скачать книгу бесплатно
‘What are you smiling about, Cuddy?’ she demanded excitedly. ‘Has Cicely returned?’
‘No, I fear not,’ I admitted. ‘Lady Joan wants me to spy out the situation in Brancepeth so I am about to leave.’
Hilda’s dark brows knitted in vexation. Usually I loved it when her pretty face creased in a frown and her brown eyes glinted in challenge but on this occasion I knew she was about to dispute my unquestioning obedience to Lady Joan – not a subject I was prepared to debate with her – so I forestalled her protest.
‘No one else seems to have any idea how to grapple with the problem so I am more than willing to go on a fishing expedition. At least I can travel unrecognized and ask questions in places where the Nevilles would not go. It might just yield results. God knows, something has to.’
The light of battle died in Hilda’s eyes and she became practical. ‘Someone has to,’ she amended, favouring me with faint twitch of the lips, ‘and Cicely can always rely on you.’ She did not add ‘more than the rest of her brothers’ but I could hear the unspoken words in her tone of voice.
She whistled sharply and the terrier came running up and dropped his stick at her feet. ‘Caspar is pining for his mistress,’ she revealed, picking him up and tucking him under her arm. ‘I thought a bit of exercise would cheer him up.’
Caspar was Cicely’s dog, used to following her everywhere except of course to the hunt, when the big alaunt hounds would probably have eaten him for dinner.
‘I expect Cicely is missing him,’ I remarked, falling into step beside Hilda as she walked towards the gate. ‘Are you going to feed him now?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Well, I thought if you were going to beg some scraps from the kitchen for Caspar you might also acquire some supplies to sustain me on my travels.’
I was rewarded with a cuff on the arm. ‘So that is why you came to find me. And I thought it was for a sight of my bonny brown eyes.’
‘So it was,’ I protested, feeling the blood rise in my cheeks. ‘And your way with the kitchen staff.’
Hilda stalked off ahead, affecting indignation. The terrier’s tail wagged dismissively at me from under her arm. ‘Hah! Well, I suppose Caspar might spare you a bit of gristle.’
4 (#ulink_75aeaa11-7266-554e-80e4-da2cb9529a9d)
Brancepeth
Cuthbert
I took the moorland route to Brancepeth and rode in bright sunshine, my horse trotting easily over grassy sheep tracks. The dry conditions meant I could let my mind wander, considering the reasons for my unquestioning obedience to Lady Joan; the obedience which the spirited Hilda found so hard to comprehend.
Hilda was not illegitimate. She was the true-born daughter of Sir William Copley, late tenant of one of the closest of Raby’s many manors. Even as a young child, while her father was still alive, she had often been to Raby, making friends, especially Cicely who was nearest to her in age. I had often encountered her when I was a boy, but by the age of eleven I had begun serious training military training and grown scornful of little girls with their dolls and giggles. Now, of course, it was a different matter.
I do not remember precisely when I began to notice that Hilda had grown from a cheeky little girl into a dark-haired temptress, but it must have been during the summer that I started to teach her and Cicely how to shoot an arrow. I found something intensely appealing about the way Hilda tilted her chin before she hauled back on the bowstring, and when she flexed her arm and pulled I felt a blood-rushing response to the thrust of her budding breasts against the fabric of her bodice. She was thirteen and I was not yet twenty. During the three years since then, my teenage lust had turned into something more controlled, but my heart still missed a beat whenever I caught sight of her.
Since then, too, her father had died and her eldest brother Gerald had inherited the manor of Copley. Young Gerald had been one of my fellow henchmen at Raby, sharing the training, both military and social, that was intended to turn us into fierce and faithful Neville knights. As youths we had been quite good friends until I began to receive more senior and responsible posts than he did, a situation he judged to be due to favouritism. That was when he began to cast snide remarks in my hearing about ‘bastard blood’ and ‘bum-licking by-blow’, insults I managed to ignore. But when he got wind of my feelings for his sister his antipathy grew more sinister; there was ample opportunity on the practice ground for knocks and thrusts to result in real wounds inflicted accidentally-on-purpose. I had been much relieved when his inheritance took Gerald back to the manor of Copley, but before he left he made it abundantly clear to me that if any word reached him linking my name to Hilda’s, violent retribution would follow. Our paths had not crossed since but I knew that, apart from when he performed his knight’s service on the Scottish border, he was never far away.
