Geoffrey Condit (19 page)

    Catharine felt the breath go out of her.  “You have my brother?”  She sank onto the settle, stunned.

    “He’s a little bruised, but healthy,”  Buckingham said.

    “I don’t believe you.”  She played for time, trying to quell the panic inside her.   Images of a noose or ax and block rose in her mind.

    He beckoned her.  “Step to the window, my lady.”

    All these years.  William, living  like a hunted animal.  She stepped to the window, and there he was.  Her beloved younger brother, who spoiled beyond tolerance, never let it go to his head.  He’d always come to her, and they’d shared confidences, and been trusted playmates, a bond unbroken by space and years.  “I don’t believe this is my brother.”

   “Let’s go down for a closer look,”  Buckingham invited.  “You can question the boy.  He’s very resourceful.  Several times he’s given us the slip.”

    In the courtyard William sat lashed to a bay gelding that tossed its head when Catharine approached.  She walked up to the side of the great beast and looked up.  “Is your name William Clifford?”

    “Yes.”  William’s voice, wooden, came short and clipped.  He did not meet her eyes.

    “Look at your sister,”  Buckingham ordered.  William’s chin began to jut, and his lips curl.  “Do you need to be persuaded?”

    The boy looked down and met Catharine’s searching eyes.  “Oh, Cate,” he began.  “It’s been so long.  I ... ”  His voice caught in his throat. 

    Catharine turned to Buckingham.  “Damn, you . Damn you to hell.”  She stared up at her brother.  “Oh, Will, all these years.”

    Buckingham laughed.  “What a touching reunion.”

    “What do you intend?” Catharine said voice bitter.

    “An attainted outlaw is usually executed,”  William said.  “Let’s get it over with.”

    Buckingham applauded.  His men smirked.  “Such bravado.  Legally, he’s right, you know.  Young Clifford, your sister is married to the richest lord in the realm.  Sir Peter Trevor, Baron Trobridge.”

    William’s lips curled.  “A Yorkist fop.”

    “Not at all,”  Buckingham said.  “Some of the family fought on the wrong side, as did mine.  In Peter’s case, his uncle, Sir William Trevor, was executed after Tewkesbury.  He was your sister’s plight troth.  Your brother-in-law was knighted by King Edward on Bloody Meadow for his heroics that day.  He hold three knighthoods.  Order of the Garter, Order of the Golden Fleece, and one for valor on the field of battle.  He is no fop.  A charming world where various family members  try to murder each other in the name of someone else’s dynastic ambition.”

    “So what does my lord intend?” William asked.

    “Now that we’ve established your identity, I intend to discuss just that with your sister.”  Buckingham turned to Catharine with a satisfied smile.  “Let’s adjourn, my lady, back to your solar.  Perhaps after some refreshment we’ll see what we can come up with.”

    Back in the solar, Catharine hovered by the window staring down at her brother while the duke savored his wine, and carried on a taunting conversation.  “I was thinking of the satisfaction of a public execution, but thought no, the lad’s worth some money.  So I sent the message last night requesting a meeting this morning.”  He tasted his wine. “Your husband keeps the best cellars.  Superb wine.  I had hoped to step into his shoes, so to speak.  Now it seems you have ruined that plan with your discovery of Nesbit, and our forged letters.  Lady Stanley was bitterly disappointed with our forgeries being discovered, but pleased Nesbit was assassinated.   Too dangerous to be left alive.  What were you intending with Nesbit before we killed him?”

    “He turned talkative when I guaranteed he’d be turned over to the Ecclesiastical Courts.  No torture.  Confined to a monastery for life.”

    The duke looked astonished.  “Clever.  Beyond Clever.  You are truly a formidable foe.  A mind like yours is incredibly dangerous.  You think of everything.  I never... ”

    Restless and angry, Catharine turned.  “Let us get to the problem at hand, Your Grace.”   Catharine’s hands clenched.  She stared past him at the bed chamber, and then focused on the arrogant man seated in the great carved chair facing her.   She sank down on the settle forcing herself to concentrate.

