The Rose of York (44 page)

He nudged the mare forward. They rode out of the woods and climbed a hill, but there was no smoke rising above the trees, no sign of a village or an abbey, not even a cottage.

They were lost.

~ * * * ~

“O friend, I seek a harbourage for the night.”

Night fell. Richard and Anne were drenched, cold, hungry, and tired to exhaustion when they came upon the miracle of the cottage. Richard dug his spurs into the mare. For the last hours she had set herself a plodding gait that she refused to quicken, but now she broke into a gallop, as if she herself recognised food and shelter. Richard pounded on the door and was greeted by a hound’s fierce barking. It was cracked open, emitting the smell of boiling cabbage and a welcome blast of smoky warmth from a fire burning in the centre of an earthen floor. Richard’s stomach growled and he was so taken with the thought of food that at first he failed to see the man who stood at the door.

He was about thirty with a tanned, weathered face, and he was clad in a long belted tunic of coarse homespun and leggings, fawn-coloured like his tunic, which were heavily patched. The growling hound he held by the collar was fighting for its freedom and seemed about to get the better of the contest. Richard withdrew a step before its gnashing jaws and instinctively pushed Anne behind him. At that moment a woman appeared at the man’s shoulder, her cheeks apple-red beneath the brown shawl. Her anxious expression vanished as soon as her eyes alighted on them, and she broke into a wide, gap-toothed smile. Pushing her husband out of the way, she thrust the door open wide.

“Coom, children, coom in! Piers won’t hurt ye; in truth he’s gentle as a kitten, aren’t ye, Piers?” She tapped the hound lightly on the head and he lifted an apologetic paw. With a firm hand, the woman drew Richard and Anne out of the rain. The couple introduced themselves as the Brechers. In turn, Richard gave Anne’s name as Joan Peymarsh, who had been his nurse at Fotheringhay, and his own as Richard Peymarsh, her husband.

“O poor child…” the good wife clucked as she removed Anne’s sopping cloak and laid it to dry by the fire. “Cock’s bones, but y’er wet as a drowned kitten, ye are.” She mopped Anne off as best she could with a piece of coarse linen and draped her shoulders with a patched wool blanket. “Now, my sweeting, that’s better, nay? You’ll be hungry, too, I warrant.” She squeezed the towel out over the fire, which sizzled and sputtered a moment. “Here, sit ye down, children,” she commanded, patting a pallet on the beaten earth floor. To her husband, she said, “Get their horse to shelter and give her some oats, and nay be slow about it, Brecher.”

It was a two-room cottage with a timber frame, stone walls, and a thatched roof. A poultry perch was attached to one side of the dwelling, and beyond that lay a horse’s stall, from whence came an occasional braying. For the first time Richard and Anne noticed three sheep and a piglet curled up in a far shadowy corner on a bed of hay, watching them carefully. Richard noted with interest that the family had a trestle table and two coffers. Their possessions and the stone walls meant they were not poor peasants, but of some means. Freeholders, no doubt. A ladder led to the second floor, where two small sons slept, so the good wife informed them. In a bucket tucked in a corner was tossed woman’s work: reeds for plaiting horse collars, a sheep-skin saddle, half stitched, and a few rushes waiting to be peeled for candles.

The door opened, admitting a sharp blast of rain and wind as the yeoman returned from caring for the mare. “Our thanks to you,” murmured Anne gratefully. He nodded, took his place across from them. Sitting by the fire, warm and comfortable, a hot mug of ale in her hands, Anne began to relax. The good wife ladled cabbage soup into wooden bowls and passed it to them with bread. Anne ate slowly, sipping delicately, but Richard tore into his meal and soon accepted the offer of more.

“Lost are ye?” the goodwife said when they had eaten. “Where are ye from? Where are ye going? Mayhap we can help ye find yer way home.”

Anne blushed. Richard replied, “We’re pilgrims from Raby, on our way to Walsingham, and we prepared ill for weather. We’re much indebted to you for your hospitality.”

“Nay, nay,” muttered the good woman. “’Tis naught, and you’ll be welcome to it, such as it is. No doubt ye could use some mutton, to put meat on those little bones of yours, lass, but it’ll be three more days before we’ll be having flesh in this house again.”

“I never touch flesh,” Anne smiled, stroking the hound, who had abandoned his master’s side for her. The hound turned over and offered his belly, which she scratched. Richard tickled his ears.

Suddenly there was a squeal and the piglet bounded over to them from the corner and lodged herself jealously in Anne’s lap. She laughed. The man, who had been watching them as suspiciously as his sheep, softened his gaze and spoke for the first time. “Piers has never taken to strangers before, nor has Bessy. Ye must be good people.” He leaned forward, addressed Richard. “Son, what think you of your new lord? He’s married a Neville from your parts, so you must know more of him than us here. What can we expect?”

To the man’s annoyance, it was his wife who answered. “Gloucester’s a good lad, wants to set things right, so they say.”

“If that be true, he has his work cut out for him,” the man replied testily.

“How so?” inquired Richard.

“God’s blood, fell off the moon, have ye?” the man exclaimed. “Ye’ve but to look around to see the corruption everywhere. All manner of thievery thrives, while honest men starve.”

“We live alone and keep to ourselves, my wife and I,” Richard replied. “We’ve managed to get by without trouble so far.”

Anne almost burst out laughing at the enormity of the lie.

“Then ye be the only ones in Yorkshire. Take me, for example. I’ve had naught but trouble. ’Tis why I’m here, far from kin, and not in the West Country, where I belong.”

“Why is that?” inquired Richard.

