trickle down his face. He mopped them with a nervous hand and handkerchief.

  Catharine clutched her hands in her lap. “Isn’t it true you’ve been in secret contact with the Hanseatic League, and have been taking large shipments of gold and goods to subvert your fellow merchants?”

  The words hung there, then tore the room apart. Two men jumped to their feet, hands on sword hilts.

  “It is not! That’s absurd,” Jeremiah Hatch blustered. Sweat ran into the collar of his robe. “You’re only a woman,” he said, face ashen. “You have no proof.” Clothes rustled in the stunned silence. A single clay cup fell to smash on the polished wooden floor.

  “But we have proof,” Catharine said, smoldering. She stood, blue skirts straightening around her. “There are three men in this room that are witnesses to your perfidy. Four nights ago the cargo ship Damian K docked, and unloaded a large payment to your warehouse. We have letters.” She held up three pages. “They tell a sordid tale of betrayal for money.” Hatch glanced around, eyes wide. “Two men in your employ are ready to swear to your treachery. You should treat your people better. Your secretary and a scribe were witness to your meeting with the League.”