The stain of bastardy was the glue that bound me to Lady Joan; not that she ever used that word. It was the reason I gave instant and unquestioning service to her. Very soon after my arrival at Raby I had been surprised and perturbed to be summoned to the countess’s tower and admitted to her private quarters. In the room she called her salon I was dazzled by the light that streamed through half a dozen diamond-glazed windows and awestruck by the opulence of the furnishings. Until then, I had known only the interior gloom of my family’s fortified farm high up in the dale above Middleham Castle, and its rough-hewn table and benches. Lady Joan’s sumptuous silk hangings and polished-oak chests and chairs were a revelation to me and I needed no nudging from her chamberlain to fall instantly on my knees before her raised and canopied throne. I was convinced I must be kneeling at the feet of a queen.
‘You are welcome to Raby Castle, Cuthbert.’ Her soft, aristocratic tones sent nervous shivers down my spine. ‘You may be surprised that I have sent for you but we have much in common, you and me. Like you I was baseborn and grew up under the shadow of illegitimacy. I know it is not an easy road to walk. I was lucky. My father eventually married my mother and was powerful enough to have her children legitimized. That will not happen to you and yet you too are lucky because you have impressed your father with your strength and intelligence. He will see to it that you receive the training necessary to join the elite force of Westmorland men-at-arms. But because you are his son he has asked me to ensure that you also receive an education and learn good manners, and so you are to join my sons and daughters at the appropriate lessons. I trust you will take advantage of this opportunity and repay our generosity with true loyalty.’
Under her gracious azure gaze I blushed furiously and mumbled some words of gratitude, turning the new homespun hood which my mother had made for me round and round in anxious fingers. At ten years old I needed no urging to pledge my loyalty to this beautiful, fragrant, splendidly jewelled lady. I wanted to prostrate myself before her and let her trample me under her satin-slippered feet but instead I bowed my head and tugged at the fringe of hair on my forehead. ‘Oh yes, my lady, I will,’ I said and, true to my word, I had repaid her over and over again and was even now continuing to do so.
At Brancepeth a posse of Raby men-at-arms was now camped in the shelter of a tree belt, well back from any archers’ arrows fired from the castle walls. Hal had seen to that at least. As I was wearing no insignia that might be recognized from the battlements, I went to speak to the sergeant in command but I took care to remain in the shadow of the trees. He reported no activity at all that day and, with dusk fast approaching, did not expect any. This puzzled me as Brancepeth was not under siege, but my curiosity was met with a shrug from the sergeant; his instructions were to keep out of arrow-range and log any activity. I took myself off to the village where I hoped to find looser tongues.
In the main street I promised a halfpenny to a loitering lad to mind my horse and he directed me to the alehouse, identifiable by a desiccated evergreen bush hung over its door. It was the usual low-roofed, smoke-filled, mud-floored hell-hole; a meeting place for unmarried local villeins with a farthing to spend, thirsty black-faced colliers from the nearby mines and weary travellers from the west who could not quite make it to Durham before curfew. I hoped it would be assumed that I fitted the last category. There was no room near the fire so I took a seat on a corner bench beside a man wearing the Neville bull on his jacket and signalled the pot-boy to bring me a mug of ale.
‘You must be a local resident, sir,’ I said politely, indicating my neighbour’s livery badge. ‘That is the Neville bull, is it not?’
The man’s grin revealed only three or four blackened teeth. ‘Brancepeth Neville, sir. The other lot, with their fancy sailing ship, do not show their faces here.’
I affected ignorance of Neville business. ‘Oh? Why is that?’
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together with a knowing look. ‘Family feud, sir, over land, coin and castles. Rich men’s pickings.’
The pot-boy arrived with my ale in a banded wooden mug and I tossed him a farthing. ‘You seem very knowledgeable about the lord’s affairs,’ I prodded, taking a long gulp of the thin liquid. It was stale but not unpleasant.
He puffed out his chest. ‘Well I should know something since I work at the castle.’
With teeth like his I doubted if he worked in the private apartments but I decided flattery would aid my cause. ‘You must have a senior position, sir, if you can leave after dusk. When I rode past the drawbridge was up and the portcullis well and truly down.’
