Geoffrey Condit

by Band of Iron

  “Perhaps,” Catharine said, not convinced.

  “And Peter? How does your Yorkist lord feel about the King Richard?”

  “He’s only interested in protecting himself.” Catharine faltered. Had she spoke too much? She felt a great urge to confide.

  “But King Edward knighted Peter on the field of battle,” Lady Stanley said, “at Tewkesbury not only for saving his brother, but for rallying the lines during a critical part of the struggle.”

  “You mean Peter turned the tide?” Catharine asked in surprise.

  “Not single-handed, but Edward owed him much,” Lady Stanley said with a wintery smile. “More to Peter than his father. The Seventeenth Baron only got in on the tail-end of the fighting, riding in from Gloucester.”

  “Then why wasn’t Sir William Trevor spared?” Catharine asked. “Surely they’d earned that.”

  “Edward gave leave for Sir William to swear fealty, but the man refused. And Peter’s father forced his son to watch his uncle’s execution.”

  Catharine felt her stomach churn. My intended. “I didn’t know. The sword is not easy to watch. It must have been horrible.” Poor Peter. No wonder he avoids kings and dynastic wars.

  “I am sorry, Catharine. I’ve been thoughtless.” Lady Stanley to glance at her waiting steward.

  “My lady,” he said, “Dr. John Morton, the Bishop of Ely, and his nephew, Robin Nesbit.”

  The Bishop, a medium sized man within affable eyes and a ready smile, swept into the room, followed by a younger man in the black cassock of a priest. Lady Stanley and Catharine kissed the Episcopal ring, he gave them both a negligent blessing, and settled into a chair before the hearth.

  Robin Nesbit stood tall and silent behind the bishop’s chair. Catharine found his ink stained fingers curiously revolting, with a certain unnatural life of their own. His wide mouth turned up in a smile that warred with a pair of piercing black eyes which seemed always to be sizing things up. A chill settled in her stomach and stayed there.

  “We heard of the unfortunate accident to your husband, Lady Trobridge.” The bishop smiled benevolently. “What is his health?

  “His fever broke last night,” Catharine said. “We have good reason to believe he will recover fully.”

  “God is merciful,” the Bishop said, and Robin crossed himself. Catharine shuddered within at the strange crooked black fingers.

  “We were discussing the fortunes of dynasty, my lord Bishop,” Lady Stanley said.

  The Bishop smiled, eyes narrowing. Robin straightened.

  “Do you think God wills who wins a battle, and rules a country?” Catharine said.

  “God wills many things,” the Bishop said voice as bland as his smile. “God put the children of Israel in bondage to test them.”

  “Do you mean the people of England live in bondage under the hammer of York until a time when a Lancaster will take back the Throne?” Catharine blurted, reading pleased astonishment on Lady Stanley’s face.

  The Bishop continued to smile. “There are those who would believe so, Lady Trobridge. I am a member of the Privy Council, and certainly wouldn’t suggest such a thing to King Richard. I would caution you to keep such opinions to yourselves, ladies. Treason extends to women as well as men. But if you feel an intense need to confide these ideas, I think, Lady Trobridge, you can safely do so with Lady Stanley. In private. She understands, seeing how her son lives under the protection of the Duke of Brittany, and is a nephew of our late Lancaster King Henry, Sixth of the Name.”

  Catharine stood, full of inner alarm, her heart beating fast, The full weight of what she’d said hammered home. Treason. She’d committed treason. “I don’t mean to be rude, Lady Stanley, my lord Bishop, but I’m expected home. My husband thought I was only going for a short ride. I must thank you for your hospitality, Lady Stanley.”

  Lady Stanley’s sever face creased into a kind smile. “Perhaps you will come again, Lady Catharine. Your father is a good friend.” She glanced at the Bishop. “I am gladdened to see the daughter of a valued retainer and friend. It is my pleasure to entertain you.”

  Warmed by the compliment, accepting Lady Stanley’s hug, Catharine ignored her lingering disquiet about the manor and its people.

  But when the Bishop gave her another blessing, and his silent priest made the sign of the cross with his strange crooked fingers rimmed black with ink, she shivered.

