by Band of Iron
“A letter of title giving a third manor to Sir Anthony Will.”
“Sir Anthony?” Catharine looked up into Peter’s face, realizing that she didn’t see the scar anymore. It wasn’t important.
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Anthony is one of my household knights. The men in his family, back to his great grandfather, have served the House of Trevor as household knights. He fought with me at Tewkesbury. At my side. We have a long history together.”
“But three manors?” Catharine tossed a pebble into the pool. “My father only had three. You’re so open handed. My father’s family was tightfisted. I don’t understand.” Catharine knitted her eye brows together.
“A lesson we learned generations ago,” Peter said, tapping the sealed letter on his knee. “The flow of largess, money and goods, comes when it isn’t restricted. You let it flow out in a generous and practical manner, and it will flow back in. Rather like the tides in the sea, my father said.” He stretched his legs and took a deep breath.
Anthony appeared in the door to the garden. “My lord, My lady. A gentleman requests an audience. He is incognito.” He cleared his throat, eyes lighting. “He say he had the honor of almost being run over by a farm horse. He said you’d understand.”
Peter chuckled. His wide face crinkled into a grin. “Harry Barristar. Show him in. But first, I have the deed to your third manor.” He handed the letter to Anthony. “It joins the other two, and has been recorded. Your service to our house would be hard to measure. I am most grateful.”
Anthony broke the seal, and stared at the paper, face delighted. “Thank you, Peter. You are generous. I will show the gentleman in.” He bowed and left.
Peter turned to Catharine. “As my chief steward and closest friend, his advice and help cannot be measured financially. But his reward is for his loyalty and commonsense.”
“Harry Barristar,” Catharine said. “I wonder what he wants?”
“The lawyer working for Buckingham.” Peter rolled his shoulder.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, thinking about the days of care and healing after the accident with the runaway horse.
“It’s still does sometimes, but the range of motion is normal.” He grimaced. “But it’s my sword arm. That’s not good.” He shook his head. “I have no idea what he wants. I’m just glad when I was taken to the Tower on that false charge, Barristar advised the duke against confiscating our property. That’s worth something.”
When Harry Barristar came through the garden door, Peter was standing next to the low bench where Catharine sat. She felt Peter’s heavy ankle length robe brush against her arm, and touched the fur edging. A brief breeze flipped the bottom of the robe, revealing the white spotted ermine lining.
Covered in a monk’s robe, Barristar bowed and threw back the hood, exposing his fine blond hair and beard shot through with grey. His hawkish nose and twinkling blue eyes lent a pleasing cast to his lean face. “Lord Trobridge and Baroness, it is good of you to receive me. Forgive my attire please. I couldn’t allow anyone to know of my coming. My health might suffer ... if you understand.”
“Of course, Mister Barristar. Your health is quite safe with us,” Peter said, smiling. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” He gestured to a servant for refreshments.
Barristar’s face closed, becoming grim. “I could not stomach it anymore, my lord. His Grace’s disgusting fixation with your wealth. I have learned that there’s a man planted to poison Sir James Caxton. The duke thinks if Caxton is removed, there is nothing to stand between you and his will.” He stopped, in much distress.
“Did you hear this from the duke’s own mouth?” Catharine’s heart leaped in her chest. She sat straighter.
“No. But his chief steward, Adam Owensby, made no secret of the duke’s purpose,” Barristar said, twisting the rope belt at his waist. “His Grace censured him for a loose tongue yesterday evening,” Barristar said.
“You’ll be happy to know we foiled the poisoner yesterday, Mister Barristar,” Catharine said, relieved.
“Thank God,” Barristar said, letting out a deep breath. “I was worried I’d be too late. The duke is getting impatient.”
A servant appeared, passing out goblets with watered wine and small cakes with almonds and sugar.
“May I be candid, Lord Trobridge? The duke does not have the capacity to invent this continuing conduct.” Barristar hesitated. “The man has plenty of anger, spite, vindictiveness, but an inventive mind he has not.”
“Who would be this inventive?” Peter mused. “It has to be someone who would seem important enough for the duke to want to listen to him.”
