Stolen Heiress

Clare moved back, a trifle repelled by the note of vengeful spite she heard in her uncle’s tone. She felt slightly sick. She was being requested to see to the tending of this man so that he might recover, only to end his life ignominiously kicking upon the gallows. Nevertheless, it was incumbent upon her to see that their prisoner did not suffer unduly while he remained in their charge.

‘Where is he?’ she asked curtly. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Locked in the barn. I’ll get my sergeant to show you and remain close to see you protected from insult.’ He laughed harshly. ‘He cannot harm you, he’s too closely watched.’

Clare swallowed. She did not relish her task and her senses were still shocked by Peter’s death. She called to her elderly maid. Bridget would be of no use whatever, half-frightened out of her wits by the sight of the Devane prisoners.

Sir Gilbert’s sergeant accompanied her to the guarded barn. They had no dungeons at Hoyland. Indeed, the manor was not crenellated, had never received a license from the King. For almost two centuries, the snug, well-built house of warm yellowed brick had lain protected within the small vale carved out from a stream, a tributary of the River Nene.

The Hoylands had been granted the land by the Conqueror and the house had replaced a wooden one and been gradually added to over the years. Even the violent tumultous times following the death of King Henry I had not touched the peace of this land lying upon the boundary of Leicester and Northampton shires, until the bitter spirit of envious greed for power and fortune had come with this recent struggle for the Crown.

Clare’s father’s prisoners, more usually men who had poached unlawfully or been guilty of some wanton, drunken behaviour which had offended their neighbours, had been confined briefly within barn or byre to be judged at the manor court. Now, their more noble prisoner had been kept here to await his fate from a more vengeful soul than her father or even Peter would ever have proved.

Even here, at this secluded manor, Clare had heard of the awe and dread in which the Angevin Queen was held, even by her own followers. Henry might be merciful but Margaret held sway in the Lancastrian Court and if this son of the Devanes was held to be guilty of piracy upon the high seas then he would, undoubtedly, receive short shrift and hang.

Two stalwart men-at-arms guarded the barn door. Sir Gilbert’s sergeant barked out a quick command and one unlatched it and the two stood back to allow Clare to enter with her escort. The place was gloomy, for the wintry sun, already leaving the darkened sky, had not reached into the interior so Clare advanced cautiously, unable, at first, to see where the prisoner was.

‘I shall need some light,’ she told the sergeant. ‘Can one of your men fetch me a brand?’

Again an order was barked out and the taller of the two men set out in search of a lighted pitch brand which could be fixed into a sconce on the barn wall.

There was a slight stir and movement of soft hay still strewing the floor, then Clare saw the vague outline of a man rise from a seated position near the wall and push himself upright to face his visitors.

A pleasant, slightly husky voice said, ‘Ah, some show of hospitality, at last. I hope Sir Gilbert hasn’t the intention of starving his guests. It must be well nigh suppertime.’

The sergeant snapped, ‘You, be silent. You’ll get fed when and if we feel inclined to do so and certainly not if you’re insolent with the mistress of the house who has come to tend your wound.’

‘Indeed?’ The pleasant voice sounded vaguely curious and Clare thought the man inclined his head towards them as if to view her. Neither could see the other at this stage until the man-at-arms came running and thrust the lighted brand into the hands of his sergeant who turned to fix it into the iron sconce behind him.

Immediately the dim place flared with golden light and Clare saw that her patient was, as she had suspected, the tall red-headed man she had seen limp in earlier behind her brother’s bier. He was leaning for support against the wall and, seeing her clearly now for the first time, he gave her a mocking bow. The action cost him dear, for he winced sharply and almost fell forward, losing, momentarily, the support of the roughened stone of the wall behind him.

Clare thought either the wound was more serious than she had first thought and he had lost a great deal of blood, or he had stiffened during his awkward, half-crouched stay on the floor. It was icy cold in the barn and she shivered and pulled her cloak closer around her. Afterwards, she could not have said whether the movement was actually because she was cold or because she had no wish for this man to see her body more clearly.

