Chapter 12

 

 

Clinton House was built on an island surrounded by a water-filled ditch, with pleasant low-lying fields and woods beyond. To the east, about two miles distant, was the village of Gainthorpe, the inhabitants of which had owed their allegiance to the Norman lords of Clinton ever since the Conquest. The lords of Clinton were never tyrants, and had no need to be since the manor was abundantly fertile and set in the middle of a prosperous, peaceful part of England.

Swale felt intensely envious as he and his company left the woods and rode over the broad, open acres. This was what he wanted, fine land and good soil in a quiet corner of the country, where he could settle down and raise a family, a new generation to replace those slaughtered in Cumberland. Then, perhaps, he might feel redeemed for his failure to protect his kin.

Their progress was slow, thanks to the wounded servants who rode slumped in their saddles, clutching the improvised bandaging on their wounds. Swale had taken the opportunity to question Edward Parker about his mistress. He learned that she was a widow, her husband having married her in May of the previous year and died in January of the present. There were no children of their brief union. Parker was reticent about how he died, and would not be drawn on the details.

A young, childless widow, with some nice land and a great pile of money,” said Rhys, winking at Swale. “Surely the bachelors of the county are swarming to get her up the aisle?”

No,” Edward replied in his curt, graceless manner, “they are not. And if you knew anything, Taffy, you would know why.”

Taffy, is it? That is ungracious language to use against one who risked his skin to help you.”

Edward scowled. “My brother served in the Welsh wars during old King Edward’s reign. He died in your shit-hole of a country.”

Should have stayed at home, then, should he not, Saes? We did not ask your people to invade and occupy our land, though you have been doing it for centuries.”

Swale intervened before a full-scale row could break out. He was beginning to regret bringing Rhys along. The man was useful enough in a fight, but endlessly sarcastic and a naturally divisive presence.

The view of Clinton House was a welcome distraction. It was built in an L-shape, with the servant’s wing at the western end. The house was timber-framed, and panels of whitewashed wattle and daub filled in the frame to make the walls. Smoke drifted from the stone chimney on the sloping, tiled roof over the central hall, filling the minds of the company with pleasant thoughts of food and shelter.

The surrounding ditch was crossed via a plank bridge facing the southern wall of the house, and there was a guard at the far end of the bridge. He looked suspiciously at Swale and his companions, but touched a finger to his helm in recognition of Edward. Raising the horn that hung at his side, he blew three quick blasts and then signalled to the company that they could cross.

What happened?” the guard asked, when he saw the condition of the swooning, grey-faced servants.

Folville’s crew,” Edward replied shortly. “Take them to the servant’s quarters, and then send someone to fetch John Albon from the rectory in Gainthorpe.”

Who is John Albon?” asked Swale.

Our local chaplain,” the old man explained, “and he has some knowledge of medicine. He will heal them, if anyone can. And if he cannot save their bodies, at least he will be on hand to save their souls.”

Swale was only half-listening, his attention riveted on the house. In his mind he was master of the place.

The guard took the bridles of the ponies carrying the wounded men, and led them away to the servant’s wing. Parker led Swale’s company to the main door of the house, and opened it cautiously. The reason for his caution quickly became clear as a pack of enormous wolfhounds piled through the doorway, leaping up at the old man, barking madly and deluging him in excited slobber.

Back, you curs, you hounds of Hell!” he screamed, laying about him with his crop, and the dogs subsided, confining themselves to running about him in circles and sniffing the legs of the newcomers. They carefully negotiated their way through the hairy, milling beasts, and stepped through into the hall.

In the hall was a single large chamber with a vaulted roof and a fire burning in a stone hearth at the eastern end. Sweet herbs had been laid on the fire, filling the chamber with a pleasant, slightly exotic odour. The stout rafters in the ceiling were blackened by the smoke of generations, and the rushes on the floor were quite new. A kitchen boy was seated by the fire and plucking a capon for supper.

Go and fetch your mistress,” Edward barked. The boy by the fire dropped his capon and dashed away through a side-door. While they waited, the steward grudgingly allowed his guests a cup of wine each from a jug standing on the long table in the middle of the hall.

This is the stuff the servants drink,” he said with perverse satisfaction. “Foul muck. My lady has some choice claret from Rhennes in the cellar, and half a cask of sweet Burgundy. She occasionally lets me have a taste…though I have been known to help myself.”

He winked conspiratorially, and Rhys rolled his eyes. “What a grand life is yours, old man,” he said with mock admiration. “Does she occasionally let you try on her petticoats, as well?”

Edward’s shrivelled lips framed around a sharp retort, but the words went unsaid as the dogs flowed back into the hall. Behind them Lady Clinton appeared, preceded by the kitchen page.