“Why not a woman?” Catharine said. “Lady Stanley?”
Barristar shook his head. “No, my lady. Lady Stanley only interest is seeing her son on the throne. She works in fits and starts without laying plans beyond the moment. And her steward is Reginald Bray, a scheming self-important idiot.” He sipped his wine thoughtfully.
“Remember,” Peter said, brow knotted, “when Lancaster was beaten at Towton in ’61? No one thought York could possibly be dethroned after that. But in ’70 a coalition sprang up forcing Edward to flee to the Low Countries. The man reputed behind this was a priest called John Morton. A man of guile and unholy luck. He even sat on the York Privy Council.“ Peter eyed Barristar. ”What do you think?“
“Morton at it again? Could be. He’s cut from the mold.” Barristar hunched his shoulders in a shiver. “The man’s in Buckingham’s custody since the conspiracy revealed in the Council Chamber. A judas priest to be sure. That would account for the couriers,” Barristar said, “coming and going at all hours.”
“A plotting churchman who should’ve been executed as soon as his treachery was discovered,” Peter said, voice bitter. “York’s greatest mistake. You can destroy a blood witted baron, but a silver tongued like Morton can inspire a gale force rebellion, killing thousands and tens of thousands. Does His Grace want to raise a rebellion? He has enough royal blood to take the throne.”
Barristar sat in silence, preoccupied with the idea. “I have heard nothing of it. But I am kept at arm’s length. It is possible. He is Lucifer proud of his royal lineage, and lets no man forget it.” Then his face lit with a sickening dread. “Jesus wept, it is possible.”
“I saw you with Carnahan at Lady Stanley’s,” Catharine said. She tipped her goblet accidentally, and a splash of red stained the flagstone at her feet, touching her velvet slipper.
“I remember,” Barristar said. “I was used as a courier. The duke had run out of men at the moment, and didn’t trust Carnahan. The man is too given to his passion with pain and hurt.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It was a letter he wanted delivered to Lady Stanley.”
“Bishop Morton was there at the time. So was his nephew, Robin Nesbit,” Catharine said. Barristar snorted. “You know the man?” she said.
Barristar grinned. “He’s known as Morton’s nephew, but the man’s really his by-blow. He’s a priest given to all earthly pleasures. A scribe on the side. Earns enough money to support his physical appetites. Believe it or not, Nesbit is Morton’s private chaplain. But there’s nothing godly about either of them.”
Catharine and Peter exchanged glances. Peter said, “ Nesbit is dead. He was killed in the ambush aimed at Sir James Caxton.”
Barristar nodded. “I heard of the ambush. But not about Nesbit. All London is agog. That someone would attack members of the King’s personal household in broad daylight. If the target was Nesbit, he would have known a great secret, and someone feared what he would say.” He stood. “Thank you for receiving me.”
The chiseled beauty of blond grey hair and hawk nose disappeared under the monk’s cowl. “I’m sorry my information didn’t help, but pleased the culprit was caught without damage to Sir James.” He bowed, and handed the servant his silver goblet.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Barristar,” Peter said, “If you decide to leave the duke’s employment,
come to me. How are your injuries from the experience with the horses?”
“Well, thank you. I fared much better than you, my lord. Your kindness is not forgotten. If I maybe of further service, you have only to ask.” He bowed. “My lady.” And was gone.
“I can see why you liked him when you lived in Buckingham’s household,” Peter said. “A straight forward fellow with an appetite for justice. Just what a lawyer should be.”
“He was much liked when I was there,” Catharine said, taking another almond cake. “I spent many of my days with the Duchess Katharine. His Grace was rarely around.”
“At least we have the poisoner out of the way. They are the most insidious of people, I think,” he said. “They work with the instruments of secrecy and treachery, without moral bond or conscience. I can’t think of anything worse than that.” He shuddered involuntarily. “God spare us such creatures.”
“I can’t help but feel this dinner is premature,” Catharine said, five days later, as they advanced into Sir James Caxton’s large manor house near Newgate. Fear and uncertainty had oppressed her since saving Caxton’s life. “Everything is too,” she struggled for a word, “convenient. Easy. It doesn’t set right.”