She stepped nearer and saw the brand light up his face, haloed with flickering gold flares, and touch shimmering sparks from his flaming red hair. She had been unable to guess at the cast of his features when she had seen him first in the courtyard, only that he was tall and seemingly red-headed, now she saw he was incredibly handsome, in a bold, inviting way.

He was laughing, his long lips curling back from white, even teeth, despite the pain he must be feeling, and she felt sudden irritation for the manner of raillery in which he greeted her.

‘An angel of mercy. By the sweet Virgin, you are welcome, mistress.’

‘You had better sit down on the ground again and let me examine your leg,’ she said curtly. ‘By the look of you, you’ll collapse very soon if you don’t.’

The older serving-wench who had come up behind them with her basin and ewer of water came into the barn now to join her mistress, impatiently pushing aside the importunate movements of the second, smaller man-at-arms who had jostled her good-humouredly and much too familiarly for her liking.

‘You,’ she said, icily, ‘can make yourself useful, which I think is rare. Idle fellows, all of you, unless you be killing and looting and bothering females who want no truck with you. We’ll want a shirt to tear for bandaging, a clean one, mind. Get on with you. My Mistress’ll not want to be here all night.’

The sergeant nodded his approval of the errand and the man, still grinning, despite the tongue lashing, sidled off to find what was wanted.

Clare had knelt beside the injured man and bent to look more closely at the blood-soaked hose. He lowered his head to follow her gaze and his hand brushed against hers as she touched experimentally the stiffening wool. She snatched her hand away almost instantly and his merry laugh rang out again.

‘Faith, mistress, you’ve not hurt me yet. I can stand the touch of such fair hands.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘I am in no mood for mockery, sir,’ she reproved him. ‘My brother lies dead in the great hall.’

‘And mine and my father in the ruins of ours,’ he responded quietly, and there was no glimmer of humour now in the grave tones.

She looked up at him sharply and his mouth tightened, the laughter lines quirking his lips, fading. She saw now that he was not, indeed, as classically handsome as she had first thought. The attractiveness of the countenance lay rather in the openness and pleasant joviality of demeanour.

His mouth was long and generous, though now held tightly as he considered the ruin of family and home. A very slight scar at one corner marred the beauty of form, though Clare thought, when he smiled, as she guessed he did often, that that slight deformity would quirk up those mobile lips becomingly.

His eyes glittered in the uncertain glow of the brand and were startlingly blue, flecked with greenish lights. Clare possessed a lump of turquoise her father had bought for her once at Leicester Fair, which he had had enclosed in gold for her and which now hung from the end of a favourite girdle. The colour of those eyes of his were like the changing hue of the stone, now glinting steely and hard, narrowed in considered grief for those he had lost.

His nose was dominating and the small bump on the bridge which spoilt its line spoke of some blow he had possibly received from an opponent in a bout of fisticuffs. He was square jawed, the chin deep split in a dimpled cleft. Yes, Clare thought, women would find this man overwhelmingly attractive and men, too, would admire the manly clean lines of that face and the rangy, hard-muscled strength of that tall form.

‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ she said softly, and instantly he smiled again, though she thought it more wintry this time, less winning.

He gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Men have often said war is hell,’ he said briefly, ‘though I would not describe this attack as war, merely an unprovoked raid which had unfortunate consequences for all concerned.’

She realised he was totally unarmed, dressed in a shirt of homespun linsey woolsey and a leathern jerkin over grey woollen hose. Clearly the Devane household had not expected an attack and had been seated comfortably by their own hearths when the alarm had been sounded by their watchman on the gatehouse. Probably this man, Robert Devane, had only recently returned from a ride or inspection of the manor land, for he was wearing riding boots. Her own brother and uncle had been well armoured and prepared, in breastplates and gorgets over padded gambesons.

She gave the faintest of sighs and felt Sir Gilbert’s sergeant move restlessly behind her. The man was clearly impatient for her to complete her task so that he might lock up his valuable prisoner for the night, confident of his safe keeping until the morning. Sir Gilbert, she knew, was not the man to overlook any negligence in his subordinates. The man her maid had despatched had come back now with a patched but clean shirt of homespun and the woman hastily snatched it from his grasp.