This was the moment Swale had been anticipating. He had already fallen in love with her possessions, and would not have cared overmuch if the woman had resembled a pig. Beauty would have been a welcome bonus, but not essential.

As it turned out, she was not beautiful. Elizabeth Clinton was tall and spare and well past her prime, probably advancing on thirty, with a gaunt, sinewy look about her. Her mouth was too wide, her cheekbones too sharp, and her eyes glinted with a sharp, penetrating intelligence that brooked no fools and took no prisoners. She was dressed in working clothes, rough woollen homespun, like any peasant’s wife, and her hair was dragged cruelly back and tied at the nape of her neck. Her sleeves were rolled up, and she came in wiping garden soil from her hands with an old cloth.

You are late in coming home, Edward,” she said in a tone of mild reproof. “That is not like you. Why have you brought strangers to my house?”

Edward bowed, wincing at the pain from the tender stripes on his back. “Apologies, my lady. We were waylaid on the road from Northampton, not three miles away. Alan and Jack were sore wounded, and I have sent for the chaplain of Gainthorpe to come and see to them. We might have fared worse, but for these men here. They drove the thieves away.”

Elizabeth said nothing for a moment. Her dark eyes made a rapid study of Swale and his companions, weighing them in the balance.

Who robbed you, Parker?” she demanded, tossing the grubby cloth onto a bench.

Alas, they were led by Nicholas Folville.”

That carrot-haired bastard, who reckons he is so handy with a sword? So the Folvilles are set on persecuting me and mine, after all. This will teach me not to trust an outlaw’s promise.”

Elizabeth wrung her hands, looking deeply troubled, and then remembered she had guests.

I thank you,” she said, “though I cannot imagine what inspired you to take such risks. You made some dangerous enemies today.”

Swale cleared his throat. “We left two dead on the road, my lady. They, at least, are in no condition to threaten us. I should introduce myself. I am Sir John Swale, just come from London, and these are…”

He was interrupted by a horrified noise from Elizabeth. “Dead?” she shouted, wide-eyed. “You killed two of Folville’s men? In God’s name, say none of them were his kin!”

Edward moved forward, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, my lady, Nicholas was the only one of the family with them. He got away.”

That is something. Not much, but something,” Elizabeth leaned against the wall, closing her eyes as she tried to think. Swale exchanged glances with Rhys, who shrugged.

We had thought of begging your hospitality for the night,” Swale ventured, “but if our presence here places you in danger, we will go.”

Elizabeth waved that away. “No, no,” she said in a tone of pained sincerity, “of course you can stay. I am not the most well-mannered hostess, I know, but you are welcome. Most welcome.”

Lady Clinton may not have been the most well-mannered hostess, but she was still a lady of breeding and did not dine with the lower orders. Rhys and Thomas were packed off to the kitchens with Edward, to eat and drink in the company of servants. Swale, as a knight, was allowed to have supper with her in the hall. Richard was also suffered to stay, but had to have his meal by the fire and keep his mouth shut.

Swale was used to the company of other knights and men-at-arms, and found conversation with women difficult. On the few occasions he had dined with Joan Bataill, she had said little except courteous pleasantries, and spent much of the meal in petrified silence with her eyes downcast. Elizabeth was different. She had a sharp wit, and firm opinions, and asked pointed questions, all of which left Swale feeling disorientated. He had entertained vague thoughts of proposing to her, but these were quickly routed.

Elizabeth did not approve of Hugh Despenser, and was disgusted that Swale had chosen to serve such a man. “You must have some good in you, judging by what you did today,” she said sniffily, gnawing through her third pork chop, “but anyone who serves a devil like that has tarnish on their soul. Hugh Despenser is the Devil, or one of his servants. Thank God he has never heard of me. I hear that rich, vulnerable widows are one of his favourite targets.”

Swale hastily drank more of her wine, which was as excellent as Edward claimed. He knew all about Despenser’s treatment of vulnerable widows, since he had witnessed the torture of several who opposed his lord’s shameless attempts to filch their dowries and estates, in manipulation of secular law and disregard of all the laws of chivalry.

Witnessed, and done nothing to save them. Another blow to his pride, his only consolation being that he had refused to take part in the torture. Not the torture of women, at least…

These were deep, dark waters, and Swale surfaced in time to see Lady Clinton studying him again. “I can see your conscience is scratching at you,” she said. “Well, I will not pry any further. You have my thanks for today, my roof over your head tonight, and tomorrow you will be gone. At least you have not asked for my hand in marriage.”

