A romantic comedy of epic proportions, set during the Wars of the Roses and resonating like a work of literary art, this story drags together two powerful and complex personalities, and develops a theme of identity crises, replete with romantic subplots and differing points of view. The heroine is an ambitious painter, a resident of Southwark (Medieval London's red light district), a fighting feminist and a worldly beauty BUT with a girlish crush on the Yorkist king. The hero is a fighting Lancastrian, a legend in his own day (the Beast of Ferrybridge), a northerner of grand but simple loyalties. Unfortunately, he suffers from hydrophobia. Hatred hauls the two together, love drives them apart, an entanglement played out against a background of political treachery, rebellion and social upheaval, England's destiny up for grabs. The reader travels with the couple, from Lincolnshire to London, encountering a wealth of historical and fictional characters, culminating in a monumental bust-up at Baynard Castle, the king's London home. The book, some 130 000 words, prepares the way for the return journey in Part Two, 170 000 words that bring the romance and action to the boiling point. (1 reviewer for both parts please)
A romantic comedy of epic proportions, set during the Wars of the Roses and resonating like a work of literary art, this story drags together two powerful and complex personalities, and develops a theme of identity crises, replete with romantic subplots and differing points of view. The heroine is an ambitious painter, a resident of Southwark (Medieval London's red light district), a fighting feminist and a worldly beauty BUT with a girlish crush on the Yorkist king. The hero is a fighting Lancastrian, a legend in his own day (the Beast of Ferrybridge), a northerner of grand but simple loyalties. Unfortunately, he suffers from hydrophobia. Hatred hauls the two together, love drives them apart, an entanglement played out against a background of political treachery, rebellion and social upheaval, England's destiny up for grabs. The reader travels with the couple, from Lincolnshire to London, encountering a wealth of historical and fictional characters, culminating in a monumental bust-up at Baynard Castle, the king's London home. The book, some 130 000 words, prepares the way for the return journey in Part Two, 170 000 words that bring the romance and action to the boiling point. (1 reviewer for both parts please)
Wednesday 7th of February 1470
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Susanna Mandeville felt safe at her auntâs house in Bourne. Rebels preyed on travellers and isolated buildings but even a woman as beautiful as herselfâa woman, moreover, devoted to the Yorkist kingâcould reasonably expect to get through the day unmolested, if she stayed in town, minding her own business.
Today was the best weather in months, a good chance for her to concentrate on the great business of her life, so she exchanged the smoke-blackened rafters and busy noise of the chimneyless house for the sunlight and quiet of the neighbouring orchard. Families used to live here once, but recurring bouts of plague had left it vacant and survivors had claimed it as their own. Aunt Marianâs portion hosted plums, apples and pears, presently reduced to wintry trunks and leafless branches, bordered by the barren sticks of a hawthorn hedge.
âTry to keep still,â Susanna urged the boy trembling before her.
 âB-b-but Iâm-m-m c-c-cold!â
He was about ten years old, wearing only a tunic. A greasy woollen coat lay at his feet and he was clutching a bundle of sticks.
âThink Summer,â she urged him.
It was important to work quickly, while the paint was fresh on the bristles, and the world still fired her imagination with its mysterious impulses. High overhead, white clouds disappeared wisp by wisp, uncovering a background of wintry blue. Meanwhile the white background facing Susanna kept disappearing stroke by stroke of her quick brush, acquiring the first, dark suggestions of a tragic scene.
She had been planning something big throughout the winter, sketching with charcoal on wooden boards, drawing in ink on bleached paper, perforating a cardboard template for bagging with crushed charcoal, till at last the outline of her subject had emerged as delicate as a spiderâs web, ready for painting. The opportunity hadnât come cheap.
The frame and backing were common limewood but the surface was the best plaster, painstakingly layered to produce a texture as smooth and glossy as silk. The whole thing weighed as much as a small child. Propped up on a chair, carried from the house with all her equipment, it weighed almost as much as an adult. The artist too needed a seat. Susanna made do with an upturned barrel, conveniently placed next to an apple tree, one of its gnarled branches stretched out like a helping hand. Her tray of paints hung balanced in the wooden fingers.
Now at last her masterpiece was coming to life in vivid colour, applied with quick dabs of her brush, and even the mundane task of breaking an egg thrilled her with immense possibilities, its yellow lustre begging to be dyed with the colours lurking in the phials set out alongside. She was painting a boy collecting firewood for a hillside altar: Isaac, the son of Abraham. God had commanded the father to sacrifice him in place of the usual lamb, but what was a test of faith for Abraham and for the Church was a test of skill for her. Only a great artist could bring everything to life with the right colours and the right brushwork, evoking the boyâs sudden awareness that he, not one of the lambs, is destined for the knife. Moreover, there had to be something vital and brave in the way he looked out from the painting, or she could take no joy in his suffering. Here in the leafless orchard, where there was a powerful suggestion of tinder, and the imminent promise of Spring, it was above all the presence of a real boy that fired her inspiration.
He was Adam Galt the Younger. His parents and elder brother, another Adam, were common thieves and idlers, and no doubt he was destined to become one too. Aunt Marian had taken them under her wing out of charity, because the town was over-crowded with travellers stranded by the rebellion, and nobody else could find room for them. They should have felt grateful, but the parents had stubbornly refused to let Susanna use their son as her model, until finally she had promised them a shilling. Something about him demanded to be painted: a look of innocent self-respect peering from a life already too big with betrayals.
