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Stolen Heiress
Joanna Makepeace


Revenge and…marriage?Clare Hoyland had witnessed the most vicious behavior between her family and those dreadful Devanes. But when her brother killed all but one member of the Devane family, Clare knew she was next to suffer. For as she set out on a journey, the sole survivor, Robert Devane, carried her off into the dark wilderness. Her handsome captor meant to avenge his family's slaughter by marrying her! Though his wife and prisoner, Clare couldn't help falling in love with her own husband. Would they never give up this bitter family feud and admit those tender feelings that had stirred from the moment they touched?







“I will marry you, Mistress Clare.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Are you quite mad?”

“Not at all. You are a wealthy heiress. The proposal seems perfectly fair to me.”

“I shall never consent to become your wife,” she said through clenched teeth. “You cannot force me.”

“Mistress Clare, may I remind you that you are in my power—totally within my power?”

“Then I must do as you say,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.




Stolen Heiress

Joanna Makepeace





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JOANNA MAKEPEACE

taught as head of English in a comprehensive school before leaving to write full-time. She lives in Leicester with her mother and a Jack Russell terrier called Jeffrey, and has written over thirty books under different pseudonyms. She loves the old romantic historical films, which she finds more exciting and relaxing than the newer ones.




Contents


Chapter One (#u89e393f8-e746-5f61-8108-62f85d0749a0)

Chapter Two (#uc0fa7d34-26d6-5fed-9c31-248fd490ab45)

Chapter Three (#ufdaa7813-ab64-50d5-b260-4a2a7da884a0)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Clare Hoyland stood near the glazed window of the solar, looking out over the herb plot. It had snowed three days ago, but there had been a partial thaw and most of the snow had melted. However, last night there had been a hard frost and the remainder had iced over so the brown earth was iron hard. It would be difficult going for the men on this foray.

Clare shrugged her squirrel-lined cloak round her shoulders for it was still cold within the solar, despite the logs burning brightly in the hearth and an extra brazier near the side window. She had put on the cloak for extra warmth, yet perhaps it was her misgiving for this venture which caused her to shiver so violently. In this winter of 1461, who could know what the future would hold?

Certainly the hopes of the Duke of York had foundered at Sandal only weeks ago. Her uncle, Sir Gilbert Hoyland, and her brother, Peter, had crowed over the Lancastrian victory which had given Queen Margaret the day and allowed her the vindictive pleasure of having the unfortunate Duke’s head placed high on Micklegate Bar in York and topped with a crude paper crown some wag in her train had made for her. In such a fashion was the Yorkist victory of St Albans overturned and, to Sir Gilbert’s and Peter’s joy, the death of her father avenged.

Clare could not be glad of these tidings. The wars had continued for so many months now and so many unfortunates slain both in the several battles and skirmishes and also within the constant armed sallies of companies on both sides. She had mourned her father deeply, of course, but nothing could bring him back to them. This useless quarrel with their neighbours, the Devanes, in her estimation, could do no good whatever.

She sighed as she returned to her chair by the fire and leaned forward to warm her chilled hands at the blaze. This latest feud had started in so senseless a fashion: a sucking pig stolen from one of their sties, meant for the final feast of Twelfth Night. Their steward had investigated and determined that one of the men-at-arms from the Devane manor had been responsible.

Certainly there were tales that a roasted pig had been enjoyed by the Devane retainers on the last but one night of the Christmas festivities. A man-at-arms had boasted of the plunder to some village wench and a skirmish had broken out between armed men from both manors. A Hoyland sergeant had died and Sir Gilbert had declared his intention of demanding satisfaction and compensation.

Sir Humphrey Devane had sent back an insulting reply and, early this morning, a company of Hoyland men-at-arms had sallied out, breathing threats of fire and slaughter against their habitual rivals. It was all so pointless. Clare prayed that no other soul paid with his life for such senseless folly, nor any man be badly wounded as a result of this ceaseless wrangling between the manor lords.

She could not believe the Devanes in any way responsible for her father’s death at St Albans. The Devanes were declared Yorkists. It was said that the younger son, Robert, served in the train of the Earl of Warwick, cousin to great York. Sir Humphrey and his son, Walter, had fought at St Albans on the Yorkist side but many men had done so. The death of her own father couldn’t be laid at their door. But the feuding had continued.

Now, since the Yorkists had been driven from their stronghold of Ludlow Castle by Queen Margaret’s force and York’s widow, Proud Cecily, taken prisoner with her two youngest sons, the fortunes of the Yorkists had declined and, with the death of York at Sandal near Wakefield, were at their lowest ebb.

Clare could not dismiss the thought that it was this very notion that had prompted her uncle to risk an unprovoked attack upon his neighbour. Sir Humphrey was unlikely to complain to the King’s justices, whatever the outcome, as many Yorkists had been proscribed and their estates and property seized by the vengeful Queen.

Throughout Clare’s eighteen years of life she had had to listen to her father’s, her brother’s, and now her uncle’s constant carping complaints about their neighbours. She sighed again. Since the death of her mother, almost five years ago, she had been forced to gradually take into her own hands the management of the manor. She knew, well enough, her father had been wealthy enough to harbour no feeling of envy towards the Devanes, whose prosperity could never match their own.

Now Peter, at twenty-one, had inherited and she wondered how soon it would be before he brought a bride home, to oust Clare from her position of authority within the household. It was a moment she both dreaded and welcomed. She would be glad to be rid of the responsibility, for her endeavours were rarely praised by her brother. Since childhood he had bullied and despised his younger sister, resenting the love their father had had for her, and now he made no secret of the fact that he considered her a decided encumbrance.

‘Sweet Virgin,’ he had declared only last night at supper, ‘what is to be done with a plain creature like you? I don’t know. With the country in 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 came from the courtyard now and she knew the van of the little company was riding in. She nodded to the two serving-men near the prepared trestle as the tall candlesticks were being placed in position, then moved to the screen doors and took up her place at the top of the steps over the undercroft, leading to the hall.

Sir Gilbert Hoyland rode into the courtyard, dismounted and walked stiffly towards her. He was a shorter man than either her father or Peter had been, but formidable looking for all that. He was dark like most of the Hoylands, with craggy features roughened by the wind for he was a soldier and spent much of his time out of doors. He mounted the steps, briskly drawing off his mailed gloves.

‘They are bringing him on a horse litter.’ He bent to touch her hand and she nodded acknowledgement. He swallowed hard as if uncertain how to say more, then cleared his throat. ‘I wish I could have done something, but it was too late for a physician. He—he died very quickly. I think he felt little…’

‘So your man informed me.’ Clare’s voice was a little hoarse. ‘I—I have sent for the priest. All is prepared. The men will have to eat elsewhere than in the hall tonight. Later, we can arrange for them to bed down—’

‘I’ll see to all that,’ he agreed. ‘You’re a sensible wench, Clare, thank the Lord. I think,’ he added heavily, ‘that Peter did not always appreciate that.’

He turned from her to let his gaze dwell on the gathering in the yard below as men came in, some on foot, trailing pikes and bills. Most appeared to be whole, Clare noted, mechanically, though one was being supported by a companion and several were clutching oozing wounds on arms and lower limbs.

The older serving-women she could trust would be able to deal with these minor wounds and refer anything more serious to her later. She had herb lore from her mother and would be competent to deal with most problems. Anything that threatened life or the continued use of the sword arm, or became infected, might have to be left to an apothecary in Leicester she had used on occasions. Her duty now was to tend Peter’s body.