    “Money,”  Buckingham said, benevolent and pleased .  “I want money.”

    “As though I couldn’t guess.  You’re so subtle.”

    “The old Lancaster contempt for money and merchant.  For keeping your brother alive, I want twenty thousand pounds for starter.”  His bland smile remained.  “We’ll negotiate more as time goes on.”

    “You want a continuous source of income.  But Peter will never agree to that.”

    Buckingham arched an eyebrow.  “Peter values you.  He’ll pay to keep you happy.”

    “To a point.”  She crushed the cushion with her hands. “But there is that point he won’t go beyond.  I’d suggest we make a onetime exchange. My brother for a specific sum of money.”

    “Sad, but I agree.  Seventy-five thousand pounds.”

    “You’re mad,” she said, standing.  “He isn’t a King.  No one has that kind of revenue.”

    The duke snorted with laughter.  “Peter is worth more than any King.  Rents from his estates alone come to nearly sixty-five thousand pounds.  His trading and banking empire gleans far more.”

    “Twenty thousand,”  she said.

    “Forty thousand,” he countered.

    “Twenty-five thousand,”  she said, trying to keep a clear head.

    “Thirty-five thousand,” the duke said, obviously enjoying the exchange.

    “Thirty thousand,”  she said, fingering her wedding band.  “He won’t go higher.”

    “Agreed,”  The duke took a sip of wine.

    “I will speak to Peter.  But I’m afraid this is a useless exercise.  He will never agree to any of this you know.”  She swallowed, wanting to be away from this foul grasping man.  God strike him dead!  She took a deep breath to steady herself, to keep the raw desire to hurt him under bare control.

    “He won’t want a public execution,”  the duke said, sure of himself.  “In the meantime I will keep your brother.”

    “See that he is not damaged, Your Grace.  And keep Carnahan away from him. The man is unsteady and without pity.”

    Buckingham grimaced.  “I agree.  The man is without mercy.  He is perfect for my uses.  He has a great grudge against Peter since the killing of his son, Castor  Breckenridge.”  He stood  and set down his wine goblet.  “Pray remember he is available to do my bidding if you do not agree to my terms.  Tell your husband.”

    They walked down stairs to the courtyard.  The duke mounted his gelding.  Catharine reached up and touched her brother’s bound hands.  “You will soon be with us, Will,”  she said.  The boy nodded and swallowed, unshed tears in his eyes.

    “I hope - ” he began, but Carnahan jerked the bay’s reins, and the duke’s retinue went out of the courtyard onto Bishopgate Street.  Horses and men blurred in Catharine’s vision.

    Back in the second story solar Catharine entered and regarded the four men waiting for her.  A tall thin man in an elegant deep blue gown trimmed in fur and over laid with a great gold chain of Office advanced and salute her hand.

    “My Lord Mayor,”  Catharine said, giving him a curtsey.

    Sir Edmund Shaa said, “If I had not heard this, I would not have believed it.  The Lord Constable is corrupt.  He is complicit in Nesbit’s death.”

    “I am sorry you had to witness what you did, Edmund,”  Caxton said.  “And you, Richard.  As Under Sheriff of London, we needed your presence,”

    “A necessity,” Sir Richard Arden agreed.

    Miles Northrop handed Caxton a sheaf of papers covered with close neat writing.  “A transcript of what was said, my lord.”

    Sir Hugh Addisson came in.  “Excuse me, my lords, Lady Catharine.  Our agents are keeping discreet track of the whereabouts of your brother.  We’ll know Buckingham’s very movement.”

    “Thank you, Hugh.  Please join us.”   Catharine made the introduction of the household knight, and then, with her own hands, served goblets of chilled wine and delicate pastries.

    Sir Edmund sipped the wine and gestured. “James, considering what we have heard today, Lord Trobridge should be released immediately.”  He read the transcript carefully and witnessed it with his signature, as did the other men one by one.

    “Agreed,”  Caxton said.  “Lady Catharine, we want to thank you for asking us to witness this interview with his Grace.  A stroke of genius.”

