Red Rose, White Rose (38 page)

I smiled, enjoying the incident, before returning my anxious gaze to the road ahead. The common land stretched away uphill towards the gorse-strewn moorland which I remembered from my twilight journey with Hilda fleeing her wicked stepson Simon Exley. Even on this bright sunny day Heworth Moor did not look any less hostile than it had then and, scanning the horizon, I caught my breath as a line of horsemen suddenly appeared in sinister silhouette against the cloudless blue sky. The scene unfolded. Below them on the sun-scorched slopes, scrambling foot-soldiers emerged from the head-high bracken to form flanking wings on either side of the track, while between them two armoured knights on prancing chargers took centre stage, their standards streaming out behind them on the frisky breeze, borne aloft by mounted bearers. Prominent among these flags, beside the cross of St George and the Lancastrian red rose, rippled the blue lion of Percy and the black bull of Brancepeth; Lord Egremont to the left, Lord Neville to the right. John had honoured his alliance oath and brought his men to the ambush.

To our rear the market erupted into action as speedily and wisely the people made themselves scarce, scurrying back along the road to the Monk’s Bridge carrying what they could manage, fleeing for the safety of the city wall. Within the last few years the citizens of York had seen brawls aplenty between Percys and Nevilles and suffered cracked heads and broken limbs if they failed to get out of the way in time.

Meanwhile our procession faltered as all eyes turned to the threatening ranks ranging on the hillside ahead. Hal cantered up to the front of the column and consulted quickly with Tom, who raised his arm in a pre-arranged signal. Thanks to Cicely’s warning it had been decided that in case of trouble the procession would close up and move forward at the trot, keeping a tight formation and leaving the onus of attack on the provocateurs. To turn back was pointless; by the time the clumsy ox-carts had lumbered around they would all be in disarray and the ambushers would be upon them.

Meanwhile the lion and the bull were splitting apart, moving in opposite directions across the hillside. ‘They intend to surround us!’ I yelled, cantering up to Tom. ‘If they cut us off before and behind we will not stand a chance.’

Tom had discarded his wedding garland and donned his helmet and Maud rode close at his charger’s heel, pride and excitement lighting her pretty face. I guessed that, being in love, she believed her hero-husband would outwit the enemy, protect her from harm and carry her triumphantly to Sheriff Hutton. Neither he nor I were so confident. Nevertheless the column trotted on, the ox-carts lumbering along in ungainly fashion, threatening to overturn if they encountered rough ground. A trumpet blast was the signal for the men of the Percy blue lion to stream noisily down the slope towards the carts where they obviously expected to find the richest pickings; wedding gifts of plate, rich cloth and household goods.

‘Gold! Cromwell gold!’ the attackers yelled, waving a motley assortment of scythes, pitchforks and hatchets, terrifying to see but useless against the long lances of the mounted knights. Only few foot-soldiers made it through to the carts, intending to cut the traces or disable the drivers but most of them ended up under the wheels as the procession kept on moving.

Despite Cicely’s urgings that I should join Hal’s defending forces at the back, I stuck determinedly by her and Hilda and the handful of York household knights who cantered along beside them. It was hard to see what was happening ahead but at least the continued movement of the column indicated that nothing was hindering the advance. I strained my eyes to peer through the dust-clouds sent up by hundreds of hooves and thought I could just spy the black bull standard still flying high on the crest of the hill. If John Neville intended to attack the van of the cavalcade surely he would have done so by now but instead he seemed to be shadowing our progress, cantering along the skyline so that through the dust I caught irregular glimpses of him at the front of his horsemen. When we reached the cove at the rock wall where Hilda and I had hidden on our previous visit to the moor it had been my intention to swerve Cicely and her train away from the column to take refuge behind the gorse. Had we been discovered I believed that the cove would have been relatively easy to defend with only a score or so of men, but as there was no attack from the front there seemed no need for this last-ditch action and the rock wall fell behind us as we cantered on. At this point I glanced across at Cicely and was intrigued to catch her smiling broadly, as if the failed ambush was the highlight of her year.

‘He is not going to attack, Cuthbert!’ she shouted across to me in jubilation. ‘He fulfilled his agreement to be here but he did not attack. I think honour is satisfied on all sides.’