The man pressed his finger to the side of his nose. ‘There’s more than one way in and out of that place,’ he confided. ‘If you know the guards you can slip out the back. The lord’s brothers went that way very early this morning. I was returning from plucking a nice plump hen last night, if you get my meaning, and I saw them leave.’
I tried hard not to show my surprise at this information. ‘Off hunting vixen, were they?’ I suggested with a smirk.
He pursed up his lips, looking doubtful. ‘I reckon not. They had some skirt with them. There’s been a mystery woman staying and they fired one of the gatehouse canons at a troop from Raby which arrived this afternoon. Something to do with the family rift it seems. I work in the stables and one of the countess’s palfreys was missing from its stall but Lady Westmorland is still in the castle.’
Now the hair rose on the back of my neck. Was it possible that Cicely had been moved from Brancepeth and, if so, where had they taken her? Or had she persuaded her kidnappers to let her go and if so, again, where was she? I downed the rest of my ale hurriedly and stood up, excusing my hasty departure. ‘I need to get back to my horse before the lad I left it with realizes it would fetch more than I’ve promised him. Thanks for your company, my friend.’
‘If you need a bed I know a nice clean widow in the village who would share hers with you for half a groat.’ A big wink and another gap-toothed grin accompanied this offer.
I shook my head. ‘Not tonight, regrettably, I am on a pilgrimage.’ I saw his eyes pop with astonishment as I turned away and fought my way through the smoke and bodies to the door. Outside I smiled to myself and breathed the fresh night air with relief. The boy was still holding my horse and scampered off with glee, biting at the half-moon of silver I had given him. My stomach urged me to eat before following up on the information I had just received, so I set off, leading the horse, to seek a place to let him graze while I raided the saddle-bag supplies Hilda had procured for me.
In a far corner of the Brancepeth churchyard, I hobbled my horse and let him loose, then settled down on a gravestone to enjoy a substantial cheese pastry in the light of the rising moon. The church was dark; not even the flicker of a votive candle showed through the leaded windows of its rounded arches. Either they were shuttered or else the priest was gone for the day.
I could hear my horse munching his way around the graves and the occasional clink of his metal shoes as they struck a stone edge. I wondered what Cicely would be doing at that hour and where she would be laying her head. This would be the second night she had spent away from Raby. If she was no longer at Brancepeth would she even have a bed, or might she be confined in some cave up on the moors, or forced to sleep in a forest hut, hidden from prying eyes? If so, she would be uncomfortable and frightened but the worst aspect for her would be thinking that her family had entirely abandoned her. Cicely was not used to being belittled or ignored. Although she hated her brothers calling her Proud Cis, she was fiercely aware of her lineage and expected the deference due to a potential duchess. I wondered how she would have reacted if her ‘hosts’ had treated her with anger or disrespect. Might her removal from Brancepeth be due to them inflicting some form of retribution or inducement? A sense of the urgency of my mission escalated as I contemplated her position. I did not believe that the present earl would allow any physical harm to come to a female who was, after all, his close relative, but revenge could be achieved in many devious ways, particularly through damage to such a valuable young girl’s honour and reputation.
I consumed the last morsel of the pastry whilst considering what form that damage might take and disliking the turn my thoughts were taking, when my meditations were interrupted by the increasingly urgent sound of human copulation coming from the deep shadow of one of the church buttresses nearby. Copulation or rape, with a crescendo of climactic grunts coming from the male participant and what I took to be wails of increasing protest from the woman. I was in half a mind to intervene but held myself in check, conscious of my own invidious position. To become involved in any sort of incident in Brancepeth would inevitably destroy my anonymity and put paid to any chance I had of assisting Cicely – and might even lead to my own imprisonment.
Quashing feelings of guilt, I crept off to collect my horse and buckle on my saddlebag, but I had not made sufficient allowance for the woman’s distress. Hardly had I removed the hobble and re-bridled the courser when the grunting ceased, but to my dismay the protests of the unfortunate girl redoubled, and she crawled out of her dark corner into the moonlight, tugging her skirt down and screaming at her still-hidden companion.
‘You foul beast! You should be whipped. You promised me silver. Just a quick feel you said – then you force yourself up my arse! You are a liar and a pervert.’