At last she saw the horse litter being drawn into the yard from the gatehouse arch and her lips trembled slightly. She could see the outline of the still form covered with a frieze cloak and supported on each side by two men on foot so that it did not slide from the hastily constructed litter of wattle, probably torn from some sheepfold.

Her attention passed briefly from the sombre sight to a pitiful group of prisoners, pushed unceremoniously along from the rear, prodded by the Hoyland men wielding daggers and broadswords. All were staggering, their garments mudstained; one who towered over the rest was walking proudly though obviously inconvenienced by a wound near the thigh, judging from his blood-drenched woolen hose.

He was the tallest man Clare had ever seen, and she was no small woman herself. He was no mere man-at-arms, that was clear, for he carried himself like a king and with a swagger to match. He stumbled and almost fell as a sudden prod from behind jerked him forward close to the litter bearing the dead man. Clare saw him right himself and stand, head high, staring back at the two on the steps.

He had bright hair, she thought, almost red gold. From this distance she could not discern his features clearly, but the very carriage of the head and the haughty movement to stand erect, despite his injury, and the fact that his hands were pinioned behind him, told her that he was used to admiration, probably from other men as well as women.

She drew her gaze from him and moved slightly forward as her brother’s body on the wattle hurdle was unhitched from the horse traces and two men moved into position to convey it towards the foot of the hall stair. They managed the awkward passage of stairs with difficulty and, shoulder high, conveyed their lord into the hall through the screen doors.

Clare moved quietly beside the litter while Sir Gilbert went ahead of her, to instruct the men as to the disposition of their burden. He gave thought briefly to his prisoners still waiting below.

‘Keep them all securely guarded in the stable,’ he snapped. ‘As to the red-headed fellow, I’ll have the hide of any man who allows him to escape.’

An elderly serving-maid and the frightened Bridget were waiting with the required water and cleaning cloths. Clare motioned away the two men-at-arms who were still hovering over her brother’s body. She looked down at him after she had drawn back the covering cloak. At this moment she could not be sure of her own feelings for Peter. There was grief, certainly, and a numbed awareness, an overwhelming pity for the loss of the satisfying life which had stretched before him.

He had had everything to live for, the promise of love and children, a fulfilled life managing the manor and estates. All this had been snatched from him by the dispatch of a single lethal arrow. She could see the broken-off haft still protruding from the gap between his breastplate and gorget. Dispassionately she thought, I shall need a man’s strong hand to help me withdraw that before I can begin to lay him out decently.

She could not dismiss the thought that he had deliberately sought this violence which had destroyed him and she shied from the thought that she had not truly loved him. Peter had not been an affectionate brother. Now he was gone and she could not begin yet to worry about what would happen to her now.

Her uncle moved closer to her side and placed a hand upon her arm. She was not sure if this was a clumsy attempt to comfort her, but she turned and acknowledged the gesture with a half-smile.

He said, abruptly, ‘Summon your steward and between us we’ll get him out of his armour and clothing before you start to prepare the body. Don’t concern yourself. I’ll deal with the arrow.’

She nodded and the older woman set down her basin of water and hastened off to fetch Master Clements, their steward. He came hastily, ushering in Father Crispin, who was clearly shocked and looked hurriedly around the hall for Clare to give him instructions.

Clare abandoned her brother to the care of her uncle and Master Clements and went to the elderly, frail priest. He listened, wide-eyed, while she explained what she knew of the raid, and nodded with lithe birdlike movements of his head when she told him their needs. Once the body had been laid out he would immediately say the prescribed prayers for the repose of Sir Peter’s soul and eventually make the necessary arrangements for burial in the church chancel.

She went about her task of washing and laying out her brother’s body with a calm sense of acceptance. She had dismissed Bridget, whose hands were shaking so badly that she had threatened to spill water over all of them. The older woman helped Clare and together, competently, they completed their work, dressing the still form in a clean linen shirt. Then Clare knelt beside her uncle as Father Crispin began to intone the offices for the dead.

Later she went to see that the work of caring for the wounded in the curtained-off section of the hall was proceeding smoothly and efficiently. She was satisfied; her mother had taught Clare herself and the women of the household well.

They had had ample opportunity to perfect their skills, Clare thought wearily, over the last years when they had needed to deal not only with the minor accidents which occurred about the manor but with the injured men who continually returned to them from the various skirmishes and battles brought about in this jockeying for power between the weak King Henry and his cousin the mighty Plantagenet Duke of York.

York was dead now but his son, Edward of March, would succeed him, backed by the powerful Neville lord, Richard Earl of Warwick, and the struggle would be continued with renewed hatred on both sides.

She was about to withdraw from the hall when her uncle signalled to her.

‘There is a special prisoner I would like you to tend personally, or, at least, see to it that he is fit to travel tomorrow or soon after. I intend to send him to Coventry to the King’s court there. I’ve no authority, more’s the pity, to deal with the fellow here.’

Clare looked at him curiously and he explained.

‘He’s Sir Humphrey Devane’s younger son, Robert. We took him prisoner after a bitter struggle, but his leg is injured. He could walk well enough but he was losing blood and I don’t want him to collapse on me before he reaches Coventry.’

‘You intend to demand ransom?’ Clare was puzzled. Surely there would be more likelihood of that if the King were not informed. She was only too aware that this private quarrel and the attack on the Devanes could be regarded as unlawful and her uncle could place himself in the wrong by submitting this prisoner for the King’s justice. The man might well plead his cause and come from the court the victor.

‘No,’ her uncle growled and a wolfish expression curled back his upper lip and revealed sharp, predatory white teeth. ‘Robert Devane is one of Warwick’s whelps, served him as squire. It was unfortunate for him he was present at his father’s manor today.

‘The fellow is an out-and-out pirate. Since Warwick fled from England with other Yorkist curs and took refuge in Calais with his tail between his legs, he and that scum he calls his followers have been preying on shipping from their stronghold at the port of Calais. I’ve no doubt Queen Margaret will be delighted to get her hands on this Devane dog and will, doubtless, hang him out of hand.’

Clare moved back, a trifle repelled by the note of vengeful spite she heard in her uncle’s tone. She felt slightly sick. She was being requested to see to the tending of this man so that he might recover, only to end his life ignominiously kicking upon the gallows. Nevertheless, it was incumbent upon her to see that their prisoner did not suffer unduly while he remained in their charge.

‘Where is he?’ she asked curtly. ‘I’ll see to it myself.’

‘Locked in the barn. I’ll get my sergeant to show you and remain close to see you protected from insult.’ He laughed harshly. ‘He cannot harm you, he’s too closely watched.’

Clare swallowed. She did not relish her task and her senses were still shocked by Peter’s death. She called to her elderly maid. Bridget would be of no use whatever, half-frightened out of her wits by the sight of the Devane prisoners.

Sir Gilbert’s sergeant accompanied her to the guarded barn. They had no dungeons at Hoyland. Indeed, the manor was not crenellated, had never received a license from the King. For almost two centuries, the snug, well-built house of warm yellowed brick had lain protected within the small vale carved out from a stream, a tributary of the River Nene.

The Hoylands had been granted the land by the Conqueror and the house had replaced a wooden one and been gradually added to over the years. Even the violent tumultous times following the death of King Henry I had not touched the peace of this land lying upon the boundary of Leicester and Northampton shires, until the bitter spirit of envious greed for power and fortune had come with this recent struggle for the Crown.