    “Thank you, James.”  Catharine had not touched the wine, finding it hard to drink the delicious vintage while her brother suffered.  “I had hoped this would give you the evidence you needed to free Peter once and for all.  With four witnesses of your merit, I don’t think you’ll have trouble removing Buckingham from power.”

    “This is not a definitive solution,”  Caxton cautioned.  “The man has accrued the great good will of the King.  If I seem to hedge, it is true.  I must out-weigh the good-will with evidence of his behavior that is detrimental to King and country.”

    “I think you have it,”  Sir Edmund said.

    Caxton nodded.  “In this I agree.  But I must still find the reason for his over-riding need for money.”

    Catharine passed the plate of pastries around again.  “Greed.”

    “I don’t think so,”  Caxton replied.  “Buckingham is not in debt.  Something must be fueling his grasping.”  He grinned.  “At any rate, Catharine, will you accompany me and Sir Richard to the Tower of London to see to the release of your husband?”

    An hour later Catharine paced, glaring at the locked door while the jailor fumbled with the keys.  The key grated in the lock, and she lifted the latch and flung open the door.  The jailor side stepped out of the way.  “You’re free,”  she said, and dashed into Peter’s waiting arms.

    He wrapped her in a great hug for several long moments, and then held her back at arm’s length.  “I do believe we could light the darkest room with your face, my dear.”  His golden eyes and voice ran through her.  She wished for the privacy of their great bed chamber.  “Tell me how you worked this magic.”

    “You won’t like it.  Last night Buckingham requested an interview for this morning.”  The words tumbled out  in a rush.  Her  hands held his tight.  “I contacted Caxton and asked him to be in an adjoining chamber to overhear the conversation. I also asked he bring credible witnesses who would be able listen in.  We conducted the interview in the upstairs solar, and the duke implicated himself in Nesbit’s forgeries, his death and your false imprisonment.  Sir Edmund Shaa, the Lord Mayor, Caxton,  Sir Richard Arden, Undersheriff of London, and Miles Northrop all witnessed what happened. Signed transcripts are already on their way to King Richard.”

    “There is something else,” Peter said.  “Your face is an open book.”  His right hand held her left, touching the iron wedding ring.   A current of pleasing tension ran into her body.

    “He has my brother.  He’s for sale.”  She felt herself tremble. “God-a- mercy, Peter, he’s alive and unharmed.  And there is no mistake.  It’s Will all right.”

    “What does he want?”

    “Money.  A straight exchange of thirty thousand pounds.”  Servants moved around them packing Peter’s coffers, and removing furniture he’d been permitted to bring.   His confinement had not been rigorous.   “Hugh has my brother and the duke under strict surveillance.”

    “Hurray for Hugh.  It pays to have the very best  people working for the House.  Where are they now?”

    “Westminster Palace,” she said.

    “Good.  You seem to have a genius for getting in and out of trouble, Catharine,” Peter said.  “If it wasn’t for the duke, we might really get to know each other, instead of meeting every so often in between episodes with His Grace.”  He grinned.

    Catharine laughed, pleased to see Peter in a good mood.   She said,  “I propose we remedy that.”

    He took her soft hands in his hard ones.  “Agreed,” he said.  “What would happen  if we unleashed  both of our energies together in the same direction?”

    “Like the princes?”

    “We had a brief taste of what we can do together.”  His thick fingers turned her iron wedding band, sending skipping shivers through her body.  “What if we focused on getting your brother back safe and sound?  What say you to that?”

    She could only nod in agreement.

12

Two days later Peter sat astride Grey Harold, and breathed in the rain fresh scent of damp earth and wet autumn leaves.  The mid morning sun warmed his face in absence of any breeze.  He and his retainers turned into the courtyard of the great royal palace of Westminster to the creak of horse harness, jingling of spurs, and nicker of spirited horses.  He stiffened.  The Duke of Buckingham, in black and gold, walked down the steps of the palace.  Peter reined in Grey Harold.  The Great Horse tossed his head, and laid his ears back.  Peter grinned.  You know an enemy when you see one, my friend.  He leaned forward, and spoke gently and the animal quieted.