By this time the moon had risen above the trees surrounding the churchyard and its soft blue light beamed down on the girl. She might have been pretty, had not her face been twisted into an ugly expression of hatred and anger. She looked no older than Cicely; too young, I thought, to be whoring herself in a churchyard, even for a shilling. I couldn’t help feeling compassion for her. Not only had she been cheated out of the promised silver, she had also been abused by a bully and a pederast. Her abuser, however, must have been brazenly confident of getting away with it, even to the extent of using the churchyard for his dirty work, when fornication and particularly buggery were carnal sins which could lead to the consistory court, a whipping and a public penance. Then the man himself stepped out of the shadows and my lip curled. It was my erstwhile bugbear, Hilda’s unpleasant and vicious brother, Sir Gerald Copley. I clenched my fists, itching to punch his teeth in, but he had not seen me and I wanted to keep it that way. Neither I nor the horse moved.
Gerald was grinning lecherously while adjusting the codpiece flap of his hose. ‘You stupid slut,’ he said and aimed a kick at his crouching victim, sending her sprawling. Her screeching redoubled and she scrambled to a gravestone and hauled herself to her feet as he continued to berate her. ‘You have the brains of a frog and the backside of a donkey. Why would anyone pay you a shilling to use that spotty arse? And why would any man risk getting a bastard by taking the front door? Bastards are the devil’s spawn. They should be strangled at birth.’
Sensibly the girl decided to retreat rather than risk another vicious kick. She gathered up her skirts and lurched off into the darkness, but not before she had aimed a gob of spit at him so large that I could see it glint in the moonlight. Gerald growled angrily and made as if to chase after her but took only a couple of threatening steps before stabbing the two-fingered witch sign at her and letting her go. From the deep shadow of the trees I watched him adjust his doublet over his sullied hose and saunter away between the graves to the churchyard gate. And I made a silent vow that if ever I encountered Gerald Copley in any kind of confrontation, whether on my side or the other, I would sink my dagger in one of his strutting buttocks. It would be in retribution for his remarks about bastards as much as for his callous mistreatment of a defenceless young woman.
5 (#ulink_84e9abfb-d179-5c78-ab5c-92800d1f3540)
From Brancepeth to Aycliffe
Cicely
My first night at Brancepeth had been short and sleepless. Seated at one end of Lord Westmorland’s high table I had forced myself to eat a little of whatever was offered to me but although I was hungry, I seemed to lose my appetite as soon as food touched my tongue. Rather pointedly I thought, the countess remained absent but the earl had attempted to engage me in conversation. However, as I felt no inclination to indulge him our intercourse had been brief and stilted and afterwards Sir John had escorted me back up to the tower chamber in brooding silence. As we climbed the stair from the bustling hall a sudden sense of loneliness engulfed me. Coming from a large family and a castle that teemed with activity like an ant’s nest, the prospect of a night locked away alone terrified me. There had been no response from Raby to Sir John’s ultimatum and the feeling of abandonment was overwhelming. All my life I had had someone to fight my battles for me, either my father, my mother or one of my brothers and now I had become convinced that the only way I was going to get back to Raby in time for my wedding was by using my own wits. The graunching scrunch of the key turning in the lock was a chilling reminder that there were daunting physical obstacles to be overcome even before confronting the twenty mile distance between Brancepeth and Raby. Seeing help from no other quarter, I threw myself on my knees beside the mean little cot that Lady Elizabeth had provided for me and began to pray.
The candle I had been left with had begun to gutter and I was steeling myself to contemplate the long darkness of the night when I heard that unnerving scrunch again.
‘May I come in, Lady Cicely?’ said the now-familiar voice of my knightly abductor. ‘I would speak with you.’
I rose hastily to my feet, stumbling forward on stiffened limbs but preferring to converse on equal terms with my captor. ‘Enter, Sir John,’ I said, arranging my face into what I hoped was an implacable expression, while inside my stomach churned with apprehension.
He was carrying a lighted lantern and a tray containing a bowl and a jug. ‘I noticed that you ate little at dinner, Lady Cicely. I have brought you curds and honey and some ale because I must warn you that we will be going on a journey. When the castle is sleeping I intend to take you on a ride which I hope will make you understand the injustice that has been done to my brother.’
It was as if my prayers had been answered. My chances of making a break for freedom were infinitely higher if I were taken out of the castle, but I did not want him to notice my surge of elation so I kept my expression blank.