  Catharine hurried through the happy household of relieved servants, rushing up the wide staircase to their great bedchamber where she found Anthony Will beside the high bed, studying Peter. “He fell asleep shortly after you left, my lady. His injuries worked a great trial on his body.” He bowed to her. “The household wishes to thank you for saving his life. He is a good master. A new master could not be half as fair.”

  “A new master?”

  “My lady, you don’t think the King would allow you, the wealthiest woman in all England, to remain a widow or give you leave to marry as you wished. He would give you to a favorite, even if another wife had to be put aside.”

  The thought sickened her, but she knew the truth of it. Wealthy widows often found themselves married against their will. Jesus Wept! To think that the favorite might be Buckingham.

  “You look pale, my lady,” Anthony said. “May I serve you something to drink.?”

  “Thank you. Light ale would be fine. I’ll sit with Peter a while. ” The wide chamber with its high windows showered the wood paneled room with comforting light. Against the white sheets and pillows, Peter’s face looked relaxed, in a peace far from the tortured agony of his fevers. She bent to study the scar which drew the left side of his face taut. The wound must have been deep and wide to cause so much damage. An act of deliberate cruelty.

  “Your ale, my lady,” Anthony said. “I took the liberty of bringing some food.” His clean white hands swept to two plates with sugared tarts, a meat pie, and Catharine’s favorite Chicken with Endive.

  She clapped her hands delighted. “Thank you, Anthony. A question. What does Butcher Carnahan look like?”

  “A man of arms. Blond. A prominent broken nose gotten in a brawl where he is reputed to have killed a man with his fists. He walks with a swagger, and is missing an ear. I forget which. He survived the King of France’s galleys. Three years at the oar and lash. A man of wide and unhappy experience, well suited to his profession.”

  “Could it be his left ear, Anthony?”

  “I don’t know, my lady. It is possible.”

  “It is his left ear.” They jumped as Peter spoke from his pillows. “He wears his hair over the wound. Lost it in a duel as a young man. Why?” He sat up, gaze riveted on Catharine’s face. “You’ve seen him?”

  Panic ruled her insides. He can’t know I went to Lady Stanley’s. She swallowed and said, “On my ride we passed Harry Barristar. He rode with a companion who matched the description. It was just a feeling. I thought from the way he carried himself he must be a mercenary.” The hurried lie sounded innocent to her ears.

  “There is no question you saw Carnahan.” Peter’s eyes darkened with anger.

  She could see his grinding urge for vengeance. The primeval lust for murder transforming his face to wild rage, frightening her. What if they should fight and Peter should die? The memories of his hand and lips made her catch her breath. Here I am loving a man I almost lost, and now I may lose him again.

  “You can’t kill him. Murder ... ”

  “Who said anything about murder?” Peter’s white teeth flashed and an angry glint lit his eyes. “One day I will kill him in a duel. I promised that on John Parr’s grave. And I will do it.”

  “Another holy oath?” Disgust tinged her voice. “Buckingham made an oath to destroy my House. And you’ve made one that threatens yours. What happens if you are killed? You know as well as I, that the King wouldn’t leave me alone. He’d marry me off to one of his favorites. What if he chose Buckingham?”

  “Buckingham is married,” Peter said, amused.. />
  “Wives have been put aside for an inheritance when it suited King or duke. Could you stomach having Trevor holdings, wealth, and legacy fall under the control of Buckingham?”

  Peter struggled to sit up amid the pillows. “That would never happen.” His voice choked, as though strangling on the idea.

  “If you were executed for murder or killed in a duel, it could. He is not of your rank. You could only fight during war or if he ambushed you. You know the truth of what I say,” she said, resting a hand on his arm.

  “What about my oath?”

  “I didn’t make your oath,” Catharine said. “I’m simply on the receiving end of it.” Her voice rose, tinged with anger. “And let me remind you that the rest of the household, and all your people are too.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “No. Oaths are not fair,” Catharine said. “When I was seven, a Yorkist captain and his troop of soldiers turned my family out on the road. We wandered for three days before we found shelter. No one would give us room for fear of what might happen for harboring a forfeit noble and his family. Finally a poor relative took us in.” Her voice shook. “At least, my lady mother had a warm place to die. She caught a fever from two night drenched in cold storms.” Catharine’s gaze locked with Peter’s and she willed him to understand. “Is this what you want for your people? And you lecture me about my duties.”