    “Was it necessary to bring a small army, Baron Trobridge?  I simply wanted to talk to you.”

    Peter laughed, wanting to strangle the arrogant man.  “I’m exercising my retainers, Your Grace. These are evil times in the land.  This you well know.”   Sir Hugh Addisson and fifteen armed retainers ranged around Peter on horseback.

    The duke said, lips curling,  “I understand you’re being timid in going abroad in the land, Peter.  But this is ridiculous.”

    Peter stared at the duke and took a deep breath, feeling his hands crush the reins.  He felt the blood heat his face.  Jesus!  To squash this offensive creature like a bug.  He schooled his face, thinking hard thoughts, and drove any revealing emotions away.  “I came to talk, Harry.  Not listen to you try to intimidate me.  Let’s get to it.”  The duke’s face tightened.

    The duke waved toward the palace entrance.  “Come, we’ll take refreshment inside while we talk.”

    “I prefer to talk within the sight of my men, Your Grace.”

    “That’s what I mean, Peter.  You’ve lost your zest for life, and the daring you’re so famous for.  A holder of three knighthoods from one bought with valor on the field of battle.  Come now, there is something missing today.  Perhaps it’s this new marriage.  Maybe a mistake on my part for arranging it.  I’ve unmanned you.  I apologize.  Or maybe it’s your mistaken incarceration.  I accept full responsibility, and apologize publically  before your men.  How was I to know the letters were forged?  I’m glad the man got his just deserts, aren’t you?”

    Buckingham’s expansive nature irritated Peter, and the less than veiled insults rankled, but he kept his temper in check.“The stone benches will do just fine,  Harry,”  Peter said.

    The duke chuckled.  “Very well, I guarantee I won’t hurt you.”

    Angry muttering stirred among Peter’s men, and Sir Hugh began to rub his chin, a sure sign of his rising temper.  Horses shifted, harnesses creaked, and the sound of metal on metal drifted around them.   Peter raised a gloved hand, and the muted voices died.  As he dismounted, and handed the reins to one of his squires, his green Persian  mail cape swished.

    “One of your famous capes, I see,”  the duke said.  He took off his sword belt with dagger, handed them to a servant, and waved him away.  “Now you may consider yourself safe at last.”

    “You’re a persistent man, Harry.”  Peter removed his leather gloves and tucked them in his sword belt.  Sorry bastard.  How he’d love to be rid of this vermin.

    “Persistence is a trait to be admired and emulated, Baron Trobridge,”  Buckingham said, pleased.

    “Not in your case.”   Peter turned all the power of his dislike on the man, fixing him with a baleful stare.

    The duke stepped back, then checked himself.  “Shall we dispense with your threats, Trevor?  I propose a payment for your brother-in-law’s safety.  But your wife, bless her, has the heart of a merchant.  She dickered like a Harley Street peddler.”  The duke sat down and stretched his legs.  “God-a-mercy, I lost ten thousand pounds to her scheming.”

    “Catharine wouldn’t be pleased to hear that.  Having the Lancaster scorn of merchants and trading.  I shall not tell her, thank you.”  Peter smiled.

    “She doesn’t like you being a member of the Fellowship of the Stable or a Merchant  Adventurer, does she?  Something about it being beneath your dignity?”  The duke chuckled, incredulous.

    “She has her own peculiar way of thinking.  Which you almost used successfully to have me killed.”

    “I need your wealth, Peter,”  the duke said, voice friendly.

    Peter digested this with amazement, and disgust.  No code of honor.  “Is nothing personal with you?”

    “A public affront to my office and position.”  The duke studied his manicured fingernails, and looked bored.  “Let us stop this bickering.  We could spend the day insulting each other.  Long ago, I ceased taking offense from what other people say.  It’s a game.  A silly stupid game.  Now, about the money.”

    “Thirty thousand is too high,” Peter said, bending to pick up a new fallen leaf all orange and red.