Clare’s father’s prisoners, more usually men who had poached unlawfully or been guilty of some wanton, drunken behaviour which had offended their neighbours, had been confined briefly within barn or byre to be judged at the manor court. Now, their more noble prisoner had been kept here to await his fate from a more vengeful soul than her father or even Peter would ever have proved.

Even here, at this secluded manor, Clare had heard of the awe and dread in which the Angevin Queen was held, even by her own followers. Henry might be merciful but Margaret held sway in the Lancastrian Court and if this son of the Devanes was held to be guilty of piracy upon the high seas then he would, undoubtedly, receive short shrift and hang.

Two stalwart men-at-arms guarded the barn door. Sir Gilbert’s sergeant barked out a quick command and one unlatched it and the two stood back to allow Clare to enter with her escort. The place was gloomy, for the wintry sun, already leaving the darkened sky, had not reached into the interior so Clare advanced cautiously, unable, at first, to see where the prisoner was.

‘I shall need some light,’ she told the sergeant. ‘Can one of your men fetch me a brand?’

Again an order was barked out and the taller of the two men set out in search of a lighted pitch brand which could be fixed into a sconce on the barn wall.

There was a slight stir and movement of soft hay still strewing the floor, then Clare saw the vague outline of a man rise from a seated position near the wall and push himself upright to face his visitors.

A pleasant, slightly husky voice said, ‘Ah, some show of hospitality, at last. I hope Sir Gilbert hasn’t the intention of starving his guests. It must be well nigh suppertime.’

The sergeant snapped, ‘You, be silent. You’ll get fed when and if we feel inclined to do so and certainly not if you’re insolent with the mistress of the house who has come to tend your wound.’

‘Indeed?’ The pleasant voice sounded vaguely curious and Clare thought the man inclined his head towards them as if to view her. Neither could see the other at this stage until the man-at-arms came running and thrust the lighted brand into the hands of his sergeant who turned to fix it into the iron sconce behind him.

Immediately the dim place flared with golden light and Clare saw that her patient was, as she had suspected, the tall red-headed man she had seen limp in earlier behind her brother’s bier. He was leaning for support against the wall and, seeing her clearly now for the first time, he gave her a mocking bow. The action cost him dear, for he winced sharply and almost fell forward, losing, momentarily, the support of the roughened stone of the wall behind him.

Clare thought either the wound was more serious than she had first thought and he had lost a great deal of blood, or he had stiffened during his awkward, half-crouched stay on the floor. It was icy cold in the barn and she shivered and pulled her cloak closer around her. Afterwards, she could not have said whether the movement was actually because she was cold or because she had no wish for this man to see her body more clearly.

She stepped nearer and saw the brand light up his face, haloed with flickering gold flares, and touch shimmering sparks from his flaming red hair. She had been unable to guess at the cast of his features when she had seen him first in the courtyard, only that he was tall and seemingly red-headed, now she saw he was incredibly handsome, in a bold, inviting way.

He was laughing, his long lips curling back from white, even teeth, despite the pain he must be feeling, and she felt sudden irritation for the manner of raillery in which he greeted her.

‘An angel of mercy. By the sweet Virgin, you are welcome, mistress.’

‘You had better sit down on the ground again and let me examine your leg,’ she said curtly. ‘By the look of you, you’ll collapse very soon if you don’t.’

The older serving-wench who had come up behind them with her basin and ewer of water came into the barn now to join her mistress, impatiently pushing aside the importunate movements of the second, smaller man-at-arms who had jostled her good-humouredly and much too familiarly for her liking.

‘You,’ she said, icily, ‘can make yourself useful, which I think is rare. Idle fellows, all of you, unless you be killing and looting and bothering females who want no truck with you. We’ll want a shirt to tear for bandaging, a clean one, mind. Get on with you. My Mistress’ll not want to be here all night.’

The sergeant nodded his approval of the errand and the man, still grinning, despite the tongue lashing, sidled off to find what was wanted.

Clare had knelt beside the injured man and bent to look more closely at the blood-soaked hose. He lowered his head to follow her gaze and his hand brushed against hers as she touched experimentally the stiffening wool. She snatched her hand away almost instantly and his merry laugh rang out again.

‘Faith, mistress, you’ve not hurt me yet. I can stand the touch of such fair hands.’

She gritted her teeth. ‘I am in no mood for mockery, sir,’ she reproved him. ‘My brother lies dead in the great hall.’

‘And mine and my father in the ruins of ours,’ he responded quietly, and there was no glimmer of humour now in the grave tones.

She looked up at him sharply and his mouth tightened, the laughter lines quirking his lips, fading. She saw now that he was not, indeed, as classically handsome as she had first thought. The attractiveness of the countenance lay rather in the openness and pleasant joviality of demeanour.

His mouth was long and generous, though now held tightly as he considered the ruin of family and home. A very slight scar at one corner marred the beauty of form, though Clare thought, when he smiled, as she guessed he did often, that that slight deformity would quirk up those mobile lips becomingly.

His eyes glittered in the uncertain glow of the brand and were startlingly blue, flecked with greenish lights. Clare possessed a lump of turquoise her father had bought for her once at Leicester Fair, which he had had enclosed in gold for her and which now hung from the end of a favourite girdle. The colour of those eyes of his were like the changing hue of the stone, now glinting steely and hard, narrowed in considered grief for those he had lost.

His nose was dominating and the small bump on the bridge which spoilt its line spoke of some blow he had possibly received from an opponent in a bout of fisticuffs. He was square jawed, the chin deep split in a dimpled cleft. Yes, Clare thought, women would find this man overwhelmingly attractive and men, too, would admire the manly clean lines of that face and the rangy, hard-muscled strength of that tall form.

‘I am sorry for your loss, sir,’ she said softly, and instantly he smiled again, though she thought it more wintry this time, less winning.

He gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘Men have often said war is hell,’ he said briefly, ‘though I would not describe this attack as war, merely an unprovoked raid which had unfortunate consequences for all concerned.’

She realised he was totally unarmed, dressed in a shirt of homespun linsey woolsey and a leathern jerkin over grey woollen hose. Clearly the Devane household had not expected an attack and had been seated comfortably by their own hearths when the alarm had been sounded by their watchman on the gatehouse. Probably this man, Robert Devane, had only recently returned from a ride or inspection of the manor land, for he was wearing riding boots. Her own brother and uncle had been well armoured and prepared, in breastplates and gorgets over padded gambesons.

She gave the faintest of sighs and felt Sir Gilbert’s sergeant move restlessly behind her. The man was clearly impatient for her to complete her task so that he might lock up his valuable prisoner for the night, confident of his safe keeping until the morning. Sir Gilbert, she knew, was not the man to overlook any negligence in his subordinates. The man her maid had despatched had come back now with a patched but clean shirt of homespun and the woman hastily snatched it from his grasp.

Clare turned to the sergeant behind her. ‘We shall be quite safe with this man, since I know you will keep a close guard outside. I shall need more room for my work. Leave us, please.’

The man was obviously unwilling. He pursed his lips uncertainly, having received careful instructions from Sir Gilbert to keep a careful watch on his niece but her hard stare was insistent that he obey her and she could come to no harm surely with his men so near, ready to be summoned instantly, should she have need of them. He grimaced in disapproval but made her a respectful nod and withdrew.