His trembling with cold was a minor distraction. A worse distraction kept hanging about with a hairbrush, always looking for an opportunity to tame Susannaâs wild locks, which the damned woman kept stroking in the abrupt manner of a cat licking a kitten.
âPut that stupid brush away,â Susanna objected.
âYou put yours away.â
âMatilda, you are interrupting my work!â
âYou are interrupting mine.â
âAnd stop crowding me.â
Matilda was supposed to stay out of sight but she kept edging forward for a better look at her own handiwork. The woman was obsessed with appearances, especially her own, highlighted now by a hooded cloak of scarlet, finished like felt, with an annoying lining that kept winking yellow. Susanna was interested in appearances too but only as a painter. The daughter of a wealthy merchant, she usually dressed like the daughter of a respectable peasant, and today was no exception, with a plain woollen cloak draped over an ankle-length smock.
âA woman should take pride in her looks,â Matilda insisted for the thousandth time, though plain-faced herself and overly tall.
âYou take enough in yours for both of us.â
âAsk the boy what he thinks of your beauty, since he is so important to you. Ask him if he has ever seen a more beautiful creature. Ask!â
Susanna lowered her brush and gave Adam one of her appraising looks.
âWhen do I g-g-get our sh-shilling?â he asked.
âAfter the face is finished. Faces always come last.â
âFaces come first!â Matilda objected. âYet here you sit wasting
yours on a mere boy.â
Susanna rolled her eyes in search of patience. Her beauty was a topic that bored her. Her father had kept a letter by one of his would-be sons-in-law and often read it aloud just to embarrass her. It praised her mouth, âred and proud as a summer roseâ, her nose âpetite as a wild lily half-hidden in snowâ, her eyes, âblue as the sky at mid-morningâ, her cheeks, âround as apples that ask to be bittenâ, and her hair, âthe colour of copper.â She was a picture. She was a picture without any effort at all. That was what bored her.
âOuch!â she cried, her hair snagged in Matildaâs brush. âBy God, Matilda, do that once more and I will knock you down, you nuisance, I promise you that.â
âYou brought it on yourself,â pleaded the maid. âThe only men you are interested in are painted ones. A spinster in spite of your face and figure! Me twice a widow in spite of mine. Ha! Is it any wonder that I grow careless! Is it any wonder that your father has banished you here, as punishment for disobedience, your aunt so pious, we might as well be nuns in a convent!â
âMy father has betrothed me to five men so far, and they have all regretted it,â Susanna acknowledged while picking up a new brush. âIf there is a sixth, Iâll make him eat one of my paintsâcinnabar, I think.â
âCinnab-b-b-bar?â asked Adam.
âPleasing to the eye,â she explained, âdeadly to the taste.â
âThen it is like you,â Matilda opined. âFor you are pleasing to the eye and deadly to anyone that dares say it.â
âIt is my beauty, and I will do with it as I please.â
âIt is more mine than yours. I see it all day, and you only ever see it in a mirror.â
The maid thrust her brush at Susannaâs hair again and again snagged it.
âThat does it!â cried Susanna, jumping from the barrel with clenched fists.
Most people who had heard anything about Susanna Mandeville knew she was good with her fists, but few knew that she could paint, unless it was painting noses red. There were prostitutes in Southwark, where she had been raised, who swore she could hit harder than most men. Matilda had been with her for over a year but had yet to experience a thrashing. It was only luck that prevented her experiencing it now. A worse nuisance was approaching.
âOh no,â Susanna observed: âWatt.â
Watt was one boy too many for Susanna at any time, let alone now. Aunt Marian had adopted him at birth. Nobody knew anything about his real mother, except that she was fortunate to get free of him. Watt was always a disaster looking for somewhere to happen. A week ago, he had stolen some of Susannaâs paints and had lost them in the vegetable patch. A goose had died the next day, undoubtedly poisoned. Boys like Watt were a good reason never to get married. Only five years old, he was now bringing along a dead rat, trailed on the end of a long string. Earlier this morning, he had been swinging it at Aunt Marianâs enormous watchdog, Thunderbolt, currently tied up by the stable door for the boyâs own protection. Thunderbolt could be vindictive.
âMatilda,â said Susanna, thinking to kill two birds with one stone, âfind something for Watt to do somewhere else, preferably before he gets here.â
âI already gave him the string,â Matilda reminded her.
âAdam, why donât you go play with Watt?â was Susannaâs next option. âI have got all I need from you for now, and we can do the face later.â
âI donât like Watt,â Adam answered defiantly.
âIâll pay you another shilling,â she pleaded.
âAs if you are made of money!â scoffed Matilda.
Susannaâs living allowance had been cancelled by her fatherâpart of her punishment for rejecting another husbandâand now she had no money left. Matilda had made good the loss with small sums from her own savings. It was a secret agreement between them: two pennies back for every penny lent, all to be settled by Christmas. Susanna already owed her four pounds, five shillings and fourpence, and that wasnât taking into account the two shillings now promised to Adam.
âDing, ding, ding!â Watt gurgled on arrival.
He dangled his rat over a low branch of the apple tree, almost upsetting the paints balanced in the gnarled, wooden fingers. Susanna rested a steadying hand on them.
âGo away,â she cautioned the boy, âbefore I lose my patience.â
âDing, ding, ding!â Watt insisted, making the rat rise and fall by tugging on the string.
âHe thinks the tree is a bell,â Matilda surmised, âand the rat is a clapper.â
âSomebody is ringing a bell somewhere,â Susanna realised.