    “What is your wife’s peace of mind worth?”  The duke picked up a twig and began to draw  a hanged man in the dirt.

    Just about anything.  But you don’t need to know.  Aloud Peter said, “We both could make trouble for the other.  I have a reputation, and the King’s ear through a great many people.  You have it personally.  Why fight?”  He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and gave a wintery smile.  “Let’s make an exchange.  Will Clifford for fifteen thousand pounds.”

    “Thirty thousand.”  The duke rose.  “Your wife has already agreed.”

    Peter shrugged and laughed.  “No person is worth that much.  Twenty thousand. Take it or leave it.”  He turned away to toss a pebble, and held his breath.

    “Thirty-two,”  Buckingham said.

    “Twenty-five.  Take it or leave it.”

    “Your wife will take her brother’s death hard.  That will have an ill affect on your marriage.”  The duke’s eyes grew dark with disbelief, overlaid with anger.

    “She’ll get over it,”  Peter said, pretending boredom.

    “Calloused, aren’t you?  Perhaps I misread you, Baron.  Twenty-five it will be.”

    “Where and when?   It must be a public place in the middle of the day.”  Peter waited.

    “Southwark market at the south end of London Bridge.  The day after tomorrow at noon.”  The duke looked thoughtful  “Don’t try any mischief.”

    “Odd.  I was going to say that about you, Your Grace.  Mischief was your wet  nurse, I think.”  Peter grinned, bowed, and walked away.  May you die screaming in  your bed.  When he mounted Grey Harold, the battle stallion tossed his great head, and pranced, eager to be away.  Peter motioned his men to fall in behind in columns of threes.  He glanced at Hugh.  “Yes, I was killing the whoreson a thousand different ways in my mind.  God’s Blood, the man is an insidious disease.  Is there any way to deal with this Lucifer proud degenerate and be done with it?”

    “None that wouldn’t stain your honor or the honor of your House, my friend.”

    “Sometimes I wonder.  It might be worth it.”

    “For hundreds of years the Lords of Trobridge have been known for their honor,”  Hugh said quietly.  “Indeed, the name of Trevor is another name for honor.  Let’s keep it that way.”

    “I know,”  Peter said.  “I just don’t want to lose everything.  This obscenity takes another path when one shuts in his face.  How long must this go on?”  Grey Harold  was restive, eager to run.  Peter reined him in.

    “They all want to run after the rain.”  Hugh reined in. “Ah, the Southwark marketplace.”  They rode into the huge market place which covered both sides of the road for a hundred yards.  Farm produce and shop goods piled the make shift stands and stalls.  The hawking bawling voices of good natured farm women and shop keepers decorated the air.  Peter slowed his column to a walk.  Acrobats, jugglers, and mummers worked the appreciative crowds, distracting everyone.  An idea began to form.

    “Why are you so pensive, Peter?”

    “I think I’ve found the way to create the mischief we need.”  Relief and anticipation rushed through him.  “God’s Blood, it’s worth a go.”

    The day of the exchange at close to noon Catharine and Peter sat in a farm wagon with three other people, all dressed as mummers.  “What is this powder?”  Catharine covered her face with the ancient shawl.  The brawling bustling Southwark market place was alive with the beginnings of a mummer’s parade.  The jangle, din, and tumult of flutes, drums, and cymbals sounded.  Fanciful masks of devils, trolls, and mythical beasts sprouted on people dressed in colored rags, feathers, animal skins and heads, and decorative clothes.  The mummers brandished pitchforks, and staves, fiery leaves of autumn woven into their costumes.  In a ragged robe, Peter wore a crown of fiery leaves and a bushy red beard.

    “Sneeze wart?” Catharine pinched the grey blond powder.  “You’re planning to use this on the duke’s men?”

    Three wagons and two carts carried the other members of the parade.  “It’s our best chance,” Peter said.  “If we pay him, the duke could simply arrest us, take the  money, and hang your brother.”

    “They come, my lord.”  The whisper from a passing peasant came too low for anyone else to hear.  Peter snapped the reins and drove his horses and wagon on to the road.  The air of festivity ruled with laughter, course jokes, and madcap behavior.  Another wagon followed closely blocking the road.