The turquoise eyes of the prisoner danced in amusement. ‘You appear to have a way with underlings, mistress. Did you, perhaps, wish to be alone with me?’

She darted him a glance of withering scorn. ‘I cannot imagine, sir, why you should think I might have such a purpose. I never enjoy the company of piratical scum, for such I hear you are. As I explained to my sergeant, I need room for my task. Now, let us get on with it without delay.’

He had slid back into a sitting position against the wall now and was regarding her coolly.

‘So you have received instructions to patch me up fairly, so Sir Gilbert can hang me tomorrow in full view of his men, without fear of being accused of having his men forced to half carry me to the gallows.’

She said evenly, ‘I understand you are to be conveyed to Coventry when you are fit to travel, sir. There will be no unlawful trial here. The King himself will decide your fate after a fair hearing.’

‘And that she-wolf Margaret will determine the way of it.’ His blue eyes had narrowed again. She noted he had long curling lashes tipped with gold like a maid’s.

With the maid’s help she withdrew his left riding boot.

She was bending close now over the injured limb, seated upon the ground before him, her box of unguents and medical requirements opened before her, and her maid was pouring water into the basin.

Clare took the small pair of scissors that hung at her belt and were used normally for her embroidery, to cut open the bloodstained wool of his hose and reveal the gaping wound, long and deep, clearly made by a sword thrust. It ran from the knee slantwise almost to the ankle and she made a little moue of concern at the sight of it.

‘I’m afraid this will hurt, but I think it should be stitched.’

Again he gave that half-rueful shrug which she took to be permission to proceed and she motioned her servant forward. He made no sound while she washed and cleansed the wound, nor did he comment when she took her sharpest and finest steel needle and finest linen thread and made ready to draw the puckered edges together. First she had cleansed the wound thoroughly with a herbal infusion and rubbed in tansy ointment.

His lips tightened as he leaned back against the wall and she glanced mutely up at him to signal that she intended to begin the painful process of stitching the wound. He nodded, his lips parting in a faint smile, but she read apprehension in his eyes. She had watched her mother perform this service several times and had heard the cries and seen the struggles of men held down by companions who had needed such treatment.

She wondered briefly if she could call the sergeant from outside to steady her patient but she caught his expression and the almost imperceptible nod of his chin and she bent to her task. He made little fuss, with only one or two faint catches of breath, but she knew she had pained him. When it was over and she had padded the wound and bound the improvised bandage into place, she saw him lean back again, his body sagging a little as relief had its way.

‘Dorcas, go to the buttery and fetch me some brandy wine and also a bottle of burgundy. This man has lost a deal of blood and needs to make it up. Keep the bottles beneath your cloak. I do not wish the men outside to see what you bring.’

Dorcas nodded and bustled out with the basin and jug of now-bloodied water.

Blue-green eyes regarded Clare steadily. ‘I see you intend to ensure that I am fit to travel tomorrow,’ he said mockingly.

‘You will not want to faint in the saddle, I’m sure, sir,’ she retorted.

‘But you are cossetting me. I hardly think your uncle would approve of your providing me with good wine. Bread and water is all I’m like to receive from the guards out there. Is it that you think I should enjoy some last comforts before I die?’

‘I think,’ she said quietly, ‘that you should consider seriously your crimes and what has brought us all to this, especially your dead kin and mine.’

The green-blue eyes flashed dangerously. ‘You think I do not grieve because I do not weep?’ he demanded harshly. ‘As for the cause of all this, don’t you think the price was over-high for the value of one small sucking pig?’

She sucked in breath. He had put into words too closely her own view of the matter and she could find no words with which to answer him. Then she recovered somewhat and said stiffly, ‘My uncle says you are indeed guilty of piracy. Is that true? Did you prey upon shipping and harm women and innocent travellers?’

Amusement lit up his features again and she knew instinctively that he used this show of raillery to hide the true depths of his grief. ‘Women rarely complain of my treatment of them.’

She coloured hotly. He had a way of making her acutely embarrassed yet he was her prisoner.

‘Nevertheless…’

‘Nevertheless, this quarrel between princes is no fault of mine. I serve my master, my lord Earl of Warwick, as your father and brother—and your uncle—served the King. The Yorkist lords were forced to flee to Calais after treachery brought down the castle at Ludlow. Calais is in the control of my lord Earl but hunger and shortage of supplies could well have forced him out. We attacked Lancastrian shipping merely to survive.’

‘I doubt if the King will see it that way,’ she said drily and he lifted his shoulders and let them fall again as if in acceptance of the inevitable.

She 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.

He grunted as he eased himself into a more comfortable posture and reviewed his situation. This was a pretty coil indeed. He’d been taken unprepared with hardly time to seize a weapon and the manor had fallen with scarcely a fight. If the girl was correct, his chances of extricating himself from this threatened fate were slim indeed. And yet—

He stiffened as he heard the stealthy rustling outside. The silence had been profound out there for a good hour or so. He knew the barn door was securely latched and two men left on guard. The rest of Sir Gilbert’s men, apparently, were already bedded down in the surrounding outhouses. He had heard them carousing and boasting of their conquests for several hours before that. He shuffled up into a sitting position and waited, all his senses upon the alert.

A hoarse whisper came from the slim line of light as the door was cautiously pushed partially open.

‘Messire Rob, are you in there?’

Rob smothered a half-laugh and shuffled himself upright, standing awkwardly on his good leg.

‘Come in, come in, Piers. I wondered just how long it would take you to find me.’

His visitor advanced softly with all the grace of a cat into the darkness of the barn. Behind him, Rob could glimpse a fire in the courtyard where the men had ca-roused earlier flickering only faintly, already dying down.

The man said in that curious harsh voice, accented as only one to whom English was not his native tongue would use, ‘We’ve disposed of the two guards, Messire Rob. Sacré nom, but we cannot take on the accursed company. Silas waits near the gatehouse. I sent him back and told him to stay well hidden.’ He bent and looked at the leg Rob held awkwardly. ‘Is it that you are wounded? Can you walk…?’

‘I’ll walk,’ Rob promised grimly. ‘Get me out of here as soon as you can.’

The other put a supporting arm round his shoulder. He panted as the two moved cautiously out of the barn, ‘Messire, we arrived at the manor too late to…’

‘I know that, old friend. I cannot linger now to do what is right for my father and brother. If we stay, we shall all of us be taken and pay the price of serving the wrong master.’ He laughed grimly and softly. ‘Give me a dagger, Piers. If need be, I’ll defend myself, at least.’

The other muttered beneath his breath, ‘The two here will give no trouble, messire, and the rest sound too besotted with wine to rouse. We must climb the wall, dare not go by the gatehouse, but…’

‘I’ll manage.’ Robert limped forward in grim determination after bestowing the dagger Piers gave him safely under his belt. He turned to give one final glimpse at the dark bulk of the manor house. ‘I will be back, mistress,’ he murmured softly. ‘The Devanes do not give up so easily that which they have held for centuries—and, by the Virgin, there must be a reckoning.’




Chapter Two


Clare returned from the church with Bridget the day following her brother’s funeral to find her uncle waiting for her in the hall. He turned from the hearth as she entered and she saw that he was frowning slightly, as if in deep thought.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked as she came quickly to join him, holding out her chilled hands to the blaze. ‘You look worried.’

