Sacrifice

by David Pilling

  Even so, she rode with the grace and dignity of a sack of coal, and longed to reach journey’s end before the pain of the sores on her backside and inner thighs became unbearable.

  “You will travel as a man,” Margaret had said before Maud’s departure from London, “you have a slender, boyish figure, and are sufficiently flat-chested. There is no need to show your face. Keep your hood up as much as possible. Cloudsley will give your hair a trim.”

  Cloudsley’s notion of a trim was severe. He hacked away at Maud’s reddish-brown locks with a pair of shears, and cropped the remainder with a heated dagger until Maud was virtually bald.

  “There,” he said, stepping back to admire his work, “you look right soldierly now. No more danger of lice, eh?”

  Maud was less happy with the result, but realised the necessity of cutting her treasured locks. Just for luck, she took a hank of the fallen hair from the floor and stuffed it into her purse.

  She would need plenty of luck. Margaret was sending her into East Anglia, once the stronghold of the Lancastrian Earl of Oxford, now enemy territory. King Richard’s chief ally, John Howard, had been made Duke of Norfolk, and acquired all the lands and estates forfeited by Oxford.

  “Howard does all he can to win the friendship of my husband’s old retainers,” Margaret had said, “I know those men. Their coats are not so easily turned. It only requires a match to light the flame of rebellion.”

  I am the match, thought Maud. In her saddlebags were a number of letters, written in Margaret’s own hand and addressed to various Norfolk knights and landowners. Any one of them, if discovered and read by a servant of King Richard, was enough to condemn her to death.

  Margaret assured her that East Anglia, and especially Norfolk, was a powder-keg ready to explode in Richard’s face. Other parts of the country, such as Kent and the south-west, already fumed with discontent. The King’s repeated failure to show his nephews in public had planted evil suspicions in the minds of many, even those who had served York loyally in the past.

  “The fool has done away with them,” said Margaret, “otherwise, why does he not fetch them out of the Tower for all to see? Poor boys. War is one thing, the murder of innocents quite another. The people will not stand for it.”

  Maud found the undisguised joy in the other woman’s voice repellent, but there was little doubt Richard had blundered. Whatever mysterious fate had befallen his nephews, behind the flinty walls of the Tower, his failure to produce the boys was opening fresh wounds in England’s half-healed flesh.

  In the midst of all this turmoil, the Duke of Buckingham quit the capital and hared off to his estates in the Welsh Marches. It seemed inconceivable that he had deserted Richard, the man to whom he owed everything. If so the usurper’s list of allies was growing thin indeed.

  John Howard was one of the few Richard could rely on with absolute certainty. It was for that reason Margaret sent Maud into the heart of Norfolk, to try and stir up her husband’s old retainers against their new lord.

  Maud had never visited this part of England before. Margaret had supplied her with enough money for the journey, a map, and a long dagger to replace the one she left behind at The Cardinal’s Hat.

  It was mid-morning, over an hour after she departed from Great Yarmouth, before the tall tower of Caister Castle became visible, rising from the trees to the north. Maud rode a little closer until the rest of the castle was visible, and halted to run her eye over it.

  Other than the impressive tower, which stood over a hundred feet high, Caister was a small place, crenellated and surrounded by a deep moat. The curtain wall still bore the scars of cannon fire, from a siege some fourteen years previously.

  Margaret had told Maud the history of the castle, and of its owners. Like her own family, the Pastons were minor rural gentry, though they had risen a little in the world thanks to their acquisition of the castle.

  Staunch Lancastrians, the Pastons suffered at the hands of ambitious neighbours. A previous Duke of Norfolk snatched the castle from them by force – hence the gunfire damage – and the family only managed to retake their property after his death. The current lord, Sir John Paston, strived to live peacefully and offend no-one.

  Until now.

  Maud pricked her horse’s flanks with her spurs, and bit her lip at the pain of saddle-sores as the beast lurched into a canter. Silently cursing all horses, she steered towards the castle gate.