A tinkling noise was coming from the hawthorn hedge. Strange noises were nothing unusual from that direction, the lane beyond the hedge being a shortcut for stranded travellers, passing between the abbey, where many of them had lodged, and the taverns and various alehouses where they drowned their sorrows. A gate in the hedge was resting on its side, the hinges having been stolen about a month agoâprobably Adamâs fatherâso it was prudent to keep a careful watch on that corner of the orchard, in case trouble entered unseen. Susanna soon spotted something unusual. A hawk half-hopped, half-fluttered along the hedge, a small leash and some bells attached to one leg. It was the kind of hawk that a baronet might wear on a fashionable glove, unleashing it to catch supper on the wing, or just for the pleasure of watching it fly. It had only to get its leash snagged in the hedge to add one more distraction to Susannaâs already over-crowded morning. She tried to see the funny side of things.
âOh look!â she said, pointing it out to everyone. âA jester has lost his cap-and-bells, and now itâs looking for another head to put itself on. I wonder whose?â
âYours!â said Matilda. âA beautiful spinster is a joke worthy of a jester.â
âJesser jesser jesser!â Watt squealed, always happy to discover a new word he could mispronounce.
âThe word is jester,â Susanna told him, before taking the string from his fingers and lifting the rat out of the branch. âA jester, Watt, is someone who amuses kings. Shall I tell you about kings? There are two. One is called Edward of York, who lives in a great big palace at Westminsterâhe is very handsomeâand the other is a grubby lunatic called Henry of Lancaster. He lives in the Tower of London. Why are there two kings? A good question! It is because there are two kinds of people in England today: people who try to do great things, and other people, like maids and small boys, who try to stop them.â
âWhen it comes to doing great things,â Matilda objected, âtwice a widow trumps a spinster by a hundred miles.â
âShall I tell you my idea of marriage?â Susanna scoffed. âIt is when the heart is a mix of colours, all embracing a form that seems foreverâbut I get that from painting.â
âA painting canât keep you warm at night,â was Matildaâs next tilt.
âAdam, I want to be alone with Matilda, so please take Watt and his rat somewhere elseâor donât you want that extra shilling?â
She dropped the rat on the firewood that Adam was holding. Adam pondered it for a moment, wondering what to do. A shilling is a lot of money, so he soon dropped the firewood, put on his coat and dragged the rat off by the string, Watt following behind, laughing at the trouble he had caused.
âThey will be tormenting Thunderbolt with it soon enough,â Matilda surmised. âMen and boys are all the same creature, forever bent on their own destruction.â
âTwo of them married you,â Susanna conceded.
âThe first one fell under a waggon, and the second fell off a roof,â Matilda affirmed. âBut nobody is reckless or bold enough to marry you, Mistress. A manâs eyes and other parts might wish he could, but then you speak, and his ears hate you.â
It was for this impertinence that Susanna at last struck her across the face. She only did it with an open hand, not with the closed fist, but small mercies were wasted on Matilda. She burst into tears and ran back to the house. Susanna had never regretted striking anyone before and she wasnât inclined to regret it now. Still, she wished Matilda hadnât taken it so much like a cry-baby, because now she would have to say sorry. However, there was no hurry.
She sat on the barrel again and pondered her progress. Mostly it was still bare plaster, but already she could see great prospects of success. This painting was like a child. It was seeded in her lifeâs experiences, and someday soon it would take on a life of its own, when many others would see it as she did, with a mixture of wonder and gratitude. Maybe then she would be given the respect she craved. Respect buys freedom. She could paint the way she wanted, if she were free, free to soar to the heights of human skill and imagination, gliding on the wings of confidence, and swooping to claim whatever prize caught her eye. Her present style of painting was technically accomplished butâit was important to be honest with oneselfâa bit stiff. She had learned the English method, working step by step in tempera, with its studied air of unearthly beauty. She would much rather practise the new, more spontaneous style of painting in oils, because then she could capture the real world in its own colours, making dreams come true. Only the Dutch had mastered the new materials and routines, and she had often begged her father to let her live with his brother in Utrecht, a Dutch city where raw, English wool could be traded for expertly crafted wares. In Utrecht, she could learn the new style from some of its greatest exponents, and yes, she might even consent to marrying one of the cityâs burghers, provided it was someone with enough money and talent to indulge hers, and with too little skill in English to annoy her with a manâs so-called conversation. Men could be so bovine. No Englishman had ever excited her marriage hopes, though maybe one had captured her heart.
The king of England.
Edward, the glorious fourth of that name, was the darling of the whole country, or that half that was Yorkist, and she had loved him, as many young women had done, from a distance, ever since he had burst on the public imagination almost ten years ago, the embodiment of male perfection. She had met him just once, when they had shared a brief dance during May Day celebrations in the Strand, two years ago. His impressive height, the gracefulness of his moves, his manly confidence, his pleasant and good-natured way with everyoneâthese she had often heard about, yet it had still come as a shock to find that it was all true. That dance had been the greatest moment of her life.