‘I’ve had a courier arrive from London and feel I should leave early tomorrow. There are matters decided in Council which might need my attention.’

She seated herself in the chair and leaned forward, staring into the cheerful flames which sent the shadows in the hall dancing, for the day was again a grey one and there was little light in the place. She felt chilled to the bone, for she had spent over an hour kneeling on the cold stone before the altar praying for her brother’s soul and those others who had died in the attack on the Devane manor.

Sir Gilbert turned to dismiss Bridget, who hovered in the doorway waiting for orders, and moved about a trifle fretfully until the girl had gone. He rubbed his hands together distractedly and Clare could see he still had something disturbing him.

‘You must go,’ she said mildly. ‘It is your duty. I shall be safe here. As you said, any reprisal would be slow in coming since the defending force at the Devane Manor has been decimated. It will take time for Robert Devane to muster any household sufficient even to repair the damage, let alone lead a force against us. In any case, the man is on the run and unlikely to be able to complain about the summary justice meted out to his family.’

She recalled again her uncle’s fury directed against the two guards left on duty outside the barn when he discovered his important prisoner had escaped.

‘I’ll hang the pair of them,’ he’d stormed. ‘Aye, and the drunken sots in the stables who, apparently, were so gone in ale that they heard nothing. God’s teeth, how could it have been managed? Devane had to have help. The two guards were struck down. His friends must have climbed the wall and got him clean away. That couldn’t have been easy if the fellow’s wound was as bad as you said. It was sheer negligence, the result of over-indulgence following their too-easy victory. I should hang and thrash a few to encourage the rest to remember their duties in future.’

Clare had patiently pleaded for the injured guards. Both were nursing sore heads. One had been very dazed indeed—she had wondered if he had suffered some permanent damage to the brain from the severe blow to the back of his head that he had taken from the rescuers, whoever they had been. Neither man could be blamed. Their attackers had obviously come silently and stealthily. They had accomplished their purpose and fled immediately into the night with the prisoner and Clare, for one, had been thankful.

There had been more than enough violence and death over the last few days to wish not to add to the score the Devanes would have cause to settle. Privately she had been thankful that the cheery red-headed prisoner had escaped the rope. Her uncle, though still seething, had calmed down after a while and granted the two threatened men clemency.

But he had made his anger known pithily and the sergeant had seen to it that no one in the household repeated the offence of negligence and the manor had been restored to a seeming normality—if it could ever be again when its young master lay coffined, awaiting burial.

There had been so much to be done over the past days that she had not allowed herself to think about the time when she would be left alone on the manor, unprotected. Now the moment had come upon her all too soon.

Her uncle was still restlessly prowling the room. Abruptly he stopped and faced her, his thumbs thrust into his sword belt.

‘You realise, Clare, that your position here has changed dramatically. You are now a very wealthy heiress and your prospects considerably improved, as, also, your possible danger.’

She stared at him incredulously. ‘I had not thought…’

‘There are men who will now covet your fortune, men who would stoop to take advantage of your vulnerability. It would be impracticable to leave you here, even with a garrison of my own choosing.’

She waited for his decision, a little breathless with dread. Did he wish her to go to his own manor in Northamptonshire? If so, her role would not be much changed from the one she had envisaged as poor relation to Peter and his wife. Sir Gilbert’s lady, her aunt, would not welcome her, especially since she was now to be sought after in marriage and Sir Gilbert’s own daughters, her two cousins, whom she rarely met, would feel likely to be in competition with her for suitors.

No. She straightened her shoulders determinedly. She would not go. Life there would be insupportable and she would not have it thrust upon her.

‘I have decided to place you under the protection of the Queen,’ he announced. ‘Margaret will welcome you as an attendant, and at Court you will have opportunity to see and be seen by suitable suitors. In arranging a marriage for you, the Queen would find some advantage as she could, in this way, cement the loyalty of the successful candidate for your hand, to say nothing of other suitors who would be anxious to secure her goodwill.

‘We cannot leave you now without royal protection. The country is in such disarray that it would be unwise to trust to even a loyal garrison here. Fortunately Margaret has established Court at Coventry so your journey there in this inclement weather will not be too difficult. I can escort you part of the way south when I leave tomorrow.’

‘You expect me to leave tomorrow?’ Clare rose in her chair in alarm. ‘But, Uncle, I am all unprepared and there are still arrangements to be made concerning Peter’s tomb and…’

He waved a hand, dismissing her argument. ‘All that can wait. Times are out of joint, Clare. We must take decisions hurriedly and act on them. You can take that girl Bridget and necessities can be packed tonight. Later, your clothing chests can be sent on to you. At present you will require only your mourning gowns.’

‘But don’t you see, Uncle, that my very state of mourning makes this journey and the possibilities you speak of quite out of the question? I should remain here quietly until I feel more settled and…’

He came towards her and she saw his mouth harden into an obstinate line. ‘I have already explained, Clare, that we must act quickly. In better times there would have been a need for longer reflection but these are not better times. Once my business in London is completed I shall return to my own household to see to their de-fences. You must do what I say. I’ll not accept any argument. Now go up, there’s a good wench, and see to your packing. You’ve always had practical common sense and I know I can rely on you to see the need for haste.’

She turned back to the fire, avoiding his dominating stare. She wanted to protest vehemently. She was bemused, shocked, as she had pleaded, she felt the need for a period of quiet contemplation here, but her change of circumstance had come so suddenly and at such a difficult time that she had to admit that what he was saying made sense.

She sighed, and rose reluctantly. Would Queen Margaret prove as unpleasant and demanding a guardian as Peter had often proved himself? Fervently she prayed that this would not prove the case.

Bridget chattered excitedly all through their hurried preparations. She had heard the rumour that her mistress was to be presented at Court and her head was quite turned by the prospect of the grandeur this evoked. Clare, who would much rather the girl had not been informed about the purpose of the journey, or, at least, not yet, was irritated beyond reason. Several times she was tempted to slap the girl, who would not concentrate on the task in hand and, repeatedly, tried to press Clare to take some more colourful gowns.

‘Bridget,’ she snapped finally. ‘Will you be silent! You are making my head ache. Of course we cannot appear in such gawdy clothing, when Sir Peter has only just, yesterday, been placed in his tomb. Now hurry up. Pack exactly what I say and nothing else. See you have everything you will need for a protracted stay, for we cannot return for anything once we begin the journey.’

She would have much rather relied on the services of one of the more sensible elder women, but they were all married and she could not insist that they leave husbands and family to follow her so many miles from their homes.

Once the novelty of the idea wore off and Bridget discovered that living at Court was most likely much more uncomfortable and cramped than living at Hoyland, she would probably calm down. There was no help for it. Bridget was the only serving-maid who could be spared and Clare would have to try to lick her into shape. At least she was a reasonable needlewoman, which ran in her favour.

She dismissed Bridget at last and sat down for a welcome moment of peace. Since Christmas there had been nothing but alarums in this house and very soon she would be leaving it. She had never been farther afield than Leicester Town and those visits had been rare.

She loved the old manor house and wondered, sadly, how long it would be before she would be able to return to it. Possibly, never. Only too well she knew it likely that the Queen would choose for her some Court official who would most likely not wish to live in the wilds of Leicestershire.