Clare turned to the sergeant behind her. ‘We shall be quite safe with this man, since I know you will keep a close guard outside. I shall need more room for my work. Leave us, please.’

The man was obviously unwilling. He pursed his lips uncertainly, having received careful instructions from Sir Gilbert to keep a careful watch on his niece but her hard stare was insistent that he obey her and she could come to no harm surely with his men so near, ready to be summoned instantly, should she have need of them. He grimaced in disapproval but made her a respectful nod and withdrew.

The turquoise eyes of the prisoner danced in amusement. ‘You appear to have a way with underlings, mistress. Did you, perhaps, wish to be alone with me?’

She darted him a glance of withering scorn. ‘I cannot imagine, sir, why you should think I might have such a purpose. I never enjoy the company of piratical scum, for such I hear you are. As I explained to my sergeant, I need room for my task. Now, let us get on with it without delay.’

He had slid back into a sitting position against the wall now and was regarding her coolly.

‘So you have received instructions to patch me up fairly, so Sir Gilbert can hang me tomorrow in full view of his men, without fear of being accused of having his men forced to half carry me to the gallows.’

She said evenly, ‘I understand you are to be conveyed to Coventry when you are fit to travel, sir. There will be no unlawful trial here. The King himself will decide your fate after a fair hearing.’

‘And that she-wolf Margaret will determine the way of it.’ His blue eyes had narrowed again. She noted he had long curling lashes tipped with gold like a maid’s.

With the maid’s help she withdrew his left riding boot.

She was bending close now over the injured limb, seated upon the ground before him, her box of unguents and medical requirements opened before her, and her maid was pouring water into the basin.

Clare took the small pair of scissors that hung at her belt and were used normally for her embroidery, to cut open the bloodstained wool of his hose and reveal the gaping wound, long and deep, clearly made by a sword thrust. It ran from the knee slantwise almost to the ankle and she made a little moue of concern at the sight of it.

‘I’m afraid this will hurt, but I think it should be stitched.’

Again he gave that half-rueful shrug which she took to be permission to proceed and she motioned her servant forward. He made no sound while she washed and cleansed the wound, nor did he comment when she took her sharpest and finest steel needle and finest linen thread and made ready to draw the puckered edges together. First she had cleansed the wound thoroughly with a herbal infusion and rubbed in tansy ointment.

His lips tightened as he leaned back against the wall and she glanced mutely up at him to signal that she intended to begin the painful process of stitching the wound. He nodded, his lips parting in a faint smile, but she read apprehension in his eyes. She had watched her mother perform this service several times and had heard the cries and seen the struggles of men held down by companions who had needed such treatment.

She wondered briefly if she could call the sergeant from outside to steady her patient but she caught his expression and the almost imperceptible nod of his chin and she bent to her task. He made little fuss, with only one or two faint catches of breath, but she knew she had pained him. When it was over and she had padded the wound and bound the improvised bandage into place, she saw him lean back again, his body sagging a little as relief had its way.

‘Dorcas, go to the buttery and fetch me some brandy wine and also a bottle of burgundy. This man has lost a deal of blood and needs to make it up. Keep the bottles beneath your cloak. I do not wish the men outside to see what you bring.’

Dorcas nodded and bustled out with the basin and jug of now-bloodied water.

Blue-green eyes regarded Clare steadily. ‘I see you intend to ensure that I am fit to travel tomorrow,’ he said mockingly.

‘You will not want to faint in the saddle, I’m sure, sir,’ she retorted.

‘But you are cossetting me. I hardly think your uncle would approve of your providing me with good wine. Bread and water is all I’m like to receive from the guards out there. Is it that you think I should enjoy some last comforts before I die?’

‘I think,’ she said quietly, ‘that you should consider seriously your crimes and what has brought us all to this, especially your dead kin and mine.’

The green-blue eyes flashed dangerously. ‘You think I do not grieve because I do not weep?’ he demanded harshly. ‘As for the cause of all this, don’t you think the price was over-high for the value of one small sucking pig?’

