Red Rose, White Rose

It was not the response he wanted. With a sudden exclamation he stooped, picked up another stone and hurled it violently across the surface of the lake towards the grebes, causing them to break off their dance and dive underwater in panic.

His voice cracked with emotion. ‘No! The old earl was much too shrewd ever to let his heart rule his head. When I was young my father served with him on the Northern March and we lived in his household for several years but when my father decided to follow the fifth King Henry into France they argued violently. The old earl thought Neville duty lay in the north, defending the border, but my father was lured by the prospect of wealth and honours to be won across the Narrow Sea. The rift between them never healed and by that time the sons your father had sired with your mother were growing to manhood. When your oldest brother Richard came of age, the earl made it clear that he wanted him as his heir, but for all his wily diplomatic skills, he could not change the laws of England to achieve that.’

‘You did not like him then?’ For some reason the thought of this distressed me.

‘On the contrary, I loved him. He was always kind to us children, making us laugh and bringing us treats and presents. I was sad when he no longer came to see us but too young to understand why. Now I do, of course. My father had crossed him and the first Earl of Westmorland could never bear to be crossed, especially by his son and heir.’ The knight cleared his throat as if struggling to continue. ‘I was not with my father when he passed away in London but it was officially recorded that he died of the plague. I have never really believed that.’

There was something in the tone of his voice that drew from me an expression of horror. ‘You surely do not believe that my father had anything to do with his death?’

Sir John shrugged. ‘Not personally no, but these things can be arranged at a distance. And you have to admit that it served his purpose well, if he did not wish my father to inherit.’

‘No, no!’ I was incensed. My father had been a good man. I was certain of it. He was a powerful lord and a strong leader who demanded nothing less than complete loyalty from his vassals, but to arrange the death of his own son merely because he had defied him – I simply did not believe he could or would have done such a thing. Apart from any moral issue it would have condemned him to eternal hellfire.

‘You are mad, Sir John! I swear before God that my father would never have killed his own son or even conspired in his death. I demand that you withdraw the accusation in the presence of the Almighty. What good would it have done him anyway, while your father had a son to inherit the earldom?’

Sir John’s lip curled at that. ‘A son who was a cripple and a minor might possess no power against the might of an earl who stood high in the king’s favour. My brother Ralph told me that after my father’s death the old earl sent his lawyers to demand that he give up his right of succession. It was in the face of Ralph’s flat refusal that your father spent the next four years until he died making sure my brother would inherit only a fraction of the Neville wealth. I will swear that is true on any holy relic you choose!’

Before I could prevent him, Sir John reached out and grabbed my hand and his eyes were so full of earnest zeal that I found myself powerless to pull it free. The touch of his fingers sent a shocking thrill up my arm which seemed to travel to my heart, causing it to race uncontrollably. Yet I continued to protest. ‘No, no, no. My mother would never have allowed him to make such a demand of your brother. It is a wicked thing to do.’

Even as I spoke the words, I could hear the weakness in my own argument. I knew nothing of what plans and schemes my parents had made during my father’s dying days. I had never spoken with him about the other half of his family. All his children by his first wife were strangers to me, as were their children. Apart from the man who now held my hand and his brothers, I hardly knew which of them still lived.

Sir John pursed his lips wryly and nodded. ‘You are right, it is wicked. But you are not as familiar as I am with the wicked ways of the world. Even as we fight our family wars here in the north, in the south there are forces gathering around the young king of which he is also unaware. You and he are both too young yet to know how power corrupts people and causes them to act against God’s commands and the laws of the land. But you must trust me, Cicely, because I do know and I can help you to understand. Justice is a fragile flower but if we treat each other fairly and deal reasonably together then justice can still be done.’