    Jugglers, acrobats, and singers preformed in the marketplace.  Twenty armed riders with the duke, Carnahan, and Will Clifford in their mist, thundered down the road, then slowed to a walk.  Two other wagons of mummers pulled in behind the last of the duke’s men.  The horsemen were soon bunched together between the wagons.  Several of the duke’s sergeants shouted, trying to get the mummers to give way.  Milling horses and jostled riders mixed together.  Mummers with reed tubes blew fine powder into the faces of the duke’s escort.  His men began to sneeze violently.

    Some of the horses sneezed and stamped their hooves.  Cursing riders, sneezing and shaking their heads, tried to control them.  Peter slipped off the wagon, and dodged the stamping horses hooves and swaying under bellies until he surfaced beside Clifford.  Amid the distractions, he cut Will’s bonds, and dragged the surprised man to the ground, pulling a feathered hooded robe over his head and body.  “Follow me,” he said.  “Trust me.”  They dodged the horses, and rolled under a wagon parked by a stall. 

    Finally the front two wagons pulled off the side of the road, leaving it free ahead.  Angry and cursing, the duke and his men charged forward.  Peter and Clifford watched the desperate men and horses race away.  Peter lay on the grass, hugging his knees, roaring with laughter.  Will stared down.  “Who are you?”

    Peter controlled himself, wiping the tears away.  “Permit me.  I’m your brother-in-law, Peter Trevor.”  He held up  his hand.  Will helped him to his feet.

    “I’m Will Clifford,” he said, looking bewildered.

    “I know.  Catharine described you well.  We’d best be gone.  In a few minutes, when they’ve discovered you’ve disappeared, they’ll be back.”  Peter looked around.  The people of the marketplace continued their hawking and selling.  But the mummers were quickly melting into the surrounding forest and hills.  The wagons without horses stood abandon.  “We’d better go.”  He lead the way into the forest to a clearing on a slight rise.  The road and market place were still visible from where they stood. 

    “You were right,” Clifford said.  The duke’s party galloped into the market place.  Angry farmers and merchants argued with the duke’s men.  The duke strode around waving his arms.  Angry voices could be heard in the distance.  A half hour later the duke and his men mounted and headed toward Westminster Palace.

    Peter grinned.  “I think you’ve been successfully kidnapped.” 

    “Will?”  A woman’s voice called out.  Peter watched the tentative reunion.  Eight years.  Tears, explanations, and hugs followed.  Then an endless round of questions as brother and sister covered their years of separation.

    “And Father?”  asked Will.  “In all the years ... ”

    “I thought he might be in Brittany with Henry Tudor.  Buckingham said so, but now I don’t know.  Nesbit forged a letter saying so.”  Catharine looked away tears welling.

    “Your Father has chosen to stay with Henry Tudor in Brittany,”  Peter said.  “Jacob, my trading steward, got word from one of our ships which docked this morning.  I sent an inquiry when we were first married.”  Peter stroked the muzzle of Grey Harold who nuzzled back.

    “What do you mean ‘chose’ to stay in Brittany?” Will asked.

    “I offered him shelter in Burge with our trading houses,” Peter said.  “Your father decided it was in his best interest to stay with the Earl of Richmond.”

    Catharine had thrown off her mummers costume, exposing her green skirt and white bodice.  Her deep red hair tumbled down her back, stopping short of her waist.  Peter wrapped a fine wool cape over she shoulders. “Then it is true about the poisoners?”  she asked.

    “That person has been rooted out, and dealt with.  We have supplied your father with our own cooks, and a personal guard.  You needn’t worry about him.”

    Will Clifford’s features grew incredulous.  “You have that much power, Lord Trobridge?”

    Peter grimaced.  “You must understand, my trading and banking concerns operate in many countries.  I know a great many people who know a great many people.  You might understand what I’m saying.  Duke Francis of Brittany has been a client of mine for some years, for information and  select goods from our trading houses.  He was pleased to help.”