LITMIR.BIZ

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such a state of disarray it will be even more difficult to find a suitable husband for you, and God knows I’m disinclined to provide a dowry for you to become a Bride of Christ.’

      Clare had been heartily thankful for that decision. She had no vocation to take the veil, but neither had she any desire to remain on the manor, a poor relation, the butt of Peter’s unkindness and either ignored or resented by a new mistress of Peter’s choosing.

      So far he had made no attempt to seek a wife. The Court had moved from place to place, constantly on the move under the fretful rule of the warlike Queen Margaret and neither she nor the saintlike and feebleminded King Henry showed any inclination to arrange Court alliances.

      Peter aimed high, since his wealth entitled him to the hand of some lady from an influential family who could assist him into the counsels of the nobility. For so long as he was prepared to wait, Clare would be expected to manage Hoyland Manor for him competently and without complaint.

      Aware that she was not beautiful, not even remotely pretty, Clare seldom bothered to press for elaborate gowns or jewellery and infrequently looked at her reflection in the small ornamental mirror of Italian glass presented to her by her father on her tenth birthday.

      In it she had seen that her features were, indeed, un-remarkable. Her hair was brown, almost mousey, she thought ruefully, her face oval, but her brows were too dark and heavy and dominated her olive-tinted face. She would have preferred to have had a pink and white complexion like her uncle’s daughter, Isabel, whose golden locks and large blue eyes had been greatly admired. Clare’s eyes were large and her father had fondly declared them luminous, but were an undistinguished grey.

      Peter’s dark good looks were attractive to the manor wenches, Clare had noticed, but her own, by comparison, were simply acceptable, though she was not ugly. She possessed some good features; her mouth was wide and generous but she determined her nose too large and not enhanced by the slightest tendency to tilt up at the end. To add to all this, she was over-tall for a woman and gawky, her clumsiness increased by being continually under the critical gaze of her older brother.

      Clare stayed huddled near the fire, glad to be alone for a while. She had been busy inspecting the kitchen, buttery and dairy. Soon she must go into the hall and make sure the trestles were being put up in readiness for the evening meal. She hoped the corner she had curtained off would not be required to house any wounded men her uncle brought back with him. She leaned her head back against the padded head-rest of her chair and closed her eyes.

      It was good to be here, quiet without the fussy attentions of Bridget, the kitchen wench she had tried to train as a personal maid. The girl was willing but talked incessantly and found it hard to retain instruction from one day to the next.

      It was growing dark in the room already and someone would be up shortly to seek her permission to light candles and prickets. She had insisted that the use of them be curtailed somewhat. Recently they had been left burning too long and supplies of mutton fat and tallow were dwindling.

      She thought she heard a lone horseman ride into the courtyard, but did not stir. She would know by the number of horsemen and the noise of arrival, the shouts and demands for service, when the raiding party returned. She was more than a little irritated when she heard feet ascending the stairs and Bridget’s over-shrill voice calling for leave to enter the solar.

      ‘Mistress Clare, oh, please, Mistress Clare, you must come at once…’

      Bridget was always easily excited and Clare rose reluctantly. Obviously some domestic crisis demanded her attention. Possibly one of the maids had scalded herself or cut herself in the kitchen.

      ‘What is it, Bridget?’ Already she was on her feet and turning towards the door.

      It flew open and a panting and tearful Bridget erupted into the room. Behind her, grim-faced and equally short of breath from the hasty climb up the stair, was one of Sir Gilbert’s men. The fellow had come with her uncle from his own manor in Northamptonshire and so was not well known to Clare. He stopped in the doorway and hastily ducked his head in an embarrassed gesture of respect.

      ‘Mistress…’

      She stood stock-still and faced him, as if, already, she knew he brought ill tidings.

      ‘What is it, man? Clearly you have been sent back to me in great haste. Is Sir Gilbert hurt? I have already made preparations in case…’

      His wide-spaced eyes regarded her steadily, then, meeting her anxious gaze, awkwardly drew away to look well beyond her.

      ‘It’s—it’s Sir Peter, mistress, he’s—’ frantically the messenger drew a hard breath ‘—he’s—he’s dead, mistress, took an arrow in the gorget. He—he lived only moments. There was nothing anyone could do.’

      He waited while the shock of his news registered fully, then he added, ‘Sir Gilbert sent me ahead to warn you—let you prepare. There are one or two men slightly wounded and there are—prisoners.’ She remained very still, hands clasped tightly before her and he rushed on, ‘The raid was successful, mistress. Sir Gilbert bade me tell you the Devanes paid hardly for—for Sir Peter’s death.’

      She moved at last very slowly towards him. Bridget was sobbing hysterically and Clare said curtly, ‘Stop crying, girl. There is much to be done and I shall need you.’ Her legs were trembling and resolutely she tightened her back muscles. She must not collapse weakly into her chair. Her uncle would need her to organise the household. There would be time later to grieve.

      ‘Bridget, send one of the grooms for Father Crispin. Go now, quickly, then go into the hall and halt preparations for supper there. A—a trestle must be put up ready—to receive Sir Peter—when—when they bring him home. We shall need two wax candles and the large candlesticks to place at the head and the foot of the trestle and—’ Her eyes were blurring with sudden tears and her mind dulling with reaction. She could not think beyond the need to receive her brother’s body.

      Sweet Virgin, they had all gone out in such haste, on a drunken whim—had he been in a state of grace? He had been so confident that he could wreak havoc at the Devane manor and return with loot—her mind shied from all the ugly realities of the attack. There would be burning and pillage—the Hoylands had been victorious her uncle’s messenger had informed her. What did that mean? Had they fired the Devane manorhouse? Had women been subjected to—and Peter dead in the midst of all this wickedness and all unprepared—?

      She brushed away tears with the back of her hand as the man turned awkwardly, as if uncertain how to proceed now that his errand was done. Bridget cast her another frightened, startled glance and then scrambled in an undignified rush down the stairs to summon the village priest.

      Clare hastily crossed herself and murmured a prayer to the Virgin for the well-being of her brother’s soul, then hurried down to the hall. Servants were gabbling excitedly as she entered and then hushed abruptly. She signalled them to continue with their work, then called to Bridget again.

      ‘Has someone gone for Father Crispin?’

      ‘Yes, mistress.’

      ‘Then go into the kitchen and prepare a ewer of warm water, basin and towels.’ She blinked back tears again. ‘We shall need to wash—Sir Peter, and I shall need fresh clothing for him. See to it.’

      The girl sped off again as if relieved to be out of her mistress’s presence. A trestle was made ready in the oriel embrasure and covered with an embroidered bed-covering from Sir Peter’s chamber. There was no private chapel at the manor—the household used the parish church in the nearby village. Peter would need to remain here, until final preparations could be made to receive his body into the chancel tomb in the church to which her family had made considerable contributions of coin for the last century or more.

      They would need to summon a craftsman to create a brass-or an image-maker from Bristol. Her father’s tomb on one side of the chancel was still waiting for the completion of his image. Clare knew her mind was grappling with these future problems rather than coping with the immediate feelings she was trying to repress.

      Noise

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