‘Thank you for the warning, Sir John. I am agog to learn how you think to change my perception.’
His grey eyes studied my face but their narrow gaze gave me no hint of his intentions. ‘As I said, I plan to show you injustice, my lady. Now you should get some sleep. Be ready to ride before first light.’ He said no more but he left me the tray and the lantern.
When I lay down sleep eluded me but a vivid memory rose to the surface of my mind like a waking dream. My father sat in his canopied chair, his bandaged leg propped up on cushions before him. Although only nine years old I knew there was an evil presence hidden under that thick dressing, which drew him daily nearer to death. Cuddy had told me that an old wound, received many years before, had resurfaced and now festered, sending rays of blackened flesh creeping up his thigh which emitted a putrid smell and warned us all that the great man had little time left.
For this important occasion maids had dressed me in my best pink gown; tiny white roses decorated the skirt and sleeves. I understood the meaning of betrothal and so did the boy beside me – Richard Plantagenet, dressed in the York colours of dark murrey-red and blue. He was thirteen and looked rather sulky, perhaps because although four years younger, I already stood nearly as tall as he.
My father’s voice was mellow, despite the pain that etched deep furrows in his brow. ‘Your vows to marry give me much pleasure, my children. I hope you will honour each other and share a mutual affection. We have done our best to teach you how.’ He exchanged glances with my mother, who stood at his shoulder, beautiful in her sky-blue robe, her high, white forehead framed by a winged structure of pale gauze and gold filigree. She motioned us to kneel.
‘We seek your blessing, my lord,’ said Richard in a well-rehearsed sing-song tone, and took my hand in a moist clasp.
‘May God in his infinite mercy bless you both,’ pronounced my father, his voice carrying to the crowd of retainers and servants assembled below the great hall dais. ‘And when the time comes may he grant you the boon of children to unite the blood of York and Neville.’
I felt the betrothal ring bite into the sides of my fingers as Richard’s grip tightened and we both flushed with embarrassment. The mention of children evoked the notion of coupling – anathema to our childish sensitivities even though we both knew it was part of the marriage contract. There would have to be coupling – but not yet.
Minstrels struck up a lively tune and the Master of Revels took us off to lead the dancing. The great Raby Baron’s Hall was decked with flowers and ribbons tied into love knots and above them rows of brightlycoloured ancestral banners hung from the rafters. I enjoyed dancing and smiled as I executed the intricate steps of the estampie, a new French dance which I had just learned, but my mind was still filled with concern for my father. When the music ended I went to pick up the jewelled hanap on the table beside him, kept exclusively for the earl to drink from. I lifted the cover and carefully held it beneath the vessel to catch any drips as my father drank. He returned the precious vessel to my hands with a smile.
‘You play the cupbearer well, Cicely,’ he said.
‘You know I love to serve you, my lord father,’ I told him in a whisper. ‘I wish I could ease your pain.’
‘I feel no pain when I look at you, sweeting. You are my solace and my hope. Look – what does it say up there, under the ship on the great pennant?’ He pointed to the huge gold and crimson fretted battle standard which dominated the parade of banners in the rafters. In the centre, superimposed over the Neville saltire, was the black outline of a ship in sail, symbolizing the fleet commanded by Admiral Neuville which had brought the Conqueror’s army to England. The motto read Esperance me confort – ‘Hope comforts me.’
I spoke the words to him carefully, knowing them by heart.
‘You are my hope, Cicely,’ he said, his eyes holding mine. ‘You are the one …’
The image was so vivid that when I opened my eyes I thought I could still see my father’s grey gaze fixed on mine. Then I realized it was not memory but reality. Sir John was leaning over me with a lamp and his eyes were the re-incarnation of those that my mind had conjured up, even flecked with the same colours of chestnut and green as my father’s had been.
He spoke in a hushed whisper, as if afraid to wake the rest of the castle inhabitants. ‘We leave now, Lady Cicely, before it gets light. You must come.’
I threw off the covers and stood up, feeling suddenly dizzy so that I swayed on my feet. Sir John took my arm to steady me and for a few moments I found myself leaning against him with a rush of emotion that I could not put a name to. Then I realized we were not alone and hastily drew back. The stolid maid stood behind him and it was she who pulled my discarded riding huke over my head and laced up my boots. By the time I was ready the dizziness had passed and we crept quietly from the chamber and down the narrow stair. I cast a glance back at my prison and put up a silent prayer of thanks to St Agnes for my deliverance. I had no idea where I was going but surely anywhere had to be better than that cold, lonely cell?