Her love for His Majesty was too pure and intense to be spoken of, and she had always kept it to herself, a jealously guarded secret. If her father ever came to know of it, he might think she was interested in men generally, and then he would never stop pushing fianceĚs at her. Others too must never know, or she could end up the butt of their jokes, especially back home in Southwark. Here in Bourne, she was her auntâs respected niece, but back home she was her fatherâs torment and the terror of their neighbourhood: the Shrew of Southwark. Oh, how her enemies would laugh, if they thought she was just another mawkish female dreaming of impossibilities! And His Majesty was an impossibility, a man far beyond her reach. Or maybe not. There had been rumours lately that he was now the pampered and self-indulgent companion of liars, cheats and profligates. It was even rumoured that he had almost as many mistresses as he had female subjects. Surely this last accusation couldnât be true, or Susanna would have enjoyed more than just a dance with him. But if there was any truth in the gossip, there could only be one explanation: he had married the wrong woman. He was like a painting in the wrong hands.
Thinking about the king, and remembering the enchantment of their brief dance, Susanna began looking through her brushwork as if it no longer mattered. Painting isnât everything, is it? This was an unusual sensation. She resisted it and forced herself to dabble the brush in some fresh paint. The paint dried on the bristles before she could think what to do with it. She put the brush down. If only she could have that dance once more, that flirtation with majestic strength and grace, the touch of a man so winning, she could still feel his presence even here in a distant orchard two years later! So she got to her feet and closed her eyes, willing the moment back. It returned like music, a step to the left, a step to the right, forward and backward, in unison with the perfect man, to the accompaniment of pipes, tabors and bells.
Bells.
Opening her eyes, she observed the hawk, now perched in the apple tree just overhead. It looked sleek and muscular, eyes cold as winter, the prettiness of its bells refuted by the ugly talons. Its presence was disturbing but not frightening. It was wholly intent on a rat scurrying through the orchard: Wattâs rat, following Adam at the end of a long string. The moment Adam stopped, the rat stopped too, crouching low in the grass. It was too much temptation for the predator. It pushed off the tree and glided like a bead on a string unerringly towards its target, arriving as quietly as death. Talons plunging into soft fur, it buried its prey and its own tinkling bells in the shadow of outstretched wings, excluding all hope of escape. There was something almost beautiful about its command of the moment, and Susanna was not alone admiring it. Watt emerged from behind a pear tree, gurgling for joy as he ran towards the hawk.
âWatt!â Susanna shouted, now running too.
The thing that happened next was so shocking, it was as if her portrait of Isaac had been lifted from the chair and smashed against the apple tree. She reached Watt too soon to protect him, the hawk launching its outrage at her instead, buffeting her with the fury of a storm, its claws branches enmeshed in her hair, sticks tearing at her tresses, knives questing for the scalp, stabbing at her eyes, wings beating wildly, while Thunderbolt barked, somewhere women screamed and, louder than anything else, bells, bells tolled like a town on fire, until suddenly she seemed lifted off the ground, wrestling with the sky itself, impossible to shake off. If she screamed, it was lost in the uproar, thoughts reeling in the terrible grip of a moment that had latched onto her with an artistâs own passion for the ultimate sacrifice, even as she fought against it, lest the pain bite deep and her beauty be marred forever, never valued till now. This was no bird. This was a struggle growing out of her, or turning into her, the whole world feathered in human skin, strong of bone and mighty of muscle, legs greater than hers, arms greater than hers, fingers as powerful as claws, all grabbing at her as if they owned her or she owned them, slapping at her head, flapping to get clear, yearning for freedom, for mastery of the future. She could fly to Utrecht, if she were winged like this beast. She could break all holds. She could do anything she wanted.
âOld still, Lahl Dingy!â
Was this the hawk talking? Was it herself emerging as someone or something else? It was not her usual voice. It was not how they spoke here in the Midlands or back home in London and Southwark. She was thrust aside, meeting the ground with a jolt, springing her eyes open. Something human towered over her, wings beating around broad shoulders, almost an angel but for the green and brown garb, coloured like the woods. The apparition had grey eyes, large with concern, bright with curiosity, until stepping back, becoming suddenly a grim-faced man with a hawk perched on a leather glove, the birdâs wintry gaze hooded, the bell silenced for now. He said nothing. There was no explanation, no apology. He merely turned and headed for the gap in the hawthorn hedge, where the gate used to be. Watt? He was sitting nearby, crying his eyes out. Susanna grabbed him and held him close, then she drew Adam in with a frantic wave and grabbed hold of him too. Matilda arrived with a flurry of alarm, enfolding them all in the yellow lining of her cloak. Aunt Marian burst from the house.
âHo Thunderbolt!â the good woman cried on reaching the stable, where a great tug released the knot from the dogâs collar.
The animal was the size of a small horse, and bayed like the Devil, bounding after the stranger with six, seven, eight ferocious leaps, before suddenly stopping, taking up the dead rat and savagely shaking it from side to side. The man with the hawk sheathed a knife he had momentarily produced, then turned and vanished into the lane.
Sir Robert Welles staggered under the weight of the young deer draped across his shoulders, almost thankful not to have caught the large stag he had been hunting. Reaching the long table by the fireplace, he paused for a big breath, lowered his head then lifted the inert mass off his shoulders and down beside some waiting cups of wine, producing a thud that reverberated around the great hall. His companions cheered and piled a dozen or so lifeless birds next to his catch. It had been a good dayâs sport in the park attached to Grimsthorpe Castle, one of the bastions of the Welles clan, a few miles from Bourne. Its wooden palisades and stone towers dominated western Lincolnshire.
âFind me some Yorkists,â Sir Robert rejoiced, âso I can add them to the pile!â
âTheyâre getting to be as rare in these parts as unicorns,â said his lieutenant, John Denby, adding a pheasant to the kill before accepting one of the cups the servants were handing out.