  The gate stood open, and a sentry in a plain brown coat was slouched against the wall. He had a sturdy, red-faced, bucolic look about him, and watched Maud approach without much interest.

  “I wish to speak with Sir John,” she said, wincing as her horse jogged to a halt.

  The sentry sniffed and adjusted his grip on his spear. “Sir John don’t receive many visitors,” he replied in a thick Norfolk burr, “not these days, leastwise. Not sure he’ll receive you. What do you want with him?”

  Maud tried to keep her voice as low as possible. “Got letters for him,” she replied, “letters from London, and Lady de Vere.”

  That made him straighten up slightly, and he tried to peer under her hood.

  “Have you, now? Get off that old horse, then, and follow me.”

  Maud did as she was told, and led the horse over the wide plank bridge. She thought she sensed eyes watching her from the murder-holes bored into the walls flanking the gate.

  The sentry whistled at a couple of grooms playing at dice outside the stables. Grumbling, they got up and trudged over to take the reins of Maud’s horse.

  “Rub her down,” said Maud, “and give her fresh feed and water.”

  “Yes…master,” replied one of the boys, giving her a gap-toothed grin. Maud flushed under her hood. She had fancied herself a decent actress, but failed to deceive even these ignorant clods.

  The inner ward of the castle was a cramped square, with stables, a smithy and a barracks. The hall was to the right of the main gate, above the kitchens.

  “Stay here,” said the sentry, “while I see if his lordship is free. Try not to steal anything.”

  He lumbered away, leaving Maud to reflect on nothing worth stealing, unless she fancied taking one of the skinny hens scratching about in the dust.

  She looked around at the battlements. There were three men on guard duty, two with crossbows and one with an arquebus. Like their comrade on the gate, they were all stolid, red-faced types, not exactly in a state of martial readiness. One of the crossbowmen was seated on the walkway with his legs dangled over the edge, chewing on a bit of straw. He treated her to a wink and a lopsided grin.

  The peaceful country setting reminded Maud of Heydon Court, her family home in Staffordshire. A wave of sorrow washed over her.

  No tears. I have no tears.

  The sentry had made his way up the timber staircase to the hall, and now re-appeared in the doorway.

  “All right, then,” he called out, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “lordship can spare you a few moments. No longer, mind. He’s a busy man.”

  Maud swallowed and climbed up the steps. Her stomach tingled with fear. She had retrieved Margaret’s letter to Sir John from her saddlebag, and it weighed like lead in her hand. The letter was sealed, but Maud suspected the content was enough incriminate writer and messenger several times over.

  The hall of Caister Castle was painfully reminiscent of the one at Heydon Court: a long chamber with a raftered ceiling and weapons fixed to the walls. A few hounds wandered among the rushes, sniffing for bones and bits of meat. Flies buzzed among the platters of old food on the tables.

  A couple of serving-men sat in one corner, gulping down bowls of broth in busy silence. Otherwise the hall was deserted, save for the master of the house sat at high table, deep in study of a thick, iron-bound ledger.

  Sir John Paston was a harassed-looking man, about forty, with neatly trimmed blonde hair and beard. He looked more clerk than lord, and Maud found it difficult to believe he once stood in the Lancastrian battle-
line at Barnet, laying about him with sword and mace.

  “Damned accounts,” he muttered, snapping the ledger shut and laying aside his quill, “I never did have a head for figures. Nor did father. Hence our present difficulties.”

  The sentry had followed Maud into the hall, and taken up position behind her. He gave a discreet cough, and Sir John looked up, startled.

  “Eh?” he said, rubbing his eyes, “oh, yes. Our visitor. Step forward, sir, and push back your hood. I will have no faceless strangers in my hall.”

  Maud took a step nearer the table and reluctantly peeled back her hood. Sir John took a long look at her face, then snorted with laughter.

  “God bless Lady de Vere,” he said, “she never ceases to surprise. A girl, eh? Well, a girl can carry letters as well as a boy.”

  He stuck out his right hand, palm upwards. “Let’s have it.”

  Wordlessly, she handed him the letter and stood back while he read.