Peter reached over and pressed her left hand resting on his right. “I know the feeling. I’d like to banish them, but they’ve usurped their way into my mind also. The question is, what is our wily duke up to now?“
Catharine inhaled the fresh rain-scented air, but rejoiced in the sunshine which burned away the clouds of early morning. The late afternoon banquet promised to be a delicious affair. Peter had loaned their staff of cooks to Caxton for the meal. Already the tempting aromas of roast venison with honey, baked sturgeon with ginger and cinnamon, succulent goose stuffed with chestnuts and bread with herbs and butter emanated across the manor.
They entered the manor house door, and Catharine caught her breath. Caxton met them looking grey and worn. He saluted her cheek, and shook hands with Peter. “I’m sorry. A minor argument with my stomach, I’m sure. It struck me two days ago, and has left me no rest.” He gestured . “Come into the solar while supper is being prepared. At least we don’t have to worry about the food being poisoned.” He lead the way into the sun filled wainscoted room.
Tall windows opened on a small splendid garden, now lying tidy but colorless except for the green grass and ground cover. A door to the side of the solar lead to the buttery, where the ale was made and wine stored. Miles Northrop entered, and bowed. “Everything is in order, my lord. Greetings Lord Peter and Lady Catharine.” He looked to Caxton. “We’ve been trying to wrest the discomfort from Sir James, but without success.” The meticulous man looked genuinely distressed.
“I’m sure it will pass,” Caxton said, gesturing them to the settle to sit. “My agents tell me His Grace of Buckingham is planning to ride north to see the King, then go west to visit his estates.”
Peter said, “The duke will probably raise his banner soon, after he reaches his estates in Wales. The King would do well to arrest the man during the visit.” He stepped to the window to stare out at the garden.
Catharine too remained standing, and moved to a tapestry hanging next to the entrance to the buttery. The scene was that of a fleeing stage escaping huntsman. A spear had embedded itself in a tree next to the shoulder of the deer. She ran her fingers over the close stitching.
“The evidence is of strong suspicion. The King will not act unless more is forthcoming,” Caxton said, placing a hand on his stomach and grimacing.
“More is the pity. Bloodshed could be prevented if the King acts,” Peter said. “I’ve half a mind to go north myself to plead the case.”
“Not a good move, Peter,” Caxton said, rubbing his stomach. “Evidence is still being gathered. To tip Buckingham’s hand this early wouldn’t expose those who support him and his treachery. The King needs the names of the southern lords who would rise against him.”
“He wants the rebellion to begin?” Catharine said, turning the sleeves of her blue taffeta fur trimmed gown brushing the fresh rush covered floor.
“Only enough to have the names and evidence of those who’d rebel. The peace of the realm is paramount.” Caxton grimaced, hand on stomach again. “Miles, please get us some ale from the buttery.”
The delicious smells from the kitchen continued to mount, making Catharine’s mouth water. Since living with Peter she’d become used to the vast array of rich food, but was still no less astonished at the invention of the cooks who obviously enjoyed their work. When Miles walked past her into the buttery, Catharine’s stayed to enjoy smells coming from the kitchen which connected to the buttery.
“What will happen to these lords?” Peter said, facing the garden.
“The House of York has never been vengeful. It depends on their submission, and the extent of their involvement. Lancaster depended on vengeance. York would use hostages for good behavior. The self-interest of those who might be tempted to rebel.” Caxton swallowed, discomfort etched in every line of his face.
“Tis truth,” Catharine heard herself saying. “Richard has ever been magnanimous in war. Look at Scotland when he was Lord of the North. He allowed no rape or pillage, and paid his soldiers well and on time. There were Scots lords who wanted him for their King. They have a poor history of Kings dying in their beds.”
“Count that to their fractious and Lucifer proud nobles,” Peter said. “A hundred sides, and everyone believing every slight and imagined wrong. What do you expect? They are rarely masters of their destinies. Most die of treachery or mischief of some sort.”
“And that is to our advantage,” agreed Caxton. “Let them fight and bicker among themselves and leave us alone. Richard has no interest in being King of the Scots. He only wants to insure they keep their quarrels on their side of the border.” He raised his hand impatient. “Ah, where is that, man. Ale is the only thing that eases my stomach.”
