The Beggar's Throne Page 3

  Clifford turned his back and strode from the room. A page entered from another door. “Your Grace, the queen asks that you join her in her closet.”

  The duke nodded and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. His anger will serve us well, he thought, but it will be his undoing before this war is over.

  *

  In private chambers, Somerset waited patiently while the queen rummaged through papers that required the royal seal. She had assumed the right to govern in her husband’s name during his absence. The fact the Yorkists did not recognize such authority mattered to her not in the least.

  “My lord of Somerset,” she said, finally fixing her sharp brown eyes on the duke. “You know our pleasure. Have you found Lady Katherine?” Her advisors continued to hand her papers as she finished signing the previous one.

  “I have not, in all fairness, Your Highness, had time to continue the search, being predisposed to find fighting men for the wars instead.”

  “We know your worth, my lord, of that you may be assured.” The duke bowed with thanks, assuming the best of the comment. “However, the apprehension of that girl is most important to us, and despite the need to fight against this cursed rebellion, it remains our primary wish that she be found.” She pushed an advisor away before he could proffer another document. Her casual mood shifted to an angrier one. “Without her in our custody, victory over these rebels would be rendered meaningless.” Now, even the courtiers fixed their attention on the duke.

  “I assure Your Highness I shall redouble my efforts.” Somerset wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “But to find an individual who has disappeared into the common throng in these tumultuous times will not be an easy task.”

  “Be that as it may, we want her, and soon. Are we clear on that point, my lord?”

  “Quite clear, my lady.”

  “Good,” she said severely, “then you may leave us.” The duke bowed deeply and left the room. Margaret gazed at the spot he had vacated. No, young Somerset, you will never be the man your father was.

  *

  Emma and Samuel sat together near the wheelhouse waiting for Christopher. The river was still several feet higher than normal and the torrents of murky water swept past the millhouse at a frightening pace, the half-submerged river willows along the shore bent almost horizontal against the force.

  “I can’t see how you’re going to get down there,” Emma worried. A large branch had been swept under the mill wheel by the flood and was jammed between the wheel and its housing. The branch had to be removed — and quickly — or the mill would be paralyzed.

  “We’ll wade over to the other side and use the sluice wall,” said Samuel. “It doesn’t look too bad.”

  The two stared at the water, thinking their own thoughts. Somewhere behind them, someone was shouting for a child. The smell of wood burning permeated the air. “I don’t think I can remember the last time I saw the sun,” said Samuel, looking up at the gray, misty sky.

  “I’m frightened, Samuel,” Emma said unexpectedly. “It’s not bad enough that I’ll soon be going through what Edith just did, but now I have to worry about you as well. Every time you leave, I wonder if I will ever see you again. Do you know what that’s like?”

  Samuel did indeed. “Every time I pick up my longbow, I remember these woods near Northwood where I spent so many hours alone. I know these trails so well.” He stopped for a moment, remembering the smell of damp woods. “Each time I pack up my arrows, I try to remember everyone’s face in my mind one last time. Just in case.” He hugged her.

  She put her head on his shoulder. “You know, your brother worries a great deal about you too.” Samuel said nothing, watching in silence as the river boiled over a submerged boulder, creating a whirlpool on the downstream side. Emma lifted her head, suddenly angry. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that? I can see it clearly in everything he does when you’re around. He only wants you to respect him for what he is.”

  “And what exactly is he?” Hardness tainted his voice.

  “For one thing, he’s your brother.” Her disappointment with Samuel showed. “And he feels very responsible for everything that happens to you all.”

  “You didn’t grow up with him, Emma. You don’t know what we had to endure.”

  “Maybe not, but I can’t help wondering what was so horrible that you can’t put it behind you.” She stood up and walked to the stream’s edge, letting Samuel think about what she had told him. She pulled her wrap up around her shoulders against the chill in the morning air and looked out over the rooftops of the village. Beyond the thatched roofs, the planting fields stretched away from the town, waiting for the spring tilling. The stubble of last year’s crop was still scattered haphazardly over the dark earth. It was all very familiar.

  At last, Christopher, John Miller, and Sally appeared from around the corner of the millhouse and came down to the river wall. Christopher was carrying a rope coiled around his neck.

  “Are you ready to do this?” Christopher said, surveying the wheel.

  “Let’s get it over with,” said Samuel. He pulled his light tunic over his head and slipped out of his sandals, then took the rope from Christopher and tied one end around his waist. He handed the other end of the rope to his brother and waded slowly into the current.

  “Watch your step near the sluice,” said John Miller. “It’s bound to be slick.”

  Indeed, it was. Samuel fought to keep his feet on the mossy surface of the sluice as the water became deeper. He had splashed around in this river often in his youth, but he could not remember the water ever being so fast, or so cold. At last he reached the far wall of the channel and climbed out of the water, shivering some feeling back into his numb limbs.

  “Off you go, Christopher,” John Miller said when he saw that Samuel had finished the crossing. “Do it just like your brother.”