She barked with laughter at the stricken expression on his face. “They all do, you know,” she cried, wiping grease from her chin. “Every noble bachelor for thirty miles has come galloping here in high hopes since my husband’s death. They do not care for my lack of beauty, or ladylike charm, or that I will be thirty in October. You see, I may be an old spinster, but am still young enough to conceive. Perhaps I might squeeze out one or two boys before conveniently dying in childbed and leaving my husband with five hundred fat acres to play with.”

Swale was stunned, unable to cope with such bright, brutal frankness from a woman. “I tell them all to bugger off,” she said, her smile creasing the dozens of little lines around her eyes, “and must be the only woman in England with the freedom to do so. My father does not like it, but he is in Warwickshire and can do nothing to force me into wedlock again. You see, my late husband Henry was a dear man. He loved me, and I was fond of him, and when he died he left everything to me. Not just the land and the house, but the legal control of it all. Every day I visit my private chapel and thank him for that parting gift.”

Swale made a great effort to say something sensible. “You honour me with your confidence, lady,” he said, “though I do not know what I have done to deserve it. I am a stranger to you.”

She dropped the decimated chop onto her plate and began toying with her hair. Now hanging loose, her hair was the most attractive part of her, thick and curling and a vivid reddish-brown colour.

I know,” she mused, “I am terribly indiscreet, but I so rarely have anyone to talk to. The only man with any learning on my manor is the chaplain, Master Albon. He can be amusing company, once he has a few drinks inside him. But I never have any guests of distinction. They take care to stay away.”

Because of the Folvilles,” Swale prompted, and Elizabeth looked up at him sharply.

You are not entirely lacking in brains, then,” she said. “Yes, the Folvilles. Did Edward tell you anything about how my husband died?”

Swale shook his head.

He probably thought he was defending my honour, the old fool. As if I have any. Well, I shall tell you. Like many of the gentlemen in these parts, Henry was involved with the Folville gang, or the Brotherhood as their leader, Eustace, insists on calling them. He paid Eustace and his brothers to frighten off a neighbouring lord who was trying to encroach on us, claiming that a water mill Henry’s father built nine years ago was actually on his land and therefore his property. They did the job well enough, but then quarrelled with my husband over pay. One of the Folvilles, I do not know which, stabbed him. They dumped him on my doorstep and ran off. He died two days later, in our bed upstairs. I sleep there still, and sometimes feel his spirit lying next to me.”

Swale had nothing to say to the bleak tale. “Lady, I am sorry to hear it,” was the best he could do. He was afraid that Elizabeth might begin to weep, but her eyes remained hard and dry. She might have been describing someone else’s suffering.

Eustace sent me a note, after the funeral,” she went on, “in which he signed himself the King of the Green Tower. I took that to mean he was skulking in the forests somewhere. He promised not to molest me or my servants, so long as I did not prosecute him in law. Do not take that for mercy on his part. Shortly after my husband died, he and his kin assisted in the murder of Sir Roger Beler, which you must have heard of. Eustace knows that was a mistake, and wants no more lawsuits thrown at him while he tries to evade the King’s justices.”

The mention of Beler made Swale think that she was about to ask him his business in the district, or if he was just passing through, but she did not. Instead Elizabeth veered off in another direction altogether.

I notice you walk with a limp,” she said. “What happened to your left leg?”

Such bluntness made him smile, though it was not a subject he had ever found amusing. “Some years ago, while campaigning in Scotland, I was caught while riding alone in wild country by a band of Scottish outriders.”

Why were you out riding alone in hostile territory?”

Trying to rescue my sister, would have been the truthful reply. Trying to rescue her, though she had been missing for two years and he had no idea where she might have been taken, or even if she was still alive. He could not face saying anything so foolish to Elizabeth, so avoided the question and instead gave her a taste of her own direct style.

They caught me,” he repeated, “and held me down, and one of them broke my leg with a war-hammer while his friends laughed and pissed on me. He would have broken a great deal more, if a troop of men-at-arms led by one of Lord Despenser’s banner knights had not happened along and chased them off. Christ was watching over me that day.”

She was not fazed for an instant. “A shame he was not there to wipe off the piss and heal your leg. Oh dear, now I suppose I should ask for forgiveness.”

Elizabeth made the sign of the cross, and winked at Swale as if they were both in on some great secret.

You have still not made any move towards matrimony,” she said. “Thank you for that. Will you tell me your business in the county?”

Swale had his answer ready. “A diplomatic mission. I can say no more than that.”

Elizabeth did not press the matter, and the rest of the meal was spent in small talk. Nevertheless, when he finally mounted the stair to his bedchamber for the night, Swale felt that he had been on the wrong end of a thorough interrogation.