  When he was done, Sir John pushed back his chair and took a turn around the room. He looked agitated, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  Eventually he stopped in front of the hooded fireplace at the opposite end of the hall. A small fire burned low in the grate, just enough to take the edge off the morning chill.

  He spun around and pointed at Maud. “Lady de Vere has no right,” he cried, “no right at all, to demand more from my family. She desires me to raise the gentry of the shire, if you please, and lead them in arms against the Duke of Norfolk’s castle at Hedingham. While we lay siege, the rebels in Kent and Sussex and elsewhere will march on London and make short work of his royal master. A fine plan! A clever plan!”

  “It is intolerable – rank, witless folly! How can she ask this of us? What have we not risked in the past? My father died in penury, my mother almost died in defence of this castle, our servants were murdered, my brother and I shed our blood at Barnet…no, curse it all, the Pastons have done quite enough! I have a four-year old son, and mean to see him live to enjoy his inheritance. Let us have a quiet land and a prosperous one. I care not if a Yorkist or a stuffed woolsack sits on the throne.”

  “All the men of my family are dead,” Maud said quietly, “yet here I am.”

  Sir John folded and unfolded the letter, as if not knowing what to with it. At last he turned and thrust it into the flames.

  “None of my affair,” she heard him mutter, “I will hear no treason in this house.”

  Maud was suddenly conscious of the serving-men in the corner watching her. “If that is your answer, my lord,” she said, “then I will take it back to Lady Margaret in London.”

  She moved towards the door, but the sentry barred her way. He laid a meaty hand on the sword at his hip.

  “No,” Sir John said behind her, “this is the closest you get to London. Tell me your name.”

  Maud said nothing. She weighed up the sentry. Perhaps if she made a sudden spring…but he anticipated the move, the corners of his thick-lipped mouth hitched into a cynical grin.

  “Don’t even think of it, girl,” he said, sliding out his sword to expose a couple of inches of polished steel.

  “Walter, Jenkyn,” said Sir John, “take the blade away from her.”

  Maud spun around to face the serving-men. They approached her cautiously, eyes fixed on her dagger. They were big, ponderous types, with coarse faces, heavy arms and soft bellies. Maud was quick with a blade, but not so quick as to take on four men at once.

  “For shame, Sir John,” she said, backing away until her legs bumped against a table, “you would set your rogues on me? Lady Margaret assured me you were an honourable man, as well as a loyal one. Perhaps she was wrong on both counts.”

  He paled. “If you were a man, I would make good those insults on your body,” he replied with stiff dignity, “hand over your knife, and no harm shall come to you.”

  Maud could see she had little choice in the matter. She slowly drew her dagger and handed it, hilt-first, to the sentry.

  “What now?” she asked, folding her arms.

  Sir John seemed uncertain. He chewed his thumbnail for a few seconds, gazing at the floor while the parchment steadily burned to a crisp in the hearth behind him.

  “By rights, I should hand you over to the duke,” he said slowly, “he would either hang you outright as a traitor, or take you to London to stand trial before the king.”

  “Except you have just burned the evidence of my treason,” she pointed out.

  Sir John scowled at her. He was a mere country knight, she realised, and the situation was beyond him.

  “Take her to the cellar,” he said at last, “and lock her in, until I decide what is best to be done.”

  Walter and Jenkyn took Maud down to the cellar under the kitchen, a musty, vaulted chamber with hooped wine barrels stacked against one wall.

  Jenkyn, the slightly larger and hairier of the two brutes, ran a lustful eye over her – Maud knew the look from long experience – but obeyed his master’s command. No harm would come to her unless he allowed it.

  They locked the door and left her in darkness. There were no windows, and the door was predictably solid and immovable, made of cross-grained oak with thick iron nails hammered into the planking.

  For the present, Maud had no option but to wait. Thinking she may as well enjoy Sir John’s hospitality, she knocked out the bung from one of the barrels and treated herself to some of his wine.

  It was heady stuff, thick and red and strong. When she had drank her fill, she sat down on the bare stone floor and tried to get some sleep.