  “I made a holy oath,” he muttered.

  “I could have made a holy oath of revenge, but I didn’t, and,” she bent forward, “I don’t need your holy oath. I need a live husband.” Her fingers dug into his arm. She felt him flinch.

  Peter’s face went red. “You don’t understand. I made a promise on the grave of my best friend to kill Allen Carnahan.”

  The blind idiot. Can’t he see. Anger almost got the better of her, but she caught herself and said, “No one can take away from you the desire to correct a vast wrong. Justice is long overdue. But oaths are wasteful and destroy lives.” Listen to me.

  Peter stared at her. “You have as much reason to hate as I do.”

  “You don’t think I haven’t wanted to strangle a number of highly placed people for what happened to my family? I don’t have answers,” she said, frustrated. “But I do know that hate twists, cripples and kills surely as the sword.” She gripped him with both hands.

  “The pain and hurt are alive in me now,” Peter whispered. “They strain at my soul, crying for release and compensation.”

  She let go of his arm. “You’d better find out who is master of your soul. What happens if you can’t or refuse to control this hate of yours? And where are we in this inner drama of yours, Peter?”

  “I don’t know, Catharine.” He fell back against the pillows. “But I’m glad, a least, we are on a first name basis.”

  6

  The last rays of light from the dying sun streamed gold and red into the wainscoted solar. Sitting at his desk, Peter watched the deft fingers of his wife stitching life into the embroidery. Now the hart, legs stretched, cheated death by disappearing into the protective green of the forest. Several riders reined in plunging mounts. Smiling at her, Peter caught the answering pleasure in her eyes. Two weeks had passed since their telling conversation in the bed chamber. A delicate alliance had been formed now that their mutual caring had been established. But by unspoken understanding they’d not entered into the unhappy area of their disagreement. He accepted the ledger from Agnes and opened it on his heavy desk. Then he noticed worry creasing her ancient face, a face rarely without mischief or humor. “What’s wrong, Mistress Scoville?” he asked.

  “Tis the princes in the Tower, my lord. The Lord Constable’s men are going to kill them.”

  The hair on the nap of Peter’s neck stood. He froze, every nerve on edge. Catharine dropped her embroidery. “What are you talking about?”

  “My cousin, Black Will Slaughter,” Agnes said urgently, “serves Prince Richard as his body servant. He says the Duke of Buckingham’s men have taken over the princes households, and dismissed the servants. Black Will is one of the few left. The soldiers think he’s simple, and use him to empty the slops and clean the jakes. The duke’s men chuckle about how short-lived the reign of these princes will be. My lord, there is no time to lose.” Agnes motioned toward a shadow in the open doorway. “Black Will is here.”

  The tallest and thinnest man Peter had ever seen stepped under the doorway and into the chamber, hat in hand. Black Will ducked an uncertain bow. Peter studied the face of an innocent child, somehow in his thirties, with sparse beard, and the clearest blue eyes he could remember.

  “My lord,” Will Slaughter stammered, shaking his black mop-like hair, eyes wide with fear. “These be evil men. They mean to do my princes to death this very night.”

  “What Will says be true, my lord.” Agnes’s voice quavered. “I heard it myself. They did not know I was in the next room.”

  Peter turned to Catharine in disbelief. “Why would the Duke of Buckingham want the princes dead?”

  “Peter, remember our discussion? Harry for King?” Catharine said, eyes sharp, sitting straight. “We need to get the princes out of there.”

  “How do you propose to penetrate the Tower of London? We can’t take my men-at-arms and storm a royal stronghold.”

  Her face brightened. “Will might need help cleaning the jakes. Don’t look so disconcerted, Peter. It’s a way into the Tower.”

  Will stood quiet, eyes bright with worry. Peter could actually feel the man’s anxiety. “Will can you lead us into the Tower as a party to clean the jakes?”