She peered at her features in her mirror. Fortunately it was portable. She would need it at Court. Her reflection swam mistily back at her. Her mourning gown certainly did not enhance her appearance, for black did nothing for her rather olive-tinted complexion or bring out the luminosity of her grey eyes. Sorrow had etched lines of tension round her nose and mouth and there were purple shadows round her eyes.

She looked much older than her eighteen years, she decided. She made a wry gesture of distaste. It was not a comforting thought that now she would be sought in marriage for the value of her lands and dower chests—and yet—it could not be denied that the prospect of marriage and children, a household of her own, was preferable to the dull fate she had seen in store for her only days ago.

She had no wish to be embroiled in Court intrigue. She had taxed Robert Devane with disloyalty to his sovereign in his championship of the late Duke of York and his son, the Earl of March, who must now, she thought, be accepted as the new Duke now that his father was dead following the battle of Sandal. Robert had assured her that his loyalty was to his own master, the Earl of Warwick, and he had made a convincing enough case for the succession of the Duke of York to the throne.

Even her own father, a firm supporter of the House of Lancaster, had been driven to exclaim at the inept rule of the kind but erratic King Henry.

Bouts of withdrawal from reality bordering on madness had made him more than once unfit to reign and Clare knew that her uncle’s strategy in placing her in the control of his consort, the warlike Queen Margaret, was the correct one.

Henry could not be relied upon to protect Clare’s interests as the Queen would do. Margaret would recognise the advantages to be gained by such a guardianship. Clare bit her lip thoughtfully. She also knew Margaret was arrogant and merciless. The cruel treatment meted out to the survivors of Sandal had revealed the ruthless streak in her nature. Warwick’s father, Salisbury, had been executed after the battle.

Once Clare’s father’s natural caution in gossiping about the nobility had lapsed and he had let it slip that many folk at Court believed Margaret’s son, young Edward, was not indeed the true son of the King. Since Henry was known to be unworldly and, in true saintlike fashion, frequently absented himself from his wife’s bed, it was likely enough that such scurrilous gossip would readily be accepted. Clare could not imagine herself enjoying her stay at the Lancastrian Court.

She slept uneasily, her thoughts strangely haunted by the face of Robert Devane and pictures of the ruined house and the bodies of the two slain men. She had seen to it that her uncle had kept his word. Sir Humphrey and his elder son, Walter, had been reverently interred with the village churchyard. The surviving prisoners whom Sir Gilbert had brought to Hoyland had been released and allowed to disperse. Only a skeleton household remained now at the Devane manor and it would be left to the King to decide whether the property should now be sequestered.

The morning dawned fair but still very cold and frosty. Clare breakfasted early within her own chamber and then stood, warmly cloaked and hooded, by her uncle’s side at the top of the house steps, watching the sumpter mules being loaded. Later, mounted upon her palfrey, she turned once to gaze back at the house as, with her escort of Hoyland men, she rode out under the gatehouse.

Sir Gilbert seemed wrapped in his own thoughts as he rode beside her and was uncommunicative. Clare wondered if he had received bad news from the London courier but she did not press him for information about that or for details of the Queen’s coterie. She considered, wryly, that she did not really want to know. When she arrived and was established at Coventry would be quite soon enough.

Bridget rode pillion behind one of Sir Gilbert’s men and, even from her place at the rear of the cavalcade, Clare could hear her chattering away excitedly.

At Lutterworth, Sir Gilbert took his leave of his niece, taking the old Roman Watling Street south to London, while Clare’s now smaller escort of six men-at-arms was to proceed on towards the village of Brinklow and finally Coventry. Sir Gilbert embraced her warmly on parting, but Clare could see his thoughts were still elsewhere. He assured her she had only to send a message to his manor if she had need of his help or advice. Then without further delay, he rode off with the rest of his men.

Clare felt bereft as she hesitatingly gave her hastily promoted sergeant the order to set off again. She had seen little of her father’s younger brother, but when they had met he had always been kind and, once or twice, had supported her when 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 a gold hoop which danged from one torn ear.

‘’Ow many men do you think there now are?’ he questioned Sym. The lanky shock-haired man-at-arms shook his head, pursed his lips, looked to his brother for confirmation and ventured an opinion.

‘I’d say no more ’n ten, possibly fewer.’

‘With Sir Gilbert, who is presumably a skilled fighting man, that is almost two to one, mon ami.’

Rob nodded in agreement, ‘But an unexpected ambush—’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I owe this to my father’s memory and to Walter. If I could take Sir Gilbert and hold him for ransom, I could recoup some of our losses.’

‘I’d do more ’n ’old ’im for ransom,’ growled Sym.

‘I agree entirely,’ Rob said smoothly, ‘but in these matters you have to do what is best. We need ready gold and Sir Gilbert could provide it.’

‘And for how long do you intend to lie about here, waiting to be caught?’ demanded Margery sourly. She made no bones about arguing with Master Rob.

Rob smiled again in her direction. ‘There is a risk, certainly,’ he acknowledged evenly, ‘but I consider it worth the taking. We can demand that Sir Gilbert send to his own manor, which is not too far away, while we hold him and any of his men who survive the attack. He can hardly inform on us and this hiding place has served us well up to now. How fast was he travelling?’ he asked Sym. ‘Can we cut through the woods to get ahead of him?’

‘Aye, Master Rob. The company was travelling slow, loaded down with two sumpters and one maid or p’raps a wounded man riding pillion, I didn’t stop to look too closely.’

Rob rose to his feet. ‘Then the sooner we are on his track, the better.’

Piers eyed him thoughtfully, ‘Mon ami, should you not…?’

His voice trailed off as he met the full scornful gaze of those blue-green eyes. He shrugged philosphically. ‘So be it, messire. We ’ave nevaire been afraid of taking the risks before, n’est ce pas?’

Despite her protests, Margery was left behind to tend their dinner and the little party set off led by Diggory, who, true to his brother’s word, was a fine woodsman and knew his way. Rob cursed his bad leg for the first half-mile—it had stiffened over the last few days due to enforced inactivity—but as they continued he found himself walking and even running over difficult ground more easily and well able to keep up with his men.

Diggory, ahead, stopped, keeping his head lowered, and signalled that they were now getting close to the road. Rob turned and cautioned his men with a gesture to silence and warily and quietly approached to squat behind Diggory.

They were now able to see clearly from cover the road to Brinklow Village. Diggory turned slightly as both of them heard the sound of considerable number of horsemen approaching. Rob turned and signalled again to his men. Silently, without the need for further instruction, they rose from their crouched positions and began to position themselves for ambush.

Sym and Diggory Fletcher, both fine archers, began to look to their long bows. Silas Whitcome and Piers Martine had both been with Rob for some time in service, both in London and Calais. Each was preparing himself for combat in his own way. Silas was easing his sword in its scabbard as Rob was his own weapon.

The Frenchmen had already found himself a suitable tree and sat astride a branch, giving him an excellent view of the road while still affording him some measure of bare branches for cover. His own deadly crossbow was ready for action.

The company of horsemen came steadily on. Rob could hear one female voice chattering on and judged Sym had been right in assuming it was a maidservant who was riding pillion. His whole body was tensed now, ready for action and, deliberately, he quietened his breathing. It was essential that each man of his company performed now to the best of his ability and experience.

He trusted all of them. The Frenchman was a fighting machine in his own right and Silas was steady and careful, not one to rush into danger without conscious thought. The Fletchers he had not seen in action recently, but knew they were experienced men-at-arms of his father’s company; he relied on them to do well in this coming engagement.