I tried to pull my hand away because the contact between us was confusing me. The messages passing up my arm were in conflict with the thoughts tumbling in my head. The first made me eager to believe the words of the man before me, while the second told me he was spinning a tale. Then his other hand rose to touch my cheek and my mind seemed to swim into a warm blue cloud and become lost to my rational self. I closed my eyes and let my starved senses relish the caress, then I felt his mouth close gently on mine and for what seemed like minutes I reveled in the first rush of fevered blood my body had experienced. The warmth of the spring sunshine was as nothing compared with the heat generated by the pressure of his lips on mine and the surge of pleasure it released. My bones seemed to turn liquid and I felt as if only our joined hands and lips were holding me upright. No carefully taught rules or commandments remained to order my feelings or actions. I did not care if I was on the steps to heaven or the road to hell; whether it was the devil or my own intoxicating desires that were drawing me along this unmapped path.

7

Aycliffe Tower

Cicely

After what seemed an eternity while all my senses swirled in glorious commotion, my eyes flew open and reality flooded back, bringing confusion. Guilt, shame and elation fought for supremacy in my bewitched mind and the sunlight flashing off the lake dazzled me as I jerked away from him, blinking and gasping.

I pressed my fists together against my chest so that my nails dug into my palms and the pain of it mustered my scattered senses. I gazed at him, lips parted and eyes full of questions.

‘You are beautiful, Cicely,’ Sir John said quietly.

‘No!’ I tossed my head, as if to shake his words away. ‘Do not say that. You do not have the right.’

His laugh was harsh with irony but his expression was tender. ‘Hah! What has right to do with beauty? I find you beautiful. What is there to fear from that?’

‘I fear where it may lead.’

‘Now there you are right. Where do you think it may lead?’

My cheeks burned and I turned my face away. I wanted to tell him that I, too, found him beautiful but the words froze on my tongue.

Instead I said, ‘I do not know. That is why I fear it.’

He was not so tongue-tied. ‘You felt the connection between us, though? I have never experienced such pleasure from another’s touch. Tell me you felt it too, Cicely. I cannot believe you did not.’

My gaze was drawn back to his as if by some external force. His cheeks were flushed, as I knew mine were, and they blazed even hotter when he sank down onto one knee before me, his eyes locked with mine, fiercely questioning. I nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I felt it,’ I said. ‘It burned like a brand. What does it mean? Why do you kneel?’

‘Because it means you are my lady.’ He reached for my hand and again I felt a jolt of recognition, as if our fingers ignited as they met. ‘You are my lady and I am your true and faithful knight.’ His words were solemn and fervent but after he pressed his forehead to the soft flesh above my knuckles, he raised his head to favour me with a sudden brilliant smile, which transformed his Nordic features with a curious blend of joy and mischief.

‘Now, if I were a grebe I would bring you gifts of weed dripping with diamond drops. And I would build you a nest of rushes threaded with buttercups and yellow irises and you would float on lavender-scented waters and rule your besotted subjects with a green willow wand.’ Ignoring my startled expression he rose and threaded my arm through his bent elbow to draw me to the water’s edge. ‘You would be queen of the lake. No predator would trouble you for I would slay them all and spike their heads on bulrushes so that the world would know that I am your consort and we two belong together forever in our peaceful, fragrant haven.’

I found myself laughing at this preposterous fantasy, delighted by its glorious sensuousness. ‘And what would I do all day, lying among the buttercups and irises?’ I wondered, tilting my head in enquiry and catching his eye.

The antipathy which had flared between us had evaporated as though it had never been and I felt reckless and light-hearted. Aycliffe Tower had suddenly become a wonderland rather than a place of conflict and confinement. Perhaps I was also light-headed from lack of sleep but I did not pause to consider this.

Sir John swept his free arm in a wide arc to indicate the pastoral scene. ‘What do nymphs and naiads do in their watery idylls? Bathe in fresh springs and gossip in dappled shade.’

‘Have you been reading a little too much poetry, Sir John?’ I enquired with exaggerated concern. ‘I would hardly call the breeze balmy and those fresh springs are probably freezing.’

He tossed back his heavy fringe of flaxen hair. ‘That is no problem. To please his honoured lady a gallant knight would cause the breeze to blow warm and the springs to bubble hot from the earth.’

I pulled my hand from the crook of his arm and bent to dip it in the lake, splashing water up into his face. ‘Brr! I do not think your spell worked.’