  “I know how it’s done,” Christopher glared at his father. Samuel braced himself on the other side and watched as his brother waded in.

  Surprised by the icy water, Christopher panicked and tried to quicken his pace, fighting for a grip on the mossy sluice. Almost within an arm’s reach of the far wall, still struggling against the current, he lost his footing for a moment and fell backward. Samuel quickly pulled him the last few feet to the wall, and Christopher hauled himself out of the water. On the other side, Emma crossed herself with relief.

  The brothers walked along the far wall until they reached the wheel. They could hardly hear each other over the roar of the rushing water. They saw the branch, a stout portion of an ash tree.

  “I can’t see how we’re going to budge that thing,” Christopher yelled.

  “Let’s tie the rope around it and pull it together.”

  Christopher nodded, and Samuel leaned down over the wall to tie the rope onto the fattest part of the branch. The two men braced themselves on the wall and tugged on the line with all their strength.

  The branch would not budge. Finally, they collapsed on the bank, defeated and worn out. And still the water ran on past the frozen mill wheel. The brothers knew the branch had to be dislodged, somehow, or…the alternative was grim. The entire village needed that wheel to move. John Miller still stood on the other shore with Emma and Sally, and the sight filled Samuel with a new strength. He crawled toward the wheel.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Christopher.

  “Just keep a strong hold on that rope,” he yelled back. Taking a grip on the side of the huge wheel, he lowered himself back into the freezing water and stepped precariously onto the branch itself. His father and sisters were screaming from the shore and he knew what they were saying, though he couldn’t make out the words, but what he was about to do had to be done.

  “Pull!” he yelled at his brother, then began to jump on the base of the branch wit
h all the force he could bring to bear. The branch shifted under him, swayed, then with a whoosh broke free. Samuel’s feet flew out from under him, and he was tossed in the swift current, clinging to the wheel with his cold wet hands. He could hear screaming from his family as he struggled to pull himself out. With the strength that comes from desperate need alone, he finally lifted his legs over to the wall and flopped out of the water like a freshly caught fish.

  “Are you all right?” asked Christopher, astonished that his brother would take such a risk. He still held the rope tied to the branch, which bobbed in the current beside them.

  “I’m fine,” Samuel coughed. “Let’s get rid of that thing before it gets jammed again.”

  They pulled it to them and lifted it over their heads to the river side of the wall and let it fly. They watched for a moment as it drifted out of sight.

  They crossed back to the near bank, arriving wet and shivering.

  “That was a foolish chance you took,” John Miller chided Samuel. But Christopher saw the admiration in his father’s eyes.

  “If you ever do something like that again…” Emma didn’t know whether to be mad or happy. She placed a cloak around his shoulders.

  “I was there, too,” said Christopher.

  “Of course you were, husband,” she said, giving him his cloak. “We were just worried, that’s all.”

  They all walked back to the house, where Sally prepared hot bowls of stew.

  CHAPTER III

  Edward, Earl of March, lay awake under his bedspread contemplating the naked young girl beside him. Hastings had an eye for beauty and had found her feeding pigs outside the town of Oxford. Even though it took his retainers a good hour to clean her up, once done she was quite attractive. Edward marveled to himself how the perfect shape of her buttocks was apparent even through the bed covers. And she was marvelous company, the kind Edward liked most: awed by his presence, she had little to say unless responding to questions. But when it came time to please him, she withheld no favors and gladly accommodated his every desire.

  Still, in the sobering light of the morning, his lust quite satisfied, he felt strangely empty. He sat up with his arms cradled around his knees, staring intently at a point somewhere in the middle of his tent. Normally, while traveling through the country, he would stay with some noble family as a guest. On this trip he felt more secure sleeping with his escort, as if it were a campaign. It was important for his men to remember that a state of war did exist and he wanted them battle ready.

  He heard the men of the morning watch going about their duties, preparing food and seeing to the horses. “Are you risen, my lord?” a voice called from outside the canvas.

  “Come ahead, Sir William,” said Edward, recognizing Hastings’ voice. Shaking off the morning haze from his thoughts, he threw off his bedcoverings, pulled on his linen drawers, and began splashing cold water on his face from his washbasin. Hastings could not help but notice what a fine figure of a man Edward had become. Easily the tallest man in his entourage, he was broad-chested with well-muscled arms and shoulders, flawlessly lean. His sharp blue eyes were framed by thick brown hair that this morning was quite disheveled.

  “Sir William! What news this morning?” Edward was pleasant but not as jovial as Hastings had expected him to be, given the evening’s activities. He looked to where the young girl had ducked beneath the bedcovers and wondered if she had not been entirely satisfactory for the earl.

  “I trust you had a pleasant evening, my lord?” Edward asked.

  “Quite pleasant, thank you,” he said after a quick glance at the bed. Hastings was relieved. “By the way, what’s her name?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t take time to ask her, my lord. What is your name, wench?” he called over to the bed. A muffled sound came from somewhere underneath the thick covers. Hastings stepped to the bed and pulled the covers off. The startled young girl sat up holding her arms modestly over her breasts.