“Coming, sir.”
Catharine turned at Mile’s voice, and blinked in disbelief. Standing at a small table in the hall to the buttery, Miles poured white powder in two of the four goblets on the tray. Catharine turned back before Miles noticed, trying to place anything distinguished about the two poisoned cups. One had a stag on the side. The other three cups were identical. Hair rose on the back of her neck. She moved into the room ahead of Miles, who smiling, entered with the tray of goblets. He handed one with the stag to Caxton, and passed out the others to Peter, Catharine and keeping one for himself.
Catharine, shaken, stood between Caxton and Peter, holding her goblet. The pale liquid looked inviting. Just when Caxton raised his goblet to propose a toast, her hand went to her head, and she stumbled against Caxton knocking the stag goblet to the rushes. Caxton caught her elbow, supporting her weight.
“Lady Catharine!” Caxton exclaimed, alarmed.
“No. Oh, no. Peter, don’t drink! It’s poisoned! I saw Miles put white powder in your cups,” Catharine said.
“This is madness,” stammered Miles. “I’d never do such a thing. What white powder? The lady is mistaken.”
“In the buttery hall. I saw what you did. Check the rims of your cups.”
Caxton retrieved his cup, and studied the rim. “Not on the rim, but there is some in the bottom. Peter?”
Peter held the full goblet to the light from the solar windows. Tiny crystals glistened on one area of the rim. He put the goblet on the trestle table and glared at the small secretary.
Caxton rang a bell. “Why?” he asked quietly.
The small secretary edged toward the buttery door. “I told the duke I was wasted here. He said to spend myself earning your confidence, and I have. Indeed, these years have been fruitful one’s for you in business and politics.” He took a deep breath. “I have served my two masters well.”
“Nesbit. You arranged to have us ambushed, so as to have Nesbit killed,” Catharine said, aghast.
“One of my successes, Lady Catharine. Protecting my real mas
ter. So you see, my lords, I almost completed everything, except this.” Miles’s face wrinkled in a disparaging smile.
“And the cook from the Sow’s Ear?” Peter said, face stormy.
Northrop snorted contemptuously. “The idiot acted on his own, and almost ruined everything.”
“You’ve been poisoning me,” Caxton said, staring at the stag cup. “How long?”
“The two days you’ve been feeling poorly. You’ll recover. You needed several more doses.” He laughed. “Think of it. I was master of your household for nearly two years. Your surrogate when you weren’t available. There was little I did not tell my master of your activities. Why did you think some of your agents never came back?” He shrugged. “And now to fail in the moment of triumph.”
“What was the poison?” Caxton demanded. “I can have you made to talk.”
Miles stared back, face bland and blank. “I don’t think so, my lord.”
“Abby will know,” Catharine said. “She is with the cooking staff.”
Caxton’s servants appeared. Miles was bound and placed under guard, and Abby sent for. Northrop stood perfectly calm.
“What does Buckingham know?” Peter said, face grim.
“We must assume he knows everything,” Caxton put the stag cup on the trestle table. He began to drum his fingers on the desk. “I think Miles is right. If he did talk, we could never trust what he said to be the truth. Miles seems to have been sent into my household about the same time Buckingham was hatching his plot against you. This is probably part of a wider conspiracy set up to bring down Richard. As soon as Edward’s health began to fail, they began to make their move. This appears astonishing in its scope. Be assured the King will be informed immediately.”
Abby stalked in and curtsied. “My lord?” she said, looking to Peter.
“Abby, can you tell what poison is on the edge of this cup?” Peter handed her his goblet.
The old crone ran an ancient finger over the lip of the goblet and sniffed, wrinkling her thin nose. The she put a couple of grains on the tip of her tongue, and immediately spat into the floor rushes. “Arsenic.” Her eyes like deadly darts fastened on Northrop. She hissed and made the sign of the evil eye. “I curse you, Italian. May maggots devour your entrails, and you know no sleep until you die.” The old woman flung the poisoned ale in the secretary’s face, staining his clothes.