  Will wrinkled his nose. “The soldiers do complain they need cleaning, my lord.”

  “How many people can you take in beside yourself?”

  Will twisted his cap in his thin hands. “Five, my lord, and a cart. We gotta have a cart.”

  Peter rang a bell, breaking the tension. A livered servant appeared and bowed, expectant. “Send for Anthony Will and Hugh Addisson.” The servant bowed and left. Peter dipped his goose quill pen into the standish. Deep aches from the healing lacerations in his right shoulder slowed his writing as he drove the pen across the paper. He grimaced, glanced up, and found Catharine’s eyes wide on his face.

  “You’re injuries need more mending,” she said.

  “Wounds always take a long time. Horses hooves cut different from a sword. They don’t heal fast either.”

  He sanded the ink on two pages as Hugh and Will hurried in. Then he outlined for them what Agnes and Black Will had said, and his course of action. “Anthony, I need you to go to Sir James Caxton with this letter. It is unsigned for obvious reasons. Make it clear we need his men waiting outside Lion’s Gate to take the princes to safety. A very public assembly is needed to prevent our being attacked by Buckingham’s men.”

  ’Very good, sir.“ Anthony hesitated. ”Are you sure you’re up to do this?“

  “No, but there is no choice. The princes know me. Hope this will work.” Anthony rushed out.

  “Hugh, I need your experienced hand. Buckingham will have a number of mercenaries in the Tower. Choose three of our best fighters. Swords, bows, and blow pipes.”

  “When do we leave?” Hugh’s hard face cracked into a grin of pure anticipation.

  “Within the hour. We have to dress the part.” Peter turned to Agnes. “Can you find us suitable clothes?” Agnes curtsied and hurried out.

  Peter surveyed the men in tattered cloaks and hats gathered by the ancient cart. With luck they might succeed. Agnes appeared with a dirty servant girl wearing a shawl over her head. Agnes whispered to Black Will and helped the girl into the cart.

  “Who is the girl, Will?” Peter asked.

  Will jerked as though struck.

  “His ... sister, my lord,” Agnes interrupted. “The guards are expecting her.”

  “Very well.” Peter climbed into the cart and turned to the men. “Listen. One mistake and we’re dead men. If we’re not killed, it’ll be a short swing from the el
ms.” Grim nods greeted his words.

  The courtyard gates opened, the cart rumbled out on to cobbled paving stones of Bishopgate Street, and headed south toward the Tower of London. A rising heartbeat, and uneasy stomach plagued him, inducing a foreboding. He felt the girl’s warm back against his, but the pain from jolted damaged muscles obscured everything else. Hail Mary full of grace ... the comforting words echoed in his mind ... we pray to you now and in the hour of our death.

  “Welcome, Will.” The captain of the guard grinned. “Come to clean the jakes, I see. Charming way to make a living. We’ll swim you in the river before we turn you lose on the general population. Sweeten you up, by the Mass.” Laughing, he waved them under the portcullis of the Lion’s Gate. Knowing the man, Peter averted his gaze. The sense of unease increased. Pain from damaged muscles, newly knit, now strained and torn again, made his stomach queasy. He fought the feeling and pain away, grinding his fist into his palm. The single guard at the Middle Gate waved them through without comment. Torches began to light the battlements and candlelight winked on in the windows of the buildings.

  Will drove the cart along the Water Lane to the base of the Green Tower. They shuffled out, and Peter, taking a quick look around was astonished at the lack of activity on the fortress grounds. A small hand grabbed him, and a too familiar voice whispered in his ear. “Castor Breckenridge.” Catharine. Jesus wept! Catharine.

  With iron control born from hard experience, he reached into the cart for a shovel. “Where?”

  “The Constable’s Garden.”

  “Damn it, Catharine, you’ve no right ...”

  “Later, Peter. We’ve a job to finish.”

  Breckenridge laughed in parting reply to a half heard question and headed their way.

  “Will Slaughter.” Breckenridge slapped Will too hard on the shoulders, and then kicked him playfully in the rear. On the other side of the cart, Peter caught Hugh Addisson’s wrist in a grip of steel. He felt the older man relax and released him.