As Heworth Moor petered out, giving way to cultivated fields and small hamlets, the shadowing column of horsemen drew rein and we followed suit, slowing more gradually so as not to cause a pile-up further back. To my surprise the black bull standard dipped deeply in salute. Immediately Cicely signalled to the bearer of the white rose standard, stationed at her horse’s hindquarters, to dip it in reply. ‘We have reason to be grateful to the black bull of Brancepeth today,’ she told him, easing her bay palfrey down to a walk.

All around us the mounted men were doing the same. Instead of dust, clouds of steam rose from the sweating horses’ flanks and their riders breathed sighs of relief. Shouts of identification could be heard down the line as the captains established if there were any absentees, while scouts were sent back to look for wounded men. Tom Neville cantered past on his great black stallion, calling his thanks and pausing by each of the anxious drivers who had leaped off their carts to check on their distressed oxen.

Maud rode up to Cicely, concerned for her wellbeing. Her eyes were sparkling in her dust-streaked face. ‘Was that not marvellous, your grace?’ she cried after Cicely had reassured her. ‘Lord Neville did not attack after all.’ I rolled my eyes skywards as Cicely smiled warmly back at the elated bride. ‘No he did not,’ she agreed, her eyes equally bright. ‘Lord Neville is an honourable man.’

Coverdale, West Yorkshire, September

Cicely

C
uthbert shot me a proud smile and made an expansive gesture. ‘Welcome to my manor,’ he said.

We were on Cuddy’s land: the manor Richard had bought from Hal to grant to Cuthbert and Hilda, as I had requested. From Middleham Castle we had ridden in driving rain through a maze of treeless, stone-walled sheep pastures and forded the Cover Beck with the water up to our horses’ hocks but I could not complain because it was I who had insisted that we travel by the back route in order to be unobserved. I blinked the moisture from my eyelashes and peered out from under the hood of my dripping cloak. I had been expecting a manor house but what I saw before me looked more like some kind of stone-built animal shelter, albeit a large one.

‘It is a barn, Cuddy.’ I tried to keep my tone light but my disappointment must have been clear.

Cuthbert threw back his head, showering water off the brim of the beaver hat he wore and to my indignation he laughed. ‘Oh, what a duchess you truly are, Cis!’ he spluttered. ‘Have you never seen a bastle before? These dales are full of them. It is the only way the farmers have of protecting themselves and their stock from raiders; animals on the ground floor, people living above. We have approached it from the back, as you requested, but at the front you will see there are windows; not very big windows it is true but at least they let in the light. A bastle is a cross between a barn and a castle. Come, let us ride round to the front and get some shelter from this accursed rain.’

Red Gill Bastle had been built on the banks of the fellside stream for which it was named and down which, as a result of the downpour, cascades of white water were gushing and thundering over a steep fall, tumbling down towards the Cover Beck. Like the walls of the surrounding fields, it was built of pale limestone cut from the hills behind. From the front it looked a little more welcoming. As well as a row of small, square, shuttered windows, it had a sturdy ladder-stair leading up to an arched doorway protected by an even sturdier iron yett. There was another well-defended entrance at ground-level. I had shuddered at the thought of having to cross the floor of a filthy byre as I had at Aycliffe Tower, but here people and animals were kept quite separate.

As if he read my mind, Cuthbert said, ‘All the sheep and cattle are out on the moor until next month. It will smell as sweet as a summer field in there at this time of year. Wait one minute and I will open the door.’ He swung down from his horse and flung the reins over a rail, set for the purpose. ‘Believe it or not there is a key so that it can be left locked if there is no one here.’

I dismounted and hitched my horse as he had, then tucked the skirt of my kirtle into my belt so that I could climb the ladder-stair. There were noises of locks turning and the creak of hinges as the yett swung outward, back against the wall, and the oak door behind it swung inward.

‘Time to get warm and dry,’ Cuthbert said. ‘We need a fire.’

Inside the bastle it was dim, the only light coming through the open door and some vent-holes in the roof. Dust motes danced in the slanting beams. The window shutters were closed against the rain but I noticed with relief that there were no leaks forming pools on the floor, which was covered in new rush matting and scattered with fresh-cut flowering herbs that gave off a pleasing fragrance. Someone had made preparations for our visit.