He raised one eyebrow sceptically and smiled as he brushed the drops from his cheek. ‘We shall see. I think you may find it did.’

His air of smug male confidence suddenly annoyed me. I avoided his gaze and pretended to shiver. ‘I am cold. I think I will go to the church. If I cannot hear Mass at least I can pray.’

‘The priest is not of the kind you are used to,’ Sir John said. ‘He is only half literate and almost certainly not celibate. But the church will be peaceful. There will be a hot meal at dusk. I hope you will join us.’

I was already walking away and he raised his voice so that his invitation would reach me but I made no reply one way or the other. Instead I voiced what was suddenly uppermost in my mind again, my tone intentionally barbed. ‘Perhaps you will have heard from Raby by then. I presume you have been in contact.’

My back was turned but I could feel Sir John’s puzzlement at my abrupt change of mood. ‘Any message will reach me here,’ he said. ‘But I get no sense of urgency from that quarter.’

His words echoed in my head … No sense of urgency from that quarter … and they troubled me greatly. Kneeling before the simple wooden cross above the altar of the little whitewashed church, I could not pray for delivery from my abductor because he had suddenly assumed the guise of my admirer. With only a slight sense of impiety, I found myself praying that there might be a way I could achieve my own freedom – since my family was making no great effort to free me – while also pursuing the emotional fulfilment of which I had so recently and enticingly had a taste.

I returned, disconsolate, to the tower, but my mood would not last. Either on her own initiative or on instructions from Sir John, the stolid Marion had packed a change of clothes for me in the sumpter’s panniers, and my spirits rose as I discarded the mud-and-muck-stained garb I had been obliged to wear since leaving Raby. I presumed the fresh white linen kirtle and fur-trimmed green worsted gown I put on had been purloined from the Countess of Westmorland’s wardrobe, but I did not quibble about their ownership. Marion further surprised me by showing a certain skill with comb and brush and managing to braid and style my hair into something more graceful than the wild curls I had hitherto been obliged to control under my battered riding hat. I had no mirror in which to check my appearance but the expressions on the faces of my male companions when I joined them for the evening meal were sufficient to tell me that there had been a substantial improvement.

Despite the restrictions of Lent, a simple but tasty meal had been prepared for us consisting of grilled perch and trout, accompanied by boiled crayfish and a mess of creamed leeks and onions. I ate hungrily for the first time since my abduction and noticed that the men did too and soon the level of tension had dropped as the food restored the equilibrium in each of us. Afterwards there was soft cheese and freshly griddled oatcakes which, preferring wafers, I had always considered peasant fodder, but which smelled so delicious that I could not resist trying one.

‘I will never spurn an oatcake again,’ I confessed as I reached for a second. ‘Who has prepared this meal for us?’

Sir John cleared his throat and looked a little embarrassed. ‘The fish and vegetables were cooked by the priest’s, er, shall we say housekeeper? And the cakes come courtesy of our own expert campfire cook, Tam Clifford, Esquire.’

I looked across the table at Tam, gratified to see that the warm smile I gave him brought a blush to his cheeks. ‘A man of many talents then,’ I remarked. ‘Groom, hat-finder and now oatcake-baker. Thank you, Tam.’

‘He is also no mean swordsman,’ put in Thomas, clapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘Though no match for me, of course!’

‘Ha! We will see about that at the next arms practice,’ declared Tam. ‘Meanwhile, I will challenge you at chess after dinner.’

‘Done,’ agreed Thomas. ‘I will have you checked in three moves.’

‘Braggart!’ The young Clifford was indignant. ‘You have never beaten me yet.’

Sir John broke into their banter. ‘You can take the chessboard upstairs. Lady Cicely and I have business to discuss. And pour us more wine before you go.’

I frowned as Thomas refilled my cup but did not refuse. We were drinking a sweetish white wine which was stronger than I was used to and it had already made my head spin a little. I wondered what ‘business’ Sir John thought he had with me.

Soon we were alone and Sir John suggested we move across to a wooden settle that had been furnished with several threadbare but still serviceable cushions and set at an angle to the hearth where a fire was now glowing.