A rear exit from Brancepeth opened onto a path leading directly down into the densely wooded dene on which the castle stood. My sturdy palfrey slipped and scrambled down the steep bank with remarkable agility while I clung to the saddle and left him to it. We then followed the course of a shallow but fast-flowing stream which our horses seemed to navigate more by feel than sight.
There were five of us mounted and one loaded pack pony; I recognized the two squires who had both been in the hall at dinner the previous night; Lady Westmorland’s son Tam Clifford I knew from my spurious ‘rescue’ and the other I had gathered was Sir John’s younger brother, Thomas. The fifth rider was the stolid maid who turned out to be called Marion, brought along I assumed because Sir John’s sense of honour would not allow me to be in the company of three men without a female chaperone, for which, had she known it, my mother would certainly have been grateful.
For the first mile the only sound to be heard was the splashing of the horses’ feet in the water and the occasional screech of a hoof slipping on rock, when we all held our breath. No one spoke, knowing that the Raby observers were camped within earshot above us on the flat land in front of the castle. For an instant I wondered if a cry for help would bring them running but then I realized there would likely be bloodshed and I did not want to be responsible for any death or injury. I was determined that this situation should be resolved peacefully and without bloodshed. The only thing I had not decided was how.
Once clear of the dene I ventured to speak. ‘May I now ask where we are going?’
Dawnlight had begun to flush the eastern sky and the castle had disappeared into the forest gloom behind us. Sir John had carefully dropped back beside me leaving Tam in front and Thomas behind Marion, leading the sumpter. Even if I spotted a possible escape route, the knight’s sleek charger would easily outrun my serviceable steed.
‘As I told you, Lady Cicely, I am going to show you the true injustice of your father’s legacy. We will ford the river you can see ahead and then we will cut across open country, avoiding several villages before we reach our destination. So there will be no opportunity for you to seek assistance, should you have it in mind.’
I made no response but kept a keen eye on our surroundings. I had enough local knowledge to guess that the river we crossed, wading hock-high through the spring-swelled flow, was once again the Wear and with the sun rising to our left we must be heading south. I guessed that Raby stood somewhere towards the west but how far and over what terrain? Although I harboured a spirit of adventure and believed I could elude recapture if the right circumstances arose, I felt daunted by the notion of making my way there alone across open country. In the anonymity of the surrounding moorland it would be easy to follow the wrong stream and become hopelessly lost.
At high noon in uncommonly bright spring sunshine we sighted our destination when a dark silhouette appeared on the horizon like a stump protruding from the earth. At that point we entered treacherous terrain where the going was flat and sinister, reeking with the stench of stagnant water and covered in a warning carpet of moss and myrtle. A moist humidity clung to it, producing swarms of biting flies which we swatted irritably as we followed a series of tall marker sticks sunk into the soggy morass to show where the ground was firm enough to take the weight of our horses. The stump gradually resolved into a grey stone edifice about thirty feet high, topped by uneven gap-toothed crenellations and standing square on a rocky mound attended by a huddle of low, straw-thatched hovels and a small stone chapel. A fearsome iron yett secured the ground floor and a random succession of tiny, deep-set windows pierced the thick stone walls of the tower, providing maximum defence but minimum light to the upper stories. It was what northerners called a peel, built to repel marauding reivers but offering nothing in the way of domestic comfort. I could barely suppress a shiver, imagining my next confinement in the grim twilight of an upper chamber, set in the middle of a stinking bog.
We had been riding slowly and carefully in single file, picking our way gingerly over the untrustworthy moss, but when we finally reached secure rock Sir John kicked his horse up to mine. ‘This is what I wanted you to see, Lady Cicely. Thanks to your father, this dank place is where my brother Thomas will have to bring his bride, should we ever find him one willing to make it her home. Welcome to Aycliffe Tower.’
