LITMIR.BIZ

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said uncomfortably, ‘This struggle for power between the royal houses gives us all cause for grief.’

      ‘And makes many rich and yet more powerful.’

      ‘Is that what you wanted, riches, land?’

      His eyes opened very wide. ‘I am—was—’ he corrected himself ‘—a younger son. I needed to make my own way. That was not a problem for your brother, as the only son.’

      Her lips trembled. ‘He has naught now but a final resting place, as have your kin—and is it worth it all?’ The last few words were bitterly spoken.

      He sighed. ‘It seems I shall have little time to repine. Naturally I would have liked to win my spurs but, as you say, in the end it matters little.’

      ‘But why should you support York? The King is God’s anointed.’

      His expression became serious. ‘The Duke of York has, surely, the better claim. Remember the House of Lancaster acquired the throne by the usurpation of King Harry IV and the murder of the anointed King, Richard II. The Duke of York’s grandmother, Anne, was daughter of an older son than Henry of Lancaster, old Gaunt, Lionel of Clarence.’

      He held up a hand to check her outburst. ‘I know that is all long past, and York would have accepted that, I believe, had he been treated fairly. He was not supported in the French Wars. The Queen has ever gainsaid him in council and the King, God bless him, as we all know, is often unfit to rule. Last year’s Act of Accord settled in October allowed the right to rule to the end of his life for the King but gave the succession to York and his heirs. Was that not a fair enough settlement after years of discord?’

      ‘But the Queen was not going to stand by and allow her son to be disinherited,’ Clare rejoined hotly. ‘Would any mother agree to such a settlement?’

      He smiled again. ‘I see you would prove a veritable vixen of a mother and stand by your cubs to the death.’

      She went white to the lips. Peter’s often declared taunts that she would be unlikely to wed and have children rang in her memory and she turned away. Wearily she stood up, after packing away her pots of unguents and the implements used in treatment into the small box she kept for the purpose.

      ‘What I would do is of no matter, it is what the King will decide about you. I am sorry for your predicament and even sorrier that a foolish brawl in the village should have brought us all to this but you are my uncle’s prisoner, sir, and I can but do my best to ease your pain and—’ she hesitated as Dorcas hastened in with the two skin bottles of wine, which she withdrew from the cover of her frieze cloak ‘—and I promise I will pray for the repose of the souls of all who died today—and for you.’

      Gratefully he took from Dorcas’s hand a wooden drinking cup of brandy-wine and drained it, for there was a whitish line about his lips which spoke to Clare eloquently of the suffering he would not openly acknowledge.

      ‘Thank you, mistress, and I will pray for you.’ He raised the cup as if in a toast and angrily she turned and hastened out of the barn into the cold darkling gloom of the courtyard. She was conscious that her eyes pricked with tears, whether of irritation for that final act of bravado or for distress at his danger—for he was a young man, as Peter had been, on the threshold of life, and doomed so soon to die—she could not be sure.

      Clare took a hasty supper in the solar, wishing to return very quickly to her vigil by her brother’s body, so she was somewhat annoyed when her uncle joined her there and brusquely ordered food to be brought for him, too. She did not wish to talk to him. She was too confused, her emotions disturbed. Peter’s death had been too violent and too sudden for her to have come to terms with it yet and there was the question of Robert Devane, languishing under guard in the barn.

      Sir Gilbert said without preamble, ‘I wanted to ask you what you thought of young Devane’s condition. Will he be fit to travel tomorrow under guard?’

      She hesitated. ‘The wound is deep and he has lost a considerable amount of blood. I should see him again in the morning before I decide how to answer that question.’

      He grunted and carved a slice of meat for himself nodding to one of the kitchen boys who waited to pour wine for him. ‘You can go, boy. I can manage.’

      Clare pushed her own plate away impatiently. She had no appetite and had had to force herself to eat. She made to stand up but he reached across the table, taking her hand to prevent her and indicating she should be seated again.

      ‘There’s no haste for you to dash back to the bier. Father Crispin can manage alone for a while and there will be a constant watch made, I promise you. You’ll need to take some rest. All this has been a great shock to you.’

      She sank down again reluctantly. ‘I have faced such blows before, uncle. There will be a great deal of arrangements…’

      ‘I’ve seen to most of them. The men have been fed and bedded down for the night. I’ll dispatch a small company to Coventry tomorrow with the prisoner. That will take some of the men off our hands for a while. The rest will be occupied in tidying up at the Devane manor.’

      ‘I have been meaning to talk to you about that. I wish the Devane father and son to be decently laid to rest within the churchyard and masses said for the repose of their souls. It is our responsibility,’ she said firmly, ‘since Robert Devane will not be able to see to it himself.’

      Sir Gilbert grunted again and waved a hand testily. ‘Very well, I’ll speak to Father Crispin about the matter and send over some woman to lay out the bodies and men to arrange for their safe bestowal. The bodies of the men-at-arms have been already gathered and…’ He broke off and avoided her gaze. ‘You will not have to worry yourself about any of them.’

      She nodded. Her throat was very tight from unshed tears and she was finding it difficult to frame words, but as he rose to leave her she said, ‘Is it necessary to send Robert Devane to Coventry? Surely there can be no more trouble from that quarter now that his father is dead. The King will decide the disposal of the manor, since Yorkist lands have been proscribed. Out of Christian charity, Uncle, can we not let the man go?’

      ‘And allow him to return and threaten our peace? Nay, niece, you do not understand the way of these things. The Devanes have been thorns in our flesh for two or three decades. Now we have the means of scotching their hopes once and for all, we would be fools to lose the opportunity. Besides, have you thought that your future must be secured? I cannot be with you constantly. My place will be near his grace the King. Hoyland is yours now and its safety must be assured.’

      She had not considered that. She made to protest but he was already striding out of the room and she heard the ring of his spurs on the stone steps outside.

      He was right. She was tired, her reserves drained totally. She had done her best for the prisoner, pleaded his cause, but she knew her will was not strong enough to withstand her uncle’s. Doubtless the King would appoint him her legal guardian and she must be guided by him, as she had been by Peter. She sighed. He had mentioned her future. It might be very grim indeed.

      Peter would never bring a bride here, as she had feared, but what prospects were there for Clare? While the war continued, the King and Queen would be far too occupied to concern themselves with her problems. She must depend on her uncle’s goodwill and—just now, it would be unwise to antagonise him further as to the fate of Robert Devane, pity the man though she did.

      Robert Devane half lay, half sat against the back wall of the barn. He moved his aching leg restlessly and cursed beneath his breath. The woman had certainly made a fair job of her stitchery but the wound still pained him like the fires of hell. The wine had strengthened him. He no longer felt likely to faint, a condition which had unnerved him.

      Sir Gilbert’s men had brought him stale rye bread and water as he had expected and he had laughed silently in the darkness, thinking of the bottle of good wine hidden beneath the straw on the barn floor. The girl had been shrewish—what would you expect of that cursed Hoyland blood?—but she’d been charitable enough to see his need.

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