‘I fear it may be too hot, Sir John,’ I said, but I rose nevertheless.

‘If so we can move the seat, but I have not noticed you shying from the heat, Lady Cicely.’ I presumed his lop-sided smile indicated an intended double meaning, but I made no response.

Nevertheless I could feel my heart begin to beat faster as I took the proffered place on the settle and he sat down at the other end. Only a short distance lay between us. My hands were shaking as I took a sip from my cup, and I did not doubt that he could see this also. ‘Have you news from Raby, Sir John?’ I asked, unable to prevent myself spilling some wine as I placed my cup on a small table beside the settle. ‘I presume that is the business you wish to discuss with me.’

He gulped down the entire contents of his own cup and leaned down to dump it on the floor where it rolled drunkenly away. His face was suddenly anguished and the distance between us vanished as he took both my hands in his. ‘I have no news from Raby, Cicely, and of course that is not what I wish to discuss with you!’

All at once his lips were on my hands, he was kissing my fingers, turning them over to drop feathery kisses into my palms and onto my wrists. I felt the hairs lift on my arms and my belly clenching inside as his mouth began exploring the hollows of my throat and caressing the smoothness beneath my chin, then in between kisses he began murmuring softly, whispering words I had yearned for in my girlish dreams but never expected to hear in reality. ‘Ah, Cicely, you are even more beautiful than I first thought. Your throat is like silk, your cheeks are like velvet, your eyes are the colour of the Virgin’s robe and your lips are glowing coals that burn and burn and burn …’

As he mentioned each of these features he planted kisses on them, ending with another lingering, probing, searching of my lips, which mine instinctively opened to receive. The clenching sensation in my belly grew wilder and more demanding and without heed for my position on the settle, I arched my body into his in order to feel the beat of his heart and the response of his need to mine and then, as we clung feverishly to each other, the inevitable happened. The cushions slipped and pitched us both onto the floor. I found myself lying beneath him, slightly winded and breathless and he was staring down at me with a bemused expression, as if he could not quite understand what had happened. Then we both began to laugh.

However, with his body pressing down on me I could not breathe and had to push him off in order to give way to my mirth. When I could speak I spluttered, ‘Do you woo all your ladies by throwing them on the floor?’ By now I was sitting up and hugging my knees, feeling tears beginning to run down my cheeks. It had been funny but at this point I was not sure if they were tears of mirth or nervousness. I brushed them away. I had decided on my course of action and I was not going to change my mind now.

‘I would ask the same of you,’ he said with a grin, ‘except that it would not be chivalrous to assume that you had experience in these matters.’

‘Well now I have – and in future I’ll avoid polished settles with cushions on.’

Rising to his feet, he then bent to help me up.

‘Have you tried your myrtle-leaf bed yet?’ he asked.

I gave him a surprised look. ‘No I have not. Have you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘I am told they are fragrant.’

‘Who told you that?’

I picked up my cup and took a long draught of wine, gazing at him over the rim. ‘You did,’ I said. ‘Would you like to find out for yourself?’

John took the cup from my hand and put it back on the table. ‘Oh yes I would, very much.’ This time I took courage from the fact that his kiss was one of eager reassurance and encouragement.

‘What if Marion comes back?’ I murmured, my lips against his.

He opened the purse he wore on his belt and took out a key. I recognized it as the one he had removed from the door of my chamber earlier.

When the key turned, unlike the previous night, loneliness was not in my mind – and neither was regret. I was not afraid. I had chosen this course of action, fate had shown me what overwhelming feelings passion could release and it was somehow not in my nature to deny them. I had no thought for yesterday or tomorrow, only for the moment and what that moment might achieve. I was young and my senses were whirling almost out of control, except that, behind the powerful mutual attraction that had drawn me to the beautiful John and the joy I ardently desired to find in his arms, there was also a deep determination not to be used, either by him or by my own family. There was no doubt that my actions that night served my own needs as much as his but I was not to know that he would read them very differently. He was older and more idealistic and his feelings ran truer and deeper. I could not have asked for a more gentle and ardent lover to show me the delights of mutual passion. How could he have known that when he offered his love so sweetly, he chose the wrong woman?