The sorry tale lost no time in the telling. The man had been married before, to one of two sisters, and in giving birth to a son, his young wife had died. Her father followed her to the grave soon thereafter, leaving a small inheritance of a farm and some sheep. By law the inheritance should have been split between the two sisters in the absence of a male heir, but law notwithstanding, the other sister’s husband claimed the whole property. Brecher found no redress in court, for the husband had taken care to bribe the jurors.

“But that’s not fair!” exclaimed Richard heatedly. The tale had struck too close to home.

“Son, life’s not fair,” the yeoman replied, regarding him indulgently. “Innocent men are imprisoned or hanged for crimes they didna’ commit. Judges are corrupt and men perjure themselves for gain. Sometimes greed is nay what drives them, but desperation. We live in hard times. If a man owes money, and owns nothing, what is he to do?”

“Why didn’t you seek higher justice?” demanded Richard, not to be put off.

Brecher gave a laugh. “Who from? The Marquess of Dorset?” Richard was silenced. “In truth, I did try,” the man admitted after a pause. “I left my sheep many a time for Dorset’s halls, but they were filled with the likes of me, and he was never there.

“You should have gone to the King.”

“Simple, you are, friend. Don’t ye know it costs money to petition the King? And who am I to get justice when my betters can’t get it for themselves?”

“But king’s justice is for everyone, like God’s justice,” said Richard, not about to give up.

“Bah! Words. God’s justice never made much sense to me, and king’s justice less. The world’s a hard place, son, and there’s no noble who cares more for us than for filling his own purse!”

His wife interrupted, “That’s enough, Brecher. Don’t ye see, he’s just a young un’? No use spoilin’ it for him. If he doesn’t know now, he’ll know soon enough. Forget yer troubles and drink. Things are nay so bad. We still have a roof over our heads and food to offer guests, don’t we?”

Anne stole a long look at Richard over the rim of her mug. Richard’s eyes held a faraway look, but when he caught her stare, he nodded imperceptibly and winked. They would make it up to these good people.

It was time for bed. The yeoman Brecher brought out some hemp-spun sheets, laid out hay, and put a few more twigs on the glowing fire before retiring upstairs to sleep.

Morning broke clear with the song of the birds, and Brecher pointed them the way south, to the river.

~ * * * ~

“Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King— Else wherefore born?”

In the middle of May, soon after Richard and Anne moved to Middleham, the Countess of Warwick arrived to a joyous reunion with her daughter. Richard had spared no expense on the Countess’s apartment. The walls had been hung with damask, the floors tiled and decorated with carpets, and now the chamber afforded more light and a view of the surrounding hills through a lovely mullioned window.

The Countess had aged much, Richard thought as they embraced.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said.

Richard noted her use of formal address. Was she unsure of his affection after all that had happened, or just showing deference to a superior lord? Aye, there was a strange irony in their changed circumstances that was not lost on him. Years ago he had come to Middleham fearful of the powerful Nevilles, bewildered and hurting, having lost a father; much as she came now, having lost a husband. The Wheel of Fortune had spun again.

“I am still Richard, my dear lady, and you are welcome,” he said gently. “It would please me if I can make you as happy here as you once made me.”

The Countess’s eyes grew moist with emotion and she whispered softly, “My dear Lord Richard, your reward must come from God, for only He can grant the bounty that your kindness has surely earned you.”

There followed many a picnic on the riverbanks and happy evenings in the great hall, with readings of poetry by the fireplace as in days gone by. Sometimes Richard would see the Countess glance to where her husband used to sit and dry a tear at the corner of her eye. Then he himself would remember the great Warwick and his valiant brother John, and would whisper a silent prayer for them in his heart.

During these months, Richard spent much of his time on matters concerning the Scots, where he had inherited John’s mantle. Of all his offices, his most demanding was the wardenship of the West Marches. Despite the truce the border was often troubled by hostilities and raids. He worked hard to ensure that the frontier garrisons were properly manned, repaired, and victualled, and he spent much time conducting conferences on breaches of the truce. As steward of the duchy of Lancaster, he held official residence at Pontefract Castle, so he was often gone from Middleham to attend matters there. He missed Anne during these long absences, but he took comfort in performing his duty. A variety of business affairs were also brought to him at his castle of Sherriff Hutton, which lay close both to York and to the principal manors of Henry Percy, the Earl of Northumberland. Mindful of Percy’s absence from Barnet, Edward had given Richard jurisdiction over him. Nevertheless, Richard took great pains not to offend the prickly lord, and consulted him often.

Such were the duties given him by Edward, and though he laboured hard to do his best for his king, it was not where his heart lay. It lay in dispensing justice to the poor. From that ride into the Durham dales was born an idea.

“It isn’t fair, Anne,” he said as they lay in bed together one night. The bed curtains were drawn back and the windows stood open so they could listen to the wind caress the trees, as was their custom.

Anne stirred in his arms. “What, Richard?”

“The Brechers, people like them. Justice should be for all, even the poor… I know we sent them enough gold to buy back the farm they lost in Dorset, but what troubles me is the larger issue—the evil that drove them from their land in the first place. There’s no remedy for the poor when others abuse their authority. I must do what I can to right such wrongs.” He felt her smile in the darkness.

“Like King Arthur, Richard?”

“Like my father, Anne,” he corrected. “I have the power to do here in the North what my father did in Ireland.” He turned on his side and propped his head on an elbow. He gazed at her face, faint in the moonlight. “I want people to live in peace, to enjoy their property, to know that no one—no matter how powerful he be—can rob or hurt them with impunity. I want them to know that if they get no justice in the courts, they can come to me, and I shall hear them, and right their wrongs.”