Like a man familiar with the layout, Cuthbert walked to the far end of the room and bent to lift a hatch in the floor. Then he fetched a wooden ladder which had been leaning against the wall and slid it down through the opening. ‘First I am going to get the horses into the stalls to dry off. You might like to try your hand at lighting a fire, Cis.’

I gazed at the empty hearth, a flat expanse of stonework in the middle of the room with a few pots and trivets arranged around the sides. A wicker basket of twigs and sticks stood nearby. Frowning, I slid off my dripping cloak and looked around for a peg to hang it on. I felt ill-at-ease and out of place, almost guilty that I had never been inside such a humble dwelling and had no idea how to light a fire or use any of the fearsome-looking implements set ready for cooking and stoking. Not for the first time I wondered whether I had done the right thing in coming to Cuthbert’s manor. The rain had dampened my nervous anticipation of a secret rendezvous in the remoteness of Coverdale and I began to wish I could climb back on my horse and return to Middleham Castle where there were servants and cooks and fires and colourful hangings.

I found some wooden pegs on the wall by the open door, hung up my outer clothing and stood gazing out at the rain-lashed dale. Cuthbert had spent the first ten years of his life in a house like this, living off the land and fighting off reivers and I had never thought about it. Had his mother cooked at a fire on a hearth like this one? Had she lain with my father in a hayfield when he got her with child or had he taken her into the curtained-off sleeping area like the one I could see at the end of the room? Where had her parents been when the lord came to seduce their pretty daughter? What had happened when she found herself pregnant? Had they punished her or had my father made some arrangement for her to make a suitable marriage? I had never asked myself these questions before and all at once I wanted answers.

‘Well you would not be someone to share a camp with.’ Cuthbert was climbing up through the hatchway carrying two saddlebags. He strode across the room and dumped them beside the hearth. ‘Where is the fire, Cis?’

The long room was furnished very simply with benches and chests; there were trestles and boards stacked neatly to one side and a store-cupboard let into the wall. The only hints of luxury were several cushions scattered about on the benches. I wondered if they had been put there especially for my visit, perhaps by the same hand that had strewn the fresh flowers. At a loss to know what to do I had placed one at my back and made myself comfortable on a wooden settle.

‘There is no taper to light it with,’ I said huffily, ‘and nowhere to light the taper. I am no tire-woman, Cuddy.’

He picked up a square metal box with a wooden handle and a hinged lid. ‘This is a tinder-box. It is for making fire.’

‘Good, then you do it.’ I stood up and wandered over to the saddlebags. ‘What have you brought in these?’

‘I wheedled some pies from the Middleham kitchen. And a manchet loaf, though they made a fuss about that. The baker said they were only for the nobility.’

‘Did you not tell him your father was the Earl of Westmorland?’

‘No, I told him it was for a very beautiful lady of my acquaintance and he gave it to me with a great big wink.’

‘Hah!’ I allowed my lips to twitch. ‘Is your mother still alive, Cuddy?’ I asked suddenly. ‘Does she live in Coverdale?’

Cuthbert looked taken aback. ‘No, she is dead. She died fifteen years ago.’

‘Oh, I never knew. I am sorry. Why did you not tell me? How did she die?’ I suddenly felt terrible that I had known nothing about his life away from me, not even if his mother was alive or dead. Selfishly I had not asked the questions I should have.

‘They said she cut her finger on a scythe at harvest. It festered and she died. It happens in farming areas.’ Cuddy was intent on building the fire, placing twigs and small pieces of wood around the flame he had made. I could not see his face but his voice sounded thick, as if his throat was constricted.

‘Why was she harvesting? How old was she.’

‘Everyone helps with the harvest,’ he said. ‘She was forty-eight. I had not seen her for many years.’

‘Because you were with me?’ I touched his shoulder and he nodded. ‘Do you remember her? Was she pretty? She must have been pretty or else …’ I tailed off, unsure how to finish.

‘Or else our father would not have taken a fancy to her and I would not have been born.’ He finished my sentence and stood up. The fire was blazing nicely. ‘But because I was born he married her to a yeoman farmer who was tenant of one of the best holdings in Coverdale, so she lived a good life and had six more children. My eldest brother farms just up the dale and his wife will come and cook for you – if you stay.’