  “What is your name?” Hastings repeated the question now that he had her full attention.

  “Letitia, if you please, my lord,” she said in a barely audible voice.

  “Letitia,” repeated Edward, rolling the word off his tongue. “What an unusual name. What does it mean?” He felt every name should have a purpose.

  “It was my mother’s name, my lord,” she responded timidly. “God rest her soul.”

  “Is she dead, then?” asked Edward.

  “Yes, my lord. The black death took her two years ago.” Hastings took an involuntary step backward and Edward hurriedly crossed himself with exaggerated reverence. Few earthly terrors conjured up fear as did mention of the black death, a plague that had taken the lives of a third of the subjects of the realm not a hundred years past.

  “Two years ago, you say?” Edward glared at her.

  “Yes, my lord, it was two years, I swear.” Edward and Hastings relaxed with that assurance. Edward pulled a long sleeved tunic over his head and tightened the leather fasteners. Over that he pulled a looser, fur-lined cloak which he fastened with a small gold brooch, shaped in the image of a stylized rose.

  “Sir William, it’s time we take to the road again. Has our post returned from Gloucester?” Edward had sent several messengers out to the western towns of the Welsh marches requiring fighting men from any who wished to retain the good wishes of the Duke of York. He knew that the queen was also raising troops in the same area using the Earl of Pembroke as her agent, and therefore time was of the essence.

  “The post has returned, my lord,” said Hastings. “Your father’s troops are mustering near Gloucester. Pembroke’s whereabouts are still unknown, but these people are loyal to your father, fear them not. The queen’s name will invoke little love here.”

  “I have faith that you’re right, Sir William. Where is my confessor?”

  “He awaits your pleasure outside. Shall I call him in?”

  “He makes my penance more severe when I keep him waiting too long, so I suppose you had better.” There was a sound like a throat clearing behind them, which reminded them that Letitia was still in the bed, naked and shivering.

  “I suppose you had better get dressed before he comes in here,” said Edward. She sprang up and gratefully started pulling on her clothes. “I imagine I’ll be saying a few extra Hail Marys on your account anyway, but there’s no point making him crazy at the sight of female flesh. I could be on my knees till noon.”

  “And now you may send in my confessor,” Edward said, turning to Hastings. “It’s time we get on the road to Gloucester, before the queen’s men have a chance to prevail upon these wavering noble families.”

  With a slight bow of his head, Hastings took Letitia and left the tent. A moment later, Father Dennis entered through the flap. “Good morning, my son. I trust you slept well?” he asked after looking pointedly and disapprovingly at the rumpled bedcovers.

  “Very well, thank you, Father. And yourself?”

  “Our Lord in Heaven has not granted me the gift of carefree nights, my son. I carry the sins of the world with me, which leaves little time for anything but prayer.” Edward wondered if he was about to get one of Father Dennis’ long sermons regarding the evils of the flesh. But instead, his confessor said simply, “Come, let us begin. We have much to pray for today.”

  Edward knelt before Father Dennis and began the long litany of prayer that started every day of his life. As he feared, it was an extra-long session that morning.

  *

  “Are you going to the christening for Jeremy and Edith’s new baby? Samuel and I are to stand as sponsors.” Emma was pleased at the prospect of being a godparent.

  It had been two days since the branch had been freed. Samuel had spent most of the time with Jeremy. Emma wanted to see more of Samuel but was disappointed that things had not improved
between him and Christopher. She and Sally were now preparing the evening meal, which she hoped Samuel would stay at the mill long enough to share.

  “Of course I’ll be there,” said Sally, a thin smile finally gracing her face. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  After a moment Emma asked, “Is it true what I hear about the Smith’s son, Stephen?”

  “What have you heard?” Sally asked sharply.

  “Only that he takes every opportunity to talk with you, and that he tends to pay more attention to you in church than to his prayers.”

  Sally was indignant, “I don’t know who told you that but it is simply not true. And even if it were, I can’t see what that has to do with me.”

  “Very well,” Emma’s reply was followed by a heavy sigh. “But I did see you two talking closely at the village garden last week.”

  The garden was an area near the church set apart from the crop fields on which the villagers grew vegetables such as peas, beans, cabbage, and spinach. A communal effort, they’d found, yielded better crops — though, to be sure, each family still had its own plot around its cottage. Sally spent a great deal of time tending it, not only because she had no children yet to tend, but also because she enjoyed the garden a great deal. Naturally, that was where she frequently talked with the smith’s son. And despite her protestations, she did enjoy his company.

  There was a disturbance at the front door. Someone was talking and kicking the mud off his feet. Sally was glad for the interruption. She jumped up to open the door and found outside, still working to remove the black mud from their feet, Jeremy and his father, Gilbert, the town reeve.

  The reeve was a local farmer selected by the villagers for a term to oversee the earl’s work around Northwood. It was a post that was coveted not so much because of the authority it gave but because to be elected was a demonstration of honor and respect from one’s fellow villagers.