Sir Robert clapped him on the back. Denby was a manâs man and the best company in the world. It was he who had felled the deer, thrusting it through with a lance when it had sprung between their startled horses, otherwise they might have returned to the palisades and towers with nothing to brag about.
âA toast to your father!â said Denby, personally handing Sir Robert a mighty chalice studded with gems, a family heirloom. âGod bless Lord Welles!â
âGod bless my father,â Sir Robert concurred, raising the chalice as a prompt to all their companions. âLord Welles, God bless him.â
âLord Welles, God bless him!â cried the assembly, some thirty strong, each man with an embossed silver cup gleaming at the end of his reach. Lord Welles had gone to Westminster for talks with the king, escorted by a great cavalcade of retainers, about a week ago. If the talks had gone according to plan, Lincolnshire would end up his personal fiefdom, even if ostensibly ruled on the kingâs behalf. News of his success was expected any day now. It would be their crowning triumph after years of hard work, peeling supporters from the kingâs friends and grafting them onto their own cohort. Lord Welles was a bulldog for courage and persistence, and Sir Robert was devoted to him, yet it was good to be out from under his shadow for once, the first man in Lincolnshire, at least for now.
âGod bless him,â he repeated as he prepared to drink from the chalice.
âWhat a coincidence!â said a tall figure all in black, emerging from behind one of the pillars in the hall.
Bertram Kilsby.
Kilsby was an agent of the mighty earl of Warwick, an important ally in the fractured politics of the realm. Ally? The earl was nobodyâs ally. His only ambition in a conflict with the throne was to go on being the real power behind it, no matter whether a Yorkist or Lancastrian happened to perch there. Creatures like Kilsby were Warwickâs eyes and ears, always sticking his nose where it didnât belong. He had been a guest of Lord Welles and Sir Robert for a month now, at Grimsthorpe Castle and other bastions of the Welles clanâwherever he could be kept under close watch by his hosts, while he kept watch for the earlâs benefit, maybe in support of the rebels, maybe not.
âCoincidence?â asked Denby. âWhat are you driving at, Kilsby?â
âYes, what are you driving at?â said Sir Robert, since the man in black seemed in no hurry to explain himself, casually strolling in and out between pillars, as if he owned the place.
âA messenger has just reached me from the earl,â Kilsby said as he finally approached the trophy-laden table, âwhile you were out hunting. The man is still here for questioning. Shall I spare you the trouble? Lord Welles never met the king. The talks were bait for a trap. But fear not, Sir Robert! Or at least not yet. Your father got wind of the mischief and sprinted for the closest refuge, Westminster Abbey. His retinue has been stripped of all their heraldic trappings, weapons and horses, and set loose like beggars. So now you get the picture! Your fatherâs safety is in Godâs hands, holed up in the abbey, minus friends and supporters, and here you are, mentioning him and God in the same breath! Uncanny co-incidence, wouldnât you say? God bless Lord Welles!â
Kilsby lifted his eyes in mock piety towards the rafters.
Sir Robert was stunned. So were his men. They all exchanged looks of dismay.
âHellfire and fury!â Sir Robert thunderedâwhat was the point of being left in charge if he didnât take charge now! âMy father goes to the king for talks and this is the thanks he gets? We ride to Westminster! Send word to our cohort! Raise up the whole of Lincolnshire!â
âNow wait a moment,â said Denby, resting a hand on Sir Robertâs shoulder. âLetâs not rush into anything just yet. We donât even know if Kilsbyâs report is true.â
Kilsby responded to this with one of his supercilious looks. He was naturally suited to looking down on people, his green eyes being separated by a long nose, like an elegant stone mullion dividing lancet windows, so that the eyebrows had a lofty quality even when he wasnât being supercilious. It was a face Sir Robert wanted to admire but when a man looks that haughty, anyone below knows he is being scorned. Sir Robert rose to the challenge. He set his untasted chalice on the table, signifying an end to frivolity, then stroked his moustache. It was a wild collection of brown whiskers and Sir Robert was proud of it. A clean shave was customary, even the law for other Englishmen, but the son of Lord Welles could do as he damn well pleased, and a moustache proved it. His father was the only other Englishman sporting anything like it, and it was intolerable thinking of his whiskers being confined to Westminster Abbey.
âHow do we even know your report is true, Kilsby?â he demanded to know.
âQuestion the messenger yourself, if you donât believe me,â said Kilsby with a shrug, meanwhile helping himself to a cup of wine.âBetter still, ask the earl. Heâs headed for Middleham Castle.â
âThatâs a weekâs ride there and back,â Denby confided in Sir Robert. âWeâll hear from our own people before then.â
âYour own people?â was Kilsbyâs response, eyes twinkling over the rim of his borrowed cup. âDo they know what the king is planning, let alone the earl, and do they have a counter-plan, these people of your own, Denby?â
âWhat are you talking about now?â said Denby.
âYes, God damn it,â said Sir Robert. âThe king has a plan, and your earl too? Is that it? Letâs hear them then.â
âOf course, I can say nothing of the earlâs plans,â said Kilsby, after another sip of borrowed wine. âA man as brilliant as Englandâs greatest nobleman has many friends, plans, contingencies, complexities that require the subtlest thought, the most careful co-ordination, information distributed when and as required, so that, in summary, only he ever knows all his own plans. You and I might know something of them once your rider returns from Middleham Castle. I can only tell you what the earlâs messenger has told me about the kingâs plans.â
âThen get on with it,â Denby prompted him.