The first two men of the advancing escort were in sight now and Rob saw Diggory rise and nock his first arrow. He did not wait for orders. He knew well enough it was necessary for the company to come further into range before dispatching his fatal feathered missile.

Rob was waiting, half-stooped, his back hand ready to signal a message to Sym and Silas behind him. Piers, he knew, had a very clear view and, like Diggory, would take his own time.

The Hoyland escort came on, riding two by two. He could see the cold winter light glinting on their metal salets and the devices on their leather jacks were easily recognisable. He breathed a sigh of relief. It would not do to attack some other poor unsuspecting wight on the road going innocently about his business.

Behind the first two came one of the sumpter mules Diggory had spoken of and a single man-at-arms, with a woman clutching anxiously at his waist riding pillion. Rob cursed under his breath as he saw her. He would have preferred the wench to have been riding at the rear of the escort with the other mule he could see. He had no wish to see her fall victim to an arrow but, already, Diggory had loosed off his first shot.

The leading man, presumably the sergeant, gave a half-cry and fell forward over his horse’s head. The beast rose, forelegs in the air, whinnying in sudden panic, and reared across the path of the fellow who rode beside him.

The man bellowed a warning shout to those of his company behind and inexpertly tried to extricate his own mount from the oncoming hoofs of his erstwhile partner’s mount.

Pandemonium broke out in an instant. Arrows flew from cover and two other men screamed and fell. The road was now blocked by a company of plunging mounts and the noise of panicked bellows from those still in the saddle. It took only moments for Rob to establish control of the situation. He had only to emerge from cover, dash into the road and seize the reins of one of the plunging, frenzied horses, pulling the beast to a standstill.

He called a crisp, decisive command to the remaining men-at-arms to surrender.

‘Throw down your arms and dismount. You are my prisoners. My men have you all well in their sights.’

All of his men but Piers, who remained at his vantage point in the tree, emerged from cover and stood, bows full-stretched, threateningly. Silas had already dashed up to another of the men who gave signs of giving further trouble and neatly held his sword too close to the fellow’s throat.

A woman’s voice broke across the confused chaos. ‘Desist. There is no point in dooming yourselves. This outlaw robber has the upper hand. I’d have no more blood spilt on my behalf in a vain attempt to protect me.’

Rob looked up, startled to see that the palfrey which was bucking under his hand on the reins was carrying Mistress Clare Hoyland.

She leaned down to try and soothe her frightened mount with a reassuring pat and, recognising Rob immediately, said coldly, ‘I see you have so far escaped the King’s justice, Master Devane. Very fortunate for you, less lucky for my escort.’

The horse quietened as she spoke to it soothingly and Rob relaxed his tight grip on the rein and gave her a mocking half-bow. Behind them the men of her escort were sullenly obeying him and dismounting. Silas was efficiently collecting up their discarded weapons. Three men still lay on the ground, one very still and two others groaning and cursing from the pain of arrow wounds.

The woman mounted pillion was screaming shrilly and hysterically beating away the hands of the soldier behind whom she’d been riding as he vainly attempted to lift her down from the saddle.

‘Bridget, be quiet,’ Mistress Hoyland snapped. ‘You cannot be hurt badly, if at all, to be able to scream like that.’

She herself remained mounted, proudly looking down at her attacker.

Silas sidled up to Rob, carrying his toll of weapons, swords and daggers.

‘There’s no sign of Sir Gilbert Hoyland,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘It looks like he isn’t in the company.’

Rob cursed beneath his breath and turned to the girl, seemingly unafraid, who managed her palfrey skilfully despite its continued nervous sidling. She was dressed in mourning in a black fur-lined frieze cloak, suitable for travelling, and her black hood, drawn up against the winter chill, covered her simple white linen coif.

He said, his ill temper mounting at the unexpected turn of events, hardening his tone, ‘Where is your uncle, mistress?’

Her shoulders rose and fell only slightly. ‘He is on his way to London, sir, though why his whereabouts should concern you, I have no idea.’

His blue eyes were staring at her accusingly. ‘He left you to travel without his protection?’

Her chin lifted a trifle. ‘He accompanied me as far as Lutterworth and then took the Watling Street road to London.’ She hesitated for a fraction of a moment then, feeling she needed to make some excuse for her uncle’s conduct, added, ‘I understand he had urgent business at Westminster.’

‘Here’s a pretty pickle,’ Silas murmured at Rob’s ear. ‘What do we do now? Do you want me to deal with the rest of the escort? Master Rob, we should be moving off the road.’

Rob nodded in irritation. His gaze passed to the little knot of defeated Hoyland men-at-arms who had gathered defensively close together and were clearly concerned about their own fate. As yet they had made no attempt to go to the help of their injured comrades.

Rob waved a hand towards Diggory and Sym who were still mounting guard over the prisoners.

‘Get them into the wood. Is that fellow dead?’ He looked dispassionately at the still figure of the sergeant in the roadway.

‘Aye, Master Rob, it would seem so.’ Sym’s voice revealed no hint of sympathy for the victim. There had been too many dead men left to rot at the Devane manor.

‘Well, get the body into the wood and bury it. I know the ground is hard but do your best, cover it with brush-wood if necessary. Secure the horses and pinion the wrists of those prisoners on their feet, but first let them tend to their wounded.’

His hand was still holding the palfrey’s leading rein and he made to draw the horse under the cover of the trees.

Clare addressed him coldly. ‘I trust, sir, that you don’t intend to butcher my unarmed men or me?’

He swung to face her and she saw that his expression was granite set.

‘If my men did so, mistress, I could not find it in my heart to blame them. Men died in plenty at my manor, aye, and women, too, some most unpleasantly.’

He saw her grey eyes widen and a shadow of fear crossed her proud face. The maid, now on foot and gripping tightly to the panier on one of the sumpters, gave another shrill scream which was instantly halted as her mistress turned her imperious gaze upon her once more.

Clare did not resist as he led her horse under cover some quarter of a mile into the wood where woodsmen had fashioned a clearing.

He held up his arms commandingly to lift her down. For the length of a heartbeat he thought she would refuse to obey, then she allowed herself to be lowered to the ground and moved a fraction from him. Diggory had brought up the struggling maid who, once he released her, ran, panting and sobbing, to her mistress’s side and clutched desperately at her cloak.

‘Mistress Clare,’ she gulped. ‘Oh, Mistress Clare, whatever is to become of us?’

‘I do not know,’ Clare replied woodenly, ‘but I do know it will not improve our prospects for you to continue to give trouble and cry like that.’

The wounded had been conveyed into the clearing by the survivors and laid down upon the grass. Without seeking permission from Rob, Clare went instantly to them and knelt by them. She made a perfunctory examination, then said quietly, ‘They do not appear to be too gravely hurt. None of the arrows have damaged vital organs, but they should not be left long in this bitter cold without help. I ask you again, sir, what are you going to do with us? I understand, from your question earlier, it was my uncle you sought.’

‘It was indeed, mistress. He and your brother were responsible for the raid on my manor and, since Sir Peter is dead and cannot be called to account, Sir Gilbert alone must answer to me for his actions.’

‘Then you will let us proceed on our way to Coventry?’

‘Coventry?’ He raised one eyebrow in surprise. ‘You go to join the Court at Coventry? Was that in hope of seeing me hang, Mistress Hoyland?’