  For a long while, cold and fear kept her awake, but eventually she drifted into a troubled slumber. Bad dreams assailed her. Maud saw the white hawk of her house tumble through blue skies over a stricken battlefield. There was an arrow in the bird’s wing, and a constant stream of red drops trickled from the wound, staining a fallen banner.

  Then she saw through the hawk’s eyes. The bloodstained banner displayed a white rose, the hated symbol of York. Her blood had splashed across it, and quickly spread until the red rose of Lancaster had replaced the white.

  “God for Saint George and King Henry!”she heard a man’s voice shouting in the distance, “God for Lancaster! The White Hawk!”

  The voice was vaguely familiar, and his shouts were accompanied by the sound of fists hammering against solid wood, to no avail.

  “James!” she cried. The dream evaporated, and she was back in the lonely darkness of the cellar.

  There was no sound of fists against the door. All was silent. Maud winced at the ache in her shoulders, and stood up to stretch.

  The hairs rose on the back of her neck. Maud’s instincts were finely-honed from over a decade of life in Southwark, and warned her something was amiss.

  She stood absolutely still, poised on the balls of her feet, ears straining to listen. Her heart started to pound. Perhaps Sir John had gone back on his word and sent men to quietly dispose of her. Much more convenient.

  Footsteps. A key slid into the heavy iron lock, and slowly started to turn. Maud retreated into the shadows and looked around desperately for something, anything, she could use as a weapon.

  There was nothing. Aside from the barrels, the cellar was bare.

  The door swung open, and a man stepped through, silhouetted by the light of a torch he held aloft in his left hand. In his right he held a sword.

  Overwhelmed by the terror of death, Maud almost buckled to her knees with relief. The torch in the intruder’s left hand illuminated the craggy features of Jack Cloudsley.

  He put a finger to his lips as she emerged from the shadows and ran towards him. Understanding, she slowed and remained silent as he slid his dagger from its sheath and handed it to her.

  She followed him up the short stair into the kitchen, a much larger space than the cellar, smelling pleasantly of spices and freshly baked bread.

  The door to the inner ward stood ajar. Jack crouched beside the doorway, peering through the gap, and bec
koned her over to join him.

  “Here,” he whispered, untying the purse hanging from his belt, “before I forget. If aught happens to me, get to Great Yarmouth and find a ship. This money will pay your passage to France. My horse is tethered to an oak a little way inside the woods, south of the castle.”

  “France?” she replied fearfully. Maud had never been out of England before.

  “Yes. At least for a time. England is not ready to rise against Richard. The rebellion is bound to fail. Try and get to Brittany, and the court of Henry Tudor. He is our last hope now.”

  She took the purse, which bulged with coin. “No more questions,” he added quickly, “Lady Margaret sent me after you. I told her it was a mistake to send you alone into Norfolk, but she wanted you to strike your blow. The daft old hen thought she was doing you a service. It took me a full day to persuade her otherwise. I have shadowed you all the way from London. When you failed to come out of the castle by sundown, I knew I had to act.”

  The torch was burning low. Jack peered again into the darkness outside. “See that stretch of wall beside the stables?” he said, “that’s how I came in. Swam the moat, scaled the wall and knocked off one of the guards. Not bad for an old wreck like me, eh?”

  Maud thrilled to the image of this lethal killer, gliding through the black waters of the moat before swarming up the wall to put his blade into some hapless sentry.

  “I tickled the guard a bit until he told me where they were holding you. Then I cut his throat. His mates will find him soon enough. Quickly, now.”

  They crept outside and hurried across the yard, towards a set of stone steps leading to the battlements. Maud glanced to her right, and saw two figures bent over a huddled shape on the walkway.

  A pair of pale faces looked up as they reached the steps, and a hoarse male voice cried out.

  “You, there – halt! Stay where you are!”

  “Stupid buggers,” muttered Jack. He pounded up the steps and charged straight at the guards, hurling the guttering remnant of his torch at them.

  “Get away, girl!” he shouted, “into the moat with you, and swim for it!”