âThis is a mighty hole,â Kilsby said as he inserted a finger into the deerâs punctured hide. âYour work, Sir Robert?â
âIt might as well be,â said the young knight, irritated more than ever by Kilsbyâs manner of not getting to the point straight away.
âThe king is the creature of his wifeâs family,â Kilsby continued, pausing for another drink of wine, âand his plans are theirs. They are still smarting over the deaths of her father and her brother in last yearâs rebellion, and they have begun preparations for amassing a large force. Officially, it will be to keep the peace here in Lincolnshire, as if they mean to broker an agreement between their people and yours. Officially, mind you. In fact, they mean to crush you rebels once and for all. By the time they are finished, your heads will be looking down from the gates of your own castle, though it will be no longer yours by then. A collection of heads, like so many trophies on the table here.â
He waved a careless hand at the dayâs catch.
âGood God,â said Sir Robert.
Grimsthorpe Castle, without his father, was a void, a question framed in timber and stone, and no amount of staring from the parapet, or following in his fatherâs footsteps, had prepared Sir Robert for the kind of tricks being played now. It was fortunate that Lord Welles had left behind a good counsellor in Denby the Dasher, a man of action that knew the right time to pull back on the reins and when to dig in the spurs. Sir Robert looked to him now.
âIt was the earl of Warwick got us into this trouble, starting with the rebellion last year,â Denby reminded him. âNow he must show himself on our side or lose face with his allies everywhereâassuming that these reports are even true.â
âThatâs right, Kilsby,â said Sir Robert. âYour earl loses face if he doesnât help us now, if what you say is true.â
âThe earl loses face if you lose your heads?â Kilsby mused. âBut speaking of reports! The messenger sent here by the earl must continue to France, so that our friends in exile will be ready to respond appropriately. You have ships in the fens. Letâs place him in one of those.â
This was a quick shift in business and Sir Robert wasnât surprised when Denby shook his head.
âThe earl has ships of his own,â he reminded Sir Robert. âThis is just Kilsbyâs latest excuse for snooping in our affairs.â
âThe fens are the most direct route to France,â Kilsby persisted. âThere is no time for delays. Or shall I report to the earl, whom you now rely on for your heads, that you have beenâhow shall I put itâunhelpful?â
âOur people in the fens donât take kindly to outsiders,â Denby insisted.
Sir Robert wasnât deaf to good advice but Denby could already claim credit for the deer, and it was bad policy to rely on anyone too much, so Sir Robert fingered his moustache again, like a man still considering the issue. He was still fingering it some moments later when one of the servants heralded the arrival of the abbot from Bourne Abbey, barely preventing the abbot announcing himself.
âI am in no mood for niceties!â he said as he advanced impatiently on Sir Robert. âI want something done. Your family has made itself the only power here in Lincolnshire, and I have come to you for help. The rebellion has turned my abbey into an inn. It is coming apart at the seams. People have nowhere else to go. Where is your father? I want to speak with him.â
Usually the abbot was a model of courtesy, and Sir Robert was too taken aback to say anything at first. Kilsby filled the void.
âIt is the season for hiding in abbeys,â he remarked with a laugh: âLord Welles at the abbey in Westminster, and his enemies here at the abbey in Bourne.â
The abbot stared at him.
âWho is this?â he asked Sir Robert. âEverywhere I look these days, itâs another face, another name I am expected to know. My abbey is full of them. Yet enemies? Who says my abbey houses anyoneâs enemies? They are frightened travellers anxious to go home. But Westminster Abbey? Lord Welles has taken refuge at Westminster Abbey? Who says?â
âBertram Kilsby,â said Denby, passing the abbot a cup of wine. âHe is merely a clerk that the earl of Warwick has yet to find a proper use for. Meanwhile we are making our own enquiries and, needless to say, we are still the power in Lincolnshire.â
âI am no less a man than my father,â Sir Robert affirmed, this being both a matter of pride and something of a joke, since he and his father were equally diminutive in stature, and big hearted in spite of it.
The abbot however was in no mood for pleasantries.
âThis rebellion must end for everyoneâs sake,â he said, flushing scarlet. âI am at the end of my wits. Only today there was a fresh outrage. One of your ruffians invaded the home of the spinster, Marian Kempe, a pious woman, and a great friend to me, the abbey, Bourne manor and the entire town. He set his hawk on her niece. A hawk! So, what is to be done about it?â
âRuffians?â Sir Robert objected, now no longer in a mood for pleasantries either. âMy men are all men of the best stamp, Iâd have you know. But this Kempe spinster is a stranger to meâand who is her niece? Some whore by God or she wouldnât be spreading lies about any man that rides with Sir Robert Welles.â
âSusanna Mandeville,â the abbot revealed. âAs chaste as a drift of snow, and almost a nun in her steadfast love of solitude! Her father is a merchant in the bishop of Winchesterâs manor in Southwark, almost a neighbour to his palace. These are not people you can take lightly.â
âChaste as a drift of snow,â Kilsby queried, wandering around a nearby post, âfrom Southwark? I had heard it is all whores on that side of the Thames.â
âEnvy is tongued like the Devil,â said the abbot, glaring. âMarian has ever been as beautiful as an angel, in body and in character, and her niece is cut from the same cloth. No ill must be spoken of those two women in my presence.â
âBut who was the fellow with the hawk?â said Denby. âDoes he have a name?â
âOh yes, everyone has a name,â the abbot complained, âwhich is why I am always struggling to remember them all, and why it takes forever investigating damages, missing items and endless complaints. Like a common inn! But he never gave his name. He said little. According to the niece, his accent was so far north, it nearly had a kilt on it.â
âTom Roussell,â said Denby, quick as a flash. âHe is still out hunting.â
âTom Roussell,â affirmed Sir Robertâs other hunting companions, nodding to each other. âIt must be Tom. He is a northerner, a Yorkshireman. Who else could it be?â
âTom Roussell!â marvelled the abbot. âIsnât heââ
âThe Beast of Ferrybridge!â said Sir Robert, eager to see the effect.