Myrtle did indeed make a wild and fragrant bed. After we had spent our passion John slept deeply and soundlessly but I lay awake, my mind in turmoil. I had barely noticed the pain of defloration and had subsequently wondered, after the thrilling throes of climax, what there was about it that the Church revered so highly and the virgin martyrs died for. My body ached from the unaccustomed activity of love-making but I nevertheless yearned to stay beside my lover, to feel again the pleasure of his caresses and the joy and fulfilment of union.

Nevertheless I forced myself to rise, softly and soundlessly, from the bed and reach for the dirty shift and kirtle that I had discarded before supper. The borrowed gown from which John had hurriedly unlaced me lay on the floor among the jumble of his doublet and hose and I almost stumbled over them as I searched for my riding boots. Carrying them I turned the key cautiously in the lock, holding my breath as it scrunched over the cogs and wheels, but I heard no stirring from the bed. As I had hoped, the outer chamber was empty and the door to the stairway open. I paused at the foot of the stair to slide my feet into my boots and thread the laces. I could hear rats scuttling about in the straw and I could not face crossing the byre barefoot. The horses snuffled and shifted on their feet, dozing like the guard propped up on a sheaf of straw against the wall. Everything now depended on what I found when I opened the heavy oaken gates; if the yett had been lowered, escape from the tower would be impossible.

8

To Aycliffe Tower

Cuthbert

In the trees behind Brancepeth church the ground dropped away into the same deep, narrow dene on which the castle stood. Feeling my way in the dappled moonlight, I led my horse to the edge where I found a useful thicket of bushes to tie him to while I ventured hand over foot down the steep side, clinging to roots and saplings. Within minutes I reached secure footing on a sloping gravel path dug into the dene wall. I climbed, guessing it would lead to the sally gate of the castle mentioned by my drinking companion. Where the ground levelled out, sure enough, I caught sight of the moon’s glare reflected off a high expanse of the castle curtain, and at its base, flush with the stone wall, a small archway, defended by an overhead turret and sealed by a studded wooden door, just large enough to allow a mounted man to pass through.

Keeping within the shadow of the bushes, I turned and retraced my steps, for the path ended at the castle. The archway had been newly built, the door thick. Following the beck downstream towards the River Wear, I deduced that it would provide a discreet and direct route to the Bishop of Durham’s hunting lodge at Auckland, on the edge of Spennymoor: this had lately been developed into a military fortification, with a large bailey to accommodate troops mustering for the defence of the Scottish marches. The bishop had appointed Sir John Neville as its constable, but I asked myself if Sir John would have taken Cicely to such a busy place.

As a young squire in my father’s retinue, on the last of his annual tours of his northern manors, I remember hearing of a particularly poor and remote peel tower a few miles south of Auckland which struggled to wrest five pounds in annual revenue from woefully undernourished villeins. I wracked my brains for the name of the manor. The only thing I could remember of any relevance was that when the old earl’s will was revealed, Hal Neville had remarked that ‘the peel in the bog’ was one manor he was more than happy for the new earl to keep. Instinct told me that this might be where Cicely had been taken and, after all, it was my instincts that Lady Joan had encouraged me to employ in her daughter’s aid.

I collected my horse and followed the beck as far as the River Wear while the moon rose high in the sky, its bright light flooding over uneven moorland covered with large areas of gorse and dead bracken. Fast-moving shadows cast by scudding clouds did not hamper my progress south. I carefully avoided the small hamlets and fortified farms on the route, because on such moonlit nights lookouts would be posted for reivers, and I did not want to be sighted and apprehended as one of their ilk. But most of the country between Brancepeth and Richmond, thirty miles to the south, was Neville territory, and familiar to me; its manors were now distributed piecemeal between the two branches of the family. Lady Joan had, on occasion, detailed me to represent her in settling the feuds and disputes between tenants arising from this complicated division of property. So although I could not remember the name of the peel in the bog, I did have a rough idea of where it was located.