LITMIR.BIZ

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her brother had been deliberately cruel in his verbal attacks on her.

      She felt very alone and glanced briefly at the still-chattering Bridget, then sighed. She could expect little help from that quarter. How she longed for the brusque kindness of her old wetnurse, who had unfortunately died only last Martinmas.

      These were not her own men and had been given instructions to report to Sir Gilbert when they had seen her safely to Coventry. She was thankful that a messenger had been sent ahead to announce her coming—at least she would not arrive unexpectedly, which would have proved a distinct embarrassment. As she rode, she found herself trying to imagine just how the Queen would greet her. Somehow, she could not dismiss the notion that she would be unwelcome.

      Queen Margaret had too much to concern her in dealing with the Yorkist lords—in particular the youthful Edward, Earl of March, the Rose of Rouen, as he had been aptly named, both for his birthplace and his exceptional physical beauty—to want to bother with a new lady in waiting who was recently bereaved and in need of eligible suitors, who would have to be persuaded to offer for her hand in marriage, however wealthy her inheritance.

      ‘The wound’s clean, Master Robert, and closing nicely. Mistress Hoyland did a fair job.’

      Margery Lightbody got up from her kneeling position by his stool and bent to collect the basin and the pot of salve she had been using to dress Robert Devane’s leg.

      She stretched, putting a hand to her aching back.

      ‘You should be well enough to begin the ride to London tomorrow, but heed my words, take it easy. The stitching was well done, but you could still burst them by riding hard. We don’t want the wound to start oozing pus, do we?’

      ‘No, we don’t,’ Robert mimicked her domineering tone and grinned back at her.

      Margery was a good soul, but beauty and charm had eluded her when the good God had created her. She was one of his father’s most loyal servants, having been born to service at Devane Manor, and Robert valued her as had all the members of his family. Margery had been a younger nursemaid who had chased after him when he had toddled and his wetnurse had been too fat and wheezy to do so.

      He had seen little of her lately since his stay in Calais, had not known of her marriage to Will Lightbody, but he was always glad to see her. Now that Will was gone—cut down in the attack on the manor—and though concerned for her safety, Rob had protested when she had joined the little knot of retainers determined to follow him in his flight from the district, but he had given way at last. Margery was not to be gainsaid.

      She was a big, raw-boned woman, solemn of features and surly of tongue, but he knew her to be worth her solid weight in gold. She pushed impatiently at straggles of dark hair which had escaped from her cap and gazed moodily out of the unglazed window.

      It had been Margery who had suggested the weary little band should rest up here in the old foresters’ hut where her grandfather had once lived. Not far from Lutterworth, the place, deserted for years since the old man’s death, was well hidden by forest scrub. It was a convenient hiding place for the needed respite, close to the London road that Rob was determined to take the moment he was recovered enough to ride.

      The two were alone together in the dark and cold little hut, the other members of the band out looking for game for the pot. Margery had managed to get a sulky fire of sorts going beneath the one smoke hole, but the air in the hut was fouled by the smoke that remained in the place and it was still deadly cold. At least it had prevented them all from freezing to death throughout the three nights that they had stayed here.

      Rob grinned at Margery as she moved to stir the small hanging pot over the fire. What in the Virgin’s name she had in it, he dared not think, probably herbs and roots sufficient to keep them alive and warmed. Her scolding tongue had hustled out the hunting party to search for a hare or pigeon. She’d had the forethought to bring the pot and other necessities like her herbs and salves in her flight from her home.

      His grin faded as he thought how her practicality might well have deserted her. She had remained grim-lipped and uncommunicative about what had befallen her after the attack, but he had drawn his own conclusions. He turned from her now to draw up his hose and tie his points. Margery might not be as gentle in touch as Mistress Hoyland nor as skilful, but at least she wasn’t determined to hand him over to those who would see him swing at a rope’s end. No, he could not refuse her protection.

      The men had been warned, on peril of their lives, to leave her unmolested; Rob grinned inwardly as he considered any man brave indeed who would even accost her. They had watched her warily as she had stolidly tramped the frost-hardened fields and rutted roads with them, grunted with relish at her culinery skills and kept their distance.

      Even Piers Martine, that swarthy rapscallion who’d accompanied Rob from Calais and come timely to his rescue at Hoyland, had not dared to challenge Margery and Piers constantly boasted that all women were fair game to him.

      Rob looked up sharply as his straining ears caught the sounds of approach through the undergrowth near the hut. Margery nodded imperceptibly and moved near to the door.

      Sym and Diggory Fletcher knocked cautiously on the old warped door and, as warily, pushed their way in. Neither appeared to be carrying food for the pot. Margery sighed, then clucked her tongue in disapproval.

      The two were brothers, men-at-arms who had served his father loyally and they had joined Piers Martine and Silas Whitcome, expressing their determination to join Rob and eventually see retribution exacted on those Hoyland men who had killed their master and damaged their home manor.

      Sym crouched by Rob’s stool and his brother sauntered over to the pot and sniffed at its contents.

      ‘We heard some news we thought might interest you, Master Rob, and came straight back to tell you.’

      ‘Without so much as a pigeon for the pot,’ Margery sniffed.

      Sym ignored her while Diggory simply grinned.

      ‘Sir Gilbert Hoyland set out this morning with an escort of about twenty men. He was making for the London road, I reckon, and though he’s got a sizeable company and won’t be expecting trouble, I think as ’ow we could give ’im some, ’specially as we could ambush the party from the scrubland. We ’eard it from a woodcutter who’d recognised the device on the men’s jacks. Most of the folk ’ereabout ’ave ’eard of our trouble and see ’ow we’d like to get even.

      ‘We managed to skirt the road and saw the party. I counted the men-at-arms and there seem to be fewer than was mentioned. P’raps he sent some of his men off to ’is own manor, anyway ’e’d be an easy target for us now.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘There’s five of us and me and Diggory’s expert archers. What does you say, Master Rob?’

      ‘I say the master’s got enough to do in his state to see himself safely to London and on his way to Calais,’ snapped Margery. ‘There’s time enough when he’s got more support from the Earl to think about getting even with them Hoylands.’

      Rob’s lips parted in a slow smile. ‘Do you know where Piers is, Sym?’

      ‘’E’s near enough for one of us to find him. Diggory’s a good tracker.’

      Rob pushed himself up. ‘We could do with some horses,’ he said thoughtfully and Margery snorted again. They had had some difficulty in releasing one from the Devane stables under the noses of the Hoyland guards left there. One was needed for Rob’s progress to London since walking had been difficult as his wound had pained him, but the rest could manage easily enough without. She considered this proposed attack madness but, catching her Rob’s eyes, saw it would do her no good at all to say so. His blue eyes were already shining with enthusiasm for the venture.

      Diggory was dispatched and, sooner than expected, returned with the Frenchman and Silas Whitcome. Piers cheerfully brandished a brace of pigeons and the company sat on the earth floor near the fire near Rob’s stool while Margery plucked and prepared the pigeons for the cooking pot. Rob spelt out his proposed ambush and Piers Martine reflectively fingered

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