Roussell was the hardest of hard men, the foremost of all the heroes that the Lancastrian cause had ever summoned to its banners. He had once fought an entire county single-handedâand won. Most people in authority were familiar with his reputation, including the abbot, and he nearly choked on his wine.
âIt was him? The man that flew the hawk at Marianâs niece was the Beast of Ferrybridge? A man like that in our neighbourhood! I should have been warned.â
âWe donât like to brag,â said Sir Robert, âso we have kept his visit here quiet, like a sword in its sheath, biding the hour when we strike terror into the hearts of our foes.â
âWhen better than now,â said Denby, âthough scaring girls wasnât quite what we had in mind.â
âThey have been frightened enough already, even without knowing the manâs name,â mused the abbot. âBut someone must apologise, if not the Beast himself, then someone on his behalf.â
Kilsby circled around to the abbot and presented himself with an elegant bow.
âRoussell is more a colleague of mine than a friend of Sir Robert,â he declared in all his dark impudence. âWe are both indentured to the earl of Warwick. But my apologies for speaking out of turn a moment ago. Pray allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Bertram Kilsby, a cousinââ
âA distant cousin,â Denby interposed, âalmost no cousin at all.â
ââof the earl of Warwick,â Kilsby persisted, âwhom it is my pleasure to serve as a kind of roving steward. That is to say, I oversee the work of other stewards, helping out wherever I can: dusting off contracts, adding new clauses, investigating discrepanciesââ
âSnooping,â added Denby.
âThe Beast of Ferrybridge helps with that?â the abbot wondered.
âHe is a lamb when not a lion,â Kilsby assured him. âWe are heading to the fens tomorrow, on business for the earl, and I will personally see to it that Tom offers both the Kempe woman and her niece his humblest apologies.â
âTom saying sorry is something Iâd like to see myself,â Denby volunteered, âand a visit is just what our people in the fens will need, if Kilsbyâs reports are true, but there is no call for the earlâs snoop to tag along.â
âThere can be no apologies then,â said the man in black. âTom goes nowhere in Lincolnshire without the earlâs authority, which, for present purposes, is invested in me.â
âBut an apology is essential,â pleaded the abbot. âSomeone must apologise.â
âEnough of all such wrangles!â said Sir Robert, actually glad of this chance to assert himself, since they all seemed to have forgotten who was in charge here. âThere is no friendship without trust, and trust is what we must have. Tom Roussell is my guest and he will apologise tomorrow. Kilsby is also my guest and he may travel with Tom to the fens. Denby will go too, just to keep a watch on things. Thatâs final.â
âAnd what of all the people in my abbey?â said the abbot. âTheyâll never leave without a guarantee of safe passage. The county is swarming with bandits. These troubles cannot to be endured a day longer.â
âThese are difficult times for me too, damn it!â Sir Robert snapped. âI have responsibilities, not just here butâwhere?â
âLincoln,â Denby advised him. âYet the abbot is a good friend. You should be able to visit himâtomorrow week?â
âExpect me at your abbey tomorrow week,â Sir Robert advised the abbot. âIf I like what I see, Iâll arrange an escort out of Lincolnshire for all who require it. But why people want to leave, when things here are better now than they ever were under the Yorkists, is something that makes me wonder whose side those people are on.â
Susanna was embarrassed at how little damage the hawk had actually done: a gash to the palm of her right hand, some punctures high on her forehead, and a few scratches on her scalp. The real hurt had been to her pride. She had needed rescuing from a bird hardly bigger than an alley cat, and her rescuer hadnât even thought her worth an apology. She was still wrinkling her nose at one of Aunt Marianâs home remediesâa poultice that stank of crowfoot and vinegarâwhen the abbot arrived late in the afternoon, with news that the apology was on its way. This was the first time, in Susannaâs recollection, that he had ever visited the house in all his Church regalia, a measure of the occasionâs seriousness. The invasion of a respectable home, especially one belonging to a force like Marian, was not to be tolerated.
âIt is intolerable!â he said, banging the floor with his crozier. âAn attack on your household, Marian, is an attack on us all. It is an attack on the abbey itself. However, I have made enquiries and I have discovered the culprit.â
âYes?â
âHe is indentured to the earl of Warwick, and he has been staying at Grimsthorpe Castle off and on for a month now. He will make his apologies tomorrow, sometime in the morning, I think.â
âName and details?â
âA man-at-arms from Yorkshire: Tom Roussell.â
The abbot looked ready to say something else but pursed his lips instead. He was often more eyes than words in their company, and he finally left after kissing Marianâs hand as devotedly as if she were the pope.