She sucked in breath. He had put into words too closely her own view of the matter and she could find no words with which to answer him. Then she recovered somewhat and said stiffly, ‘My uncle says you are indeed guilty of piracy. Is that true? Did you prey upon shipping and harm women and innocent travellers?’

Amusement lit up his features again and she knew instinctively that he used this show of raillery to hide the true depths of his grief. ‘Women rarely complain of my treatment of them.’

She coloured hotly. He had a way of making her acutely embarrassed yet he was her prisoner.

‘Nevertheless…’

‘Nevertheless, this quarrel between princes is no fault of mine. I serve my master, my lord Earl of Warwick, as your father and brother—and your uncle—served the King. The Yorkist lords were forced to flee to Calais after treachery brought down the castle at Ludlow. Calais is in the control of my lord Earl but hunger and shortage of supplies could well have forced him out. We attacked Lancastrian shipping merely to survive.’

‘I doubt if the King will see it that way,’ she said drily and he lifted his shoulders and let them fall again as if in acceptance of the inevitable.

She said uncomfortably, ‘This struggle for power between the royal houses gives us all cause for grief.’

‘And makes many rich and yet more powerful.’

‘Is that what you wanted, riches, land?’

His eyes opened very wide. ‘I am—was—’ he corrected himself ‘—a younger son. I needed to make my own way. That was not a problem for your brother, as the only son.’

Her lips trembled. ‘He has naught now but a final resting place, as have your kin—and is it worth it all?’ The last few words were bitterly spoken.

He sighed. ‘It seems I shall have little time to repine. Naturally I would have liked to win my spurs but, as you say, in the end it matters little.’

‘But why should you support York? The King is God’s anointed.’

His expression became serious. ‘The Duke of York has, surely, the better claim. Remember the House of Lancaster acquired the throne by the usurpation of King Harry IV and the murder of the anointed King, Richard II. The Duke of York’s grandmother, Anne, was daughter of an older son than Henry of Lancaster, old Gaunt, Lionel of Clarence.’

He held up a hand to check her outburst. ‘I know that is all long past, and York would have accepted that, I believe, had he been treated fairly. He was not supported in the French Wars. The Queen has ever gainsaid him in council and the King, God bless him, as we all know, is often unfit to rule. Last year’s Act of Accord settled in October allowed the right to rule to the end of his life for the King but gave the succession to York and his heirs. Was that not a fair enough settlement after years of discord?’

‘But the Queen was not going to stand by and allow her son to be disinherited,’ Clare rejoined hotly. ‘Would any mother agree to such a settlement?’

He smiled again. ‘I see you would prove a veritable vixen of a mother and stand by your cubs to the death.’

She went white to the lips. Peter’s often declared taunts that she would be unlikely to wed and have children rang in her memory and she turned away. Wearily she stood up, after packing away her pots of unguents and the implements used in treatment into the small box she kept for the purpose.

‘What I would do is of no matter, it is what the King will decide about you. I am sorry for your predicament and even sorrier that a foolish brawl in the village should have brought us all to this but you are my uncle’s prisoner, sir, and I can but do my best to ease your pain and—’ she hesitated as Dorcas hastened in with the two skin bottles of wine, which she withdrew from the cover of her frieze cloak ‘—and I promise I will pray for the repose of the souls of all who died today—and for you.’

Gratefully he took from Dorcas’s hand a wooden drinking cup of brandy-wine and drained it, for there was a whitish line about his lips which spoke to Clare eloquently of the suffering he would not openly acknowledge.

‘Thank you, mistress, and I will pray for you.’ He raised the cup as if in a toast and angrily she turned and hastened out of the barn into the cold darkling gloom of the courtyard. She was conscious that her eyes pricked with tears, whether of irritation for that final act of bravado or for distress at his danger—for he was a young man, as Peter had been, on the threshold of life, and doomed so soon to die—she could not be sure.

Clare took a hasty supper in the solar, wishing to return very quickly to her vigil by her brother’s body, so she was somewhat annoyed when her uncle joined her there and brusquely ordered food to be brought for him, too. She did not wish to talk to him. She was too confused, her emotions disturbed. Peter’s death had been too violent and too sudden for her to have come to terms with it yet and there was the question of Robert Devane, languishing under guard in the barn.

