Stolen Heiress. Joanna Makepeace
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here. Fortunately Margaret has established Court at Coventry so your journey there in this inclement weather will not be too difficult. I can escort you part of the way south when I leave tomorrow.’
‘You expect me to leave tomorrow?’ Clare rose in her chair in alarm. ‘But, Uncle, I am all unprepared and there are still arrangements to be made concerning Peter’s tomb and…’
He waved a hand, dismissing her argument. ‘All that can wait. Times are out of joint, Clare. We must take decisions hurriedly and act on them. You can take that girl Bridget and necessities can be packed tonight. Later, your clothing chests can be sent on to you. At present you will require only your mourning gowns.’
‘But don’t you see, Uncle, that my very state of mourning makes this journey and the possibilities you speak of quite out of the question? I should remain here quietly until I feel more settled and…’
He came towards her and she saw his mouth harden into an obstinate line. ‘I have already explained, Clare, that we must act quickly. In better times there would have been a need for longer reflection but these are not better times. Once my business in London is completed I shall return to my own household to see to their de-fences. You must do what I say. I’ll not accept any argument. Now go up, there’s a good wench, and see to your packing. You’ve always had practical common sense and I know I can rely on you to see the need for haste.’
She turned back to the fire, avoiding his dominating stare. She wanted to protest vehemently. She was bemused, shocked, as she had pleaded, she felt the need for a period of quiet contemplation here, but her change of circumstance had come so suddenly and at such a difficult time that she had to admit that what he was saying made sense.
She sighed, and rose reluctantly. Would Queen Margaret prove as unpleasant and demanding a guardian as Peter had often proved himself? Fervently she prayed that this would not prove the case.
Bridget chattered excitedly all through their hurried preparations. She had heard the rumour that her mistress was to be presented at Court and her head was quite turned by the prospect of the grandeur this evoked. Clare, who would much rather the girl had not been informed about the purpose of the journey, or, at least, not yet, was irritated beyond reason. Several times she was tempted to slap the girl, who would not concentrate on the task in hand and, repeatedly, tried to press Clare to take some more colourful gowns.
‘Bridget,’ she snapped finally. ‘Will you be silent! You are making my head ache. Of course we cannot appear in such gawdy clothing, when Sir Peter has only just, yesterday, been placed in his tomb. Now hurry up. Pack exactly what I say and nothing else. See you have everything you will need for a protracted stay, for we cannot return for anything once we begin the journey.’
She would have much rather relied on the services of one of the more sensible elder women, but they were all married and she could not insist that they leave husbands and family to follow her so many miles from their homes.
Once the novelty of the idea wore off and Bridget discovered that living at Court was most likely much more uncomfortable and cramped than living at Hoyland, she would probably calm down. There was no help for it. Bridget was the only serving-maid who could be spared and Clare would have to try to lick her into shape. At least she was a reasonable needlewoman, which ran in her favour.
She dismissed Bridget at last and sat down for a welcome moment of peace. Since Christmas there had been nothing but alarums in this house and very soon she would be leaving it. She had never been farther afield than Leicester Town and those visits had been rare.
She loved the old manor house and wondered, sadly, how long it would be before she would be able to return to it. Possibly, never. Only too well she knew it likely that the Queen would choose for her some Court official who would most likely not wish to live in the wilds of Leicestershire.
She peered at her features in her mirror. Fortunately it was portable. She would need it at Court. Her reflection swam mistily back at her. Her mourning gown certainly did not enhance her appearance, for black did nothing for her rather olive-tinted complexion or bring out the luminosity of her grey eyes. Sorrow had etched lines of tension round her nose and mouth and there were purple shadows round her eyes.
She looked much older than her eighteen years, she decided. She made a wry gesture of distaste. It was not a comforting thought that now she would be sought in marriage for the value of her lands and dower chests—and yet—it could not be denied that the prospect of marriage and children, a household of her own, was preferable to the dull fate she had seen in store for her only days ago.
She had no wish to be embroiled in Court intrigue. She had taxed Robert Devane with disloyalty to his sovereign in his championship of the late Duke of York and his son, the Earl of March, who must now, she thought, be accepted as the new Duke now that his father was dead following the battle of Sandal. Robert had assured her that his loyalty was to his own master, the Earl of Warwick, and he had made a convincing enough case for the succession of the Duke of York to the throne.
Even her own father, a firm supporter of the House of Lancaster, had been driven to exclaim at the inept rule of the kind but erratic King Henry.
Bouts of withdrawal from reality bordering on madness had made him more than once unfit to reign and Clare knew that her uncle’s strategy in placing her in the control of his consort, the warlike Queen Margaret, was the correct one.
Henry could not be relied upon to protect Clare’s interests as the Queen would do. Margaret would recognise the advantages to be gained by such a guardianship. Clare bit her lip thoughtfully. She also knew Margaret was arrogant and merciless. The cruel treatment meted out to the survivors of Sandal had revealed the ruthless streak in her nature. Warwick’s father, Salisbury, had been executed after the battle.
Once Clare’s father’s natural caution in gossiping about the nobility had lapsed and he had let it slip that many folk at Court believed Margaret’s son, young Edward, was not indeed the true son of the King. Since Henry was known to be unworldly and, in true saintlike fashion, frequently absented himself from his wife’s bed, it was likely enough that such scurrilous gossip would readily be accepted. Clare could not imagine herself enjoying her stay at the Lancastrian Court.
She slept uneasily, her thoughts strangely haunted by the face of Robert Devane and pictures of the ruined house and the bodies of the two slain men. She had seen to it that her uncle had kept his word. Sir Humphrey and his elder son, Walter, had been reverently interred with the village churchyard. The surviving prisoners whom Sir Gilbert had brought to Hoyland had been released and allowed to disperse. Only a skeleton household remained now at the Devane manor and it would be left to the King to decide whether the property should now be sequestered.
The morning dawned fair but still very cold and frosty. Clare breakfasted early within her own chamber and then stood, warmly cloaked and hooded, by her uncle’s side at the top of the house steps, watching the sumpter mules being loaded. Later, mounted upon her palfrey, she turned once to gaze back at the house as, with her escort of Hoyland men, she rode out under the gatehouse.
Sir Gilbert seemed wrapped in his own thoughts as he rode beside her and was uncommunicative. Clare wondered if he had received bad news from the London courier but she did not press him for information about that or for details of the Queen’s coterie. She considered, wryly, that she did not really want to know. When she arrived and was established at Coventry would be quite soon enough.
Bridget rode pillion behind one of Sir Gilbert’s men and, even from her place at the rear of the cavalcade, Clare could hear her chattering away excitedly.
At Lutterworth, Sir Gilbert took his leave of his niece, taking the old Roman Watling Street south to London, while Clare’s now smaller escort of six men-at-arms was to proceed on towards the village of Brinklow and finally Coventry. Sir Gilbert embraced her warmly on parting, but Clare could see his thoughts were still elsewhere. He assured her she had only to send a message to his manor if she had need of his help or advice. Then without further delay, he rode off with the rest of his men.
Clare felt bereft as she hesitatingly gave her hastily promoted sergeant the order to set off again.