âSometime in the morning?â Susanna mused after the door had closed on his visit. âThat doesnât sound very sorry to me. Today would be sorrier.â
âTomorrow gives us more time. We must look our best.â
âLook our best for a rebel?â Susanna scoffed, her pride disallowing any change to her usual routine. âYou heard what the abbot said. Roussell is indentured to the earl of Warwick, and we all know that Warwick is the biggest trouble-maker in the kingdom. And Grimsthorpe Castle! A festering sore we all know is the seat of rebellion here in Lincolnshire. That Roussell creature is a traitorâs lickspittle if he is in with that lot. I am not going to dress up for the likes of him.â
âHe is just an untutored Yorkshireman,â her aunt conceded, âbut he must be made to see how important you are, or he wonât know how wrong he is.â
âI must make myself look as bold as an alehouse sign, as a woman of consequence, or he wonât know any better?â
âWhat about that beautiful blue gown I bought for you, when I presented you to Lady Margaret Beaufort? That will put him in his place.â
Aunt Marianâs piety was seasoned with lashings of worldly wisdom, otherwise Susanna could never have loved her so much. However, Marian didnât know everything. The blue gown had been ripped almost in half and Susanna had been keeping it from her notice for over two months. Lady Margaret Beaufort was one of the greatest women in England, and the damage had been done by Sir Henry Beaufort, her husband. Matilda knew most of the story, and Susanna confided in her next.
âI need you to do an errand for me,â she whispered: they shared a tiny room partitioned from the hall by a screen of white swans, painted by Susanna herself during a previous stay. âDid you hear me or are you deaf?â
Matilda was sitting on the bed, face averted, arms folded. The slap across the face had not been forgiven in spite of everything else that had happened since.
âIâm sorry I slapped you,â Susanna now volunteered.
âIt hurt!â
âIt was meant to. Now stop sulking and listen. I have to wear something suitable for tomorrowâs apology.â
âApologies matter to you?â
âI am really, really sorry I slapped you.â
âI donât believe you.â
âThen lend me some forgiveness until Christmas, when we settle my other debts, and Iâll apologise twice. This is important. That blue gown I asked you to keep hidden for meââ
âAfter Sir Henry ripped it.â
âHush! I told you it was an accident.â
âSuch accidents never happen to me.â
âHe said he was going to show me some paintings in Lady Margaretâs solarium, he tripped on the stairsââ
âGrabbing your gown, just to steady himself.â
âI donât want trouble between Lady Margaret and my aunt. We must pretend it never happened.â
Matilda brightened for a moment.
âI have the perfect cloak for that gown. Itâs English wool, French design, all in lemon and white, with a drawstring at the collar.â
âHow will that improve things?â
âYou want to hide the damage, donât you?â
âYour cloak wonât hide it from me.â
âThen how about I lend you one of my own gowns! A few nips and tucks are all it needs for a good fit.â
âI donât want to look like you. We have to repair the blue one.â
âItâs beyond even my skills, but I know the right woman. She wonât come cheap: an expert seamstress working late into the night, making invisible repairsâsixpence at least.â
âA nice, round sum. Thatâs always the way with you, isnât it! Anyway, Iâll pay you back later. Tell the seamstress itâs one of yours.â
âThe style is elegant enough to be one of mine. Your aunt has good taste.â
âYouâll have to come up with some excuse for leaving the house,â Susanna reflected. âMarian is on the alert now and she is watching everyone and everything like a ... like a ...â
âHawk?â
âAnd now I have thought of a good excuse! Wattâs dog went missing. We can say you are out looking for it.â
âIt is hardly a real dog, nothing like Thunderbolt.â
âWatt calls it Dog, and I wouldnât call Thunderbolt a real dog after todayâs episode.â
âWhy must your aunt always take in riff-raff? It is probably out killing the neighboursâ chickens again.â
âShe wants Dog found and thatâs good enough for me. Now, hide the gown in your shawl, and off you go.â
âI am charging you at the usual rateâtwo returned for every one borrowedâso the sixpence I am lending is another shilling. Thatâs now four pounds, six shillings and fourpence, not including the money promised to Adam, all payable to me by Christmas.â
âYes, yes, off you go.â
There is nothing better, in my opinion, than a really good historical fiction novel. I love to get a glimpse into what life was like âback thenâ. And if the book can do so in a way that is fun to read and not too dry â then that is a book I wonât be able to put down. This book, Mirrored Sword Part One, was one of those books. It was so good I binge read it in a few hours on a rainy Sunday afternoon â I just couldnât put it down.
The dialogue is witty and natural throughout and the author, Allan Hands, has filled his story with so many well-developed and multifaceted characters that I could picture the happenings in my mind as I read, almost as if a tiny play was being performed just for me in my imagination. This is a story that spans a short time period (only 17 days) and most of the action is contained within limited locations. It could have easily grown so stale but because the author chose to timebox each chapter as one of the days and provide a snippet of the story told from the perspective of one of the characters the narrative always feels fresh.
Little bits of our characters and their backstories are revealed throughout, and as each layer is revealed, the story remains interesting and engaging, keeping you wanting moreâ especially about our two main characters Susanna and Tom. The author also uses character perspective to provide the historical exposition that is needed to understand the political climate of England at the time (the story is set during the War of the Roses a time of civil war in England 1470s). The author does an excellent job of providing a glimpse into what it was like in the towns and while travelling during this turbulent time period.
Just one warning - the book ends a bit abruptly but that is because there is a sequel book â Mirrored Sword Part Two. If the authorâs intent was to have me so invested in Susanna and Tomâs story that I was chomping at the bit to get my hands on the second part of their story â mission succeeded. If you, like me, love historically rich novels with some comedy, adventure, and romance thrown in for good measure â this book is definitely one to read.