Sir Gilbert said without preamble, ‘I wanted to ask you what you thought of young Devane’s condition. Will he be fit to travel tomorrow under guard?’

She hesitated. ‘The wound is deep and he has lost a considerable amount of blood. I should see him again in the morning before I decide how to answer that question.’

He grunted and carved a slice of meat for himself nodding to one of the kitchen boys who waited to pour wine for him. ‘You can go, boy. I can manage.’

Clare pushed her own plate away impatiently. She had no appetite and had had to force herself to eat. She made to stand up but he reached across the table, taking her hand to prevent her and indicating she should be seated again.

‘There’s no haste for you to dash back to the bier. Father Crispin can manage alone for a while and there will be a constant watch made, I promise you. You’ll need to take some rest. All this has been a great shock to you.’

She sank down again reluctantly. ‘I have faced such blows before, uncle. There will be a great deal of arrangements…’

‘I’ve seen to most of them. The men have been fed and bedded down for the night. I’ll dispatch a small company to Coventry tomorrow with the prisoner. That will take some of the men off our hands for a while. The rest will be occupied in tidying up at the Devane manor.’

‘I have been meaning to talk to you about that. I wish the Devane father and son to be decently laid to rest within the churchyard and masses said for the repose of their souls. It is our responsibility,’ she said firmly, ‘since Robert Devane will not be able to see to it himself.’

Sir Gilbert grunted again and waved a hand testily. ‘Very well, I’ll speak to Father Crispin about the matter and send over some woman to lay out the bodies and men to arrange for their safe bestowal. The bodies of the men-at-arms have been already gathered and…’ He broke off and avoided her gaze. ‘You will not have to worry yourself about any of them.’

She nodded. Her throat was very tight from unshed tears and she was finding it difficult to frame words, but as he rose to leave her she said, ‘Is it necessary to send Robert Devane to Coventry? Surely there can be no more trouble from that quarter now that his father is dead. The King will decide the disposal of the manor, since Yorkist lands have been proscribed. Out of Christian charity, Uncle, can we not let the man go?’

‘And allow him to return and threaten our peace? Nay, niece, you do not understand the way of these things. The Devanes have been thorns in our flesh for two or three decades. Now we have the means of scotching their hopes once and for all, we would be fools to lose the opportunity. Besides, have you thought that your future must be secured? I cannot be with you constantly. My place will be near his grace the King. Hoyland is yours now and its safety must be assured.’

She had not considered that. She made to protest but he was already striding out of the room and she heard the ring of his spurs on the stone steps outside.

He was right. She was tired, her reserves drained totally. She had done her best for the prisoner, pleaded his cause, but she knew her will was not strong enough to withstand her uncle’s. Doubtless the King would appoint him her legal guardian and she must be guided by him, as she had been by Peter. She sighed. He had mentioned her future. It might be very grim indeed.

Peter would never bring a bride here, as she had feared, but what prospects were there for Clare? While the war continued, the King and Queen would be far too occupied to concern themselves with her problems. She must depend on her uncle’s goodwill and—just now, it would be unwise to antagonise him further as to the fate of Robert Devane, pity the man though she did.

Robert Devane half lay, half sat against the back wall of the barn. He moved his aching leg restlessly and cursed beneath his breath. The woman had certainly made a fair job of her stitchery but the wound still pained him like the fires of hell. The wine had strengthened him. He no longer felt likely to faint, a condition which had unnerved him.

Sir Gilbert’s men had brought him stale rye bread and water as he had expected and he had laughed silently in the darkness, thinking of the bottle of good wine hidden beneath the straw on the barn floor. The girl had been shrewish—what would you expect of that cursed Hoyland blood?—but she’d been charitable enough to see his need.

He grunted as he eased himself into a more comfortable posture and reviewed his situation. This was a pretty coil indeed. He’d been taken unprepared with hardly time to seize a weapon and the manor had fallen with scarcely a fight. If the girl was correct, his chances of extricating himself from this threatened fate were slim indeed. And yet—