6 (#ulink_42b1ffab-4167-5cd4-b5e5-3eef3293e360)
Aycliffe Tower
Cicely
The squat tower seemed to rise out of a deep tangle of briars, which at this early spring season were just beginning to hide their fierce thorns behind emerging green shoots. Someone had struck on the ingenious idea of planting wild roses in the sparse patches of soil that littered the rocky foundations and these now formed a dense, flesh-ripping defence against any enemy attempt to scale the walls. Only the entrance to the undercroft, guarded by its latticed yett and a pair of thick iron-bound oak gates, remained free of this thorny barricade so that both people and animals could speedily take refuge in an attack. Gazing at these impenetrable thickets of briars my first random thought was to wonder whether they bloomed red or white. The red rose was one of the symbols of the Royal House of Lancaster, loyally supported by all branches of the Neville family, ever since my father had changed his allegiance from King Richard to King Henry. Planted here in Lancastrian-held soil by a Lancastrian vassal, it occurred to me that it would be ironic if, when they flowered in June, these defensive English roses were not red but white.
After struggling with a gargantuan lock and key, Tam and Thomas managed to get the yett and the gates open, but in order to reach the narrow tower stair we were obliged to cross the lower chamber, where until very recently a herd of cows had wintered. As a result the earth floor was still mired with their excrement so that our boots and the hem of my skirt quickly became filthy. I shut my mind to the stench and the image of rats scuttling over my feet and headed for the stair.
The upper floor was divided into two chambers, the first furnished with a few rickety benches and a heap of grubby sleeping mats piled in one corner. There was a cold, ash-filled fireplace in one wall. The deep gloom was preserved by tightly closed shutters; these Tam hastened to throw open, allowing welcome light and air through the two small window holes, but the smell of cattle dung still clung with fierce pungence and I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop myself gagging. Bidding me to duck my head, Sir John ushered me through a low door in the rough stone dividing-wall which led into another room containing a settle placed opposite another dead hearth and a low bedstead which lacked any mattress.
Eying this, I asked coldly, ‘Is it part of your plan, that I should sling myself on the bed-ropes to sleep, Sir John?’
‘We have brought mattress bags,’ he replied with a hint of a smile. ‘I will have Thomas send villeins out to fill them with myrtle leaves. They make fragrant bedding.’
‘I must take your word for that. Until I came to Brancepeth I had never slept on anything but feathers.’
‘Perhaps then you will begin to understand the difference between a castle and a hovel.’
‘I might, but I do not see how that will make me favour your cause.’ I shot him a sceptical glance.
Ignoring this challenge, Sir John removed a large iron key from the lock in the heavy door to the chamber and held it aloft while he spoke crisply and concisely. ‘You will sleep in here, the maid where you will. Tam and Thomas and I will sleep in the room above. There will be no keys but there will be a constant guard on the yett and a watch on the tower roof. Otherwise you are free to roam. The guard will not stop you but I do not advise trying to venture beyond the perimeter of the policies, due to the surrounding bog. Whole oxen have been swallowed by it in the past, when they strayed too close to the edge. The path is marked as you saw but the posts are removed at night. Only the reeve knows the safe route. Now I have arrangements to make. A meal will be served very soon. I hope you will join us.’
With a small bow he left the room, closing the door behind him. True to his word there was no dreaded sound of the key in the lock. I stared after him, trying to fathom his intentions in bringing me to this cheerless, dank little tower. To change my view of the Neville family feud?
The promised ‘meal’ was day-old bread, hard cheese and raw onion served on a trestle table. The men had removed their gambesons and boots and sat comfortably in tunic and hose, pointedly discussing Thomas’ inheritance.
Tam Clifford was succinct in his assessment of Aycliffe. ‘This place is a dump,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it, Thomas?’
Thomas pursed his lips. ‘I really do not know. I will have to win some big prizes at tournaments when I am knighted, if I am to build new domestic quarters.’
With a sly glance at me, Sir John remarked, ‘In any case it is no place to rear a family. Bogs may be a good defence against reivers but children do not thrive in them.’
‘True,’ Thomas drawled, downcast. Then, with a cheeky look at his brother, ‘John, you do not seem to be in any hurry to marry. If you are not going to take possession of the constable’s quarters at Barnard, perhaps I should move in there.’
It was news to me that Sir John was Constable of Barnard Castle, a royal stronghold not far from Raby. I supposed the post was connected to the earldom and had gone to the Brancepeth branch of the family.