‘It certainly was not, sir. I was already well aware of your escape and I thanked God for it. As you have said, too many men died in that fruitless attack on your home and I would not have had your name added to the list, whatever your crimes against the King’s Grace.’

He was leaning against a tree bole, watching her as she still knelt by the wounded men. He was silent for a moment then he said, ‘You are right when you say too many men have died, but there is still a debt to be paid. You understand that?’

She rose to her feet and calmly dusted herself down. ‘These injured men are hardly responsible, Master Devane. They did but obey orders even if these men, personally, were involved in the raid.’

‘Naturally. I hold the Hoylands responsible.’

He saw her wince at the implication but still she showed no fear.

Rob turned to Piers who had come up, soft-footed as a cat, as usual.

‘We shall not want to be hampered by these men. If we take the horses as planned I think we can allow them to remain here.’

‘Pinioned?’

Rob hesitated. ‘Mistress Hoyland warns me of the danger to them of leaving them tied here in these bitter conditions, particularly the wounded men. When we have left, they can seek help for their injured companions in Brinklow. They will be on foot and unable to pursue us.’ He turned and whispered so that Mistress Hoyland could not overhear him. ‘They cannot know of our hiding place.’

‘And the women, mon ami? Since Sir Gilbert is not here—the demoiselle would bring a considerable ransom in his stead, n’est ce pas?’

Rob turned and regarded her slowly. He could tell by the very rigidity of her stance that she was struggling to maintain a semblance of courage. She lifted one hand to push back a lock of brown hair, which had come loose from its pins when she had stooped to see the wounded men. He rubbed one side of his nose thoughtfully.

‘We’ll take her to the hut,’ he said at last, ‘and consider, later, what is best to be done.’

‘Did I hear the demoiselle say she was bound for the Court of le roi in Coventry?’

‘You did.’

‘Then, mon ami, naturellement, a courier will have been sent in advance to announce her arrival. She will be sought for—assiduously—is that not how you say it?’

Rob grimaced ruefully. ‘Doubtless she will, especially when the men have reported her disappearance, that is.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘I think, Piers, these men will not be anxious to return to their service. Sir Gilbert Hoyland is no man to cross, I am sure, and will deal harshly with any he deems to be inefficient or to lack courage. These fellows will know well enough they will be blamed. I think I can guarantee they will disappear into the countryside. I can only hope they take their injured companions with them. This will give us a breathing space.’

Piers shrugged and looked towards the tethered horses. Left to his own devices, he would have made very sure there was no pursuit, but Messire Robert Devane was often unpredictable and prone to unfortunate scruples.

He moved off to see that the prisoners were informed what was to happen to them. They were all young, the dead sergeant being, apparently, the only experienced man in the company. Piers Martine considered Sir Gilbert Hoyland a fool to have trusted his niece to such an undisciplined rabble.

Clare Hoyland drew a hard breath and marched up to her captor. It had to be faced. She needed to know her fate—now.

‘I demand to know, sir, when you will release me?’

He narrowed his eyes and she saw his lips tighten. His was such a normally genial countenance that she was chilled by the sight and stepped back a little.

‘Certainly not yet, mistress,’ he said brutally.

‘But you said—it was my uncle you expected…’

‘It was, but you, too, are a Hoyland.’

She gave a sharp exclamation. ‘You intend to hold me prisoner?’

‘You have guessed it, mistress.’

‘You will hold me for ransom? But, my uncle…’

‘Will pay it gladly,’ he mocked her. ‘I have not yet decided, mistress, but, for the present, you will come with us and without protest.’ He glanced towards the band of prisoners. ‘If you resist, it may rouse some core of chivalry in those youngsters there and I am sure you realise that could only end in their deaths.’

She inclined her chin and her single word was a trifle breathy. ‘Yes.’

He turned from her. ‘Then that is settled.’

She called back to him. ‘Sir?’

‘Madam?’

‘You intend to let the men go free?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you let my maid go? She will only hinder us and—and she will prove difficult to handle.’

His eyebrows rose again in some amusement.

‘You would go with us unchaperoned?’

Colour flooded her face, now pale with suppressed fear.

‘For her good—yes, and—’ it came out in a rush ‘—if you mean me harm or—humiliation—I do not think her presence would deter you.’

He threw back his head and the laugh echoed in the little clearing.

‘You read the situation correctly indeed, Mistress Hoyland.’

He looked towards the maid who was still hysterical with fear. Certainly the girl would be of little use to her mistress in her present state.

‘Yes, she may go, but I hope and trust she will fare better with those of your men than she would have cause to fear mine.’

‘She will have to take that chance,’ Clare said evenly.

He moved from her then to give orders for their departure and she went to the frightened girl.

‘Bridget, you are to go with those men to the nearest inn at Brinklow. I do not think they will harm you. They fear Sir Gilbert’s anger too much.’ She drew a swift breath. ‘At least I believe you will be safer with them. These ruffians cannot be trusted.’

‘But you, mistress?’ Bridget’s lips rounded into an ‘o’ of shocked horror. ‘I should not leave you.’

Clare forced a confident smile. ‘I do not think I am in any real danger. Master Devane, for all his piratical ways, is a gentleman. We must hope and pray that that is the case. In all events it would do no good for both of us to be endangered and I can trust you to raise the alarm. I do not know where I am to be taken, but my uncle’s men must be alerted and, doubtless, they will search these woods and the surrounding district so there is every chance I shall be found.’

The girl drew a quivering breath. ‘Yes, mistress.’

Clare gave her a little push in the direction of the Hoyland prisoners and turned resolutely to Robert Devane, who was striding purposefully back towards her.

‘You must mount up, now, mistress, we are ready to set off.’

The Frenchman, whose bold dark countenance and mocking grin she distrusted most, brought up her palfrey. Robert Devane prepared to lift her to her saddle and she flinched from the feel of his two strong hands upon her waist, but knew it would be useless to protest. Better Devane than his foreign henchman.

He settled her comfortably and handed her the reins. She resisted the urge to kick her horse into a canter and make for the road. It would be useless, she knew and shuddered inwardly at the thought of an arrow between her shoulder blades. She had seen how proficient these men were with their weapons. They were ruthless. Her uncle’s conduct had made them desperate and she must pay the price.

She waited docilely while the little troop mounted up behind her then, with Robert Devane’s masterful hand upon her bridle rein, she allowed him to lead her along the forest track.




Chapter Three


Clare struggled to keep her fears under control as her captor led her along the woodland paths. Already she was convinced she was totally lost even if she were able to evade her guards. Her heart was beating painfully as she realised that allowing Bridget to remain with the members of her wounded escort had left her completely compromised. She gave an inner laugh. Bridget’s presence, as she had been at pains to point out to Robert Devane, would hardly have proved any real protection but, though the girl was feckless and often silly, Clare was missing her now sorely.

The men did not speak but pushed steadily on, sure-footed, the leader clearly knowing his way. Clare stole a glance at Robert Devane, who rode serenely beside her. She had noticed that he was still limping when he walked to her in the woodland glade and she wondered how well her treatment had progressed. She knew, only too well, that the very real danger of such a deep wound was the possibility of infection setting in. If that occurred, the patient either lost a limb—or his life.

The man in the lead paused and turned. Robert Devane shortened the leading rein of her palfrey and rode in close.

‘We are very near to our destination now,’ he informed her coldly. ‘When we arrive I want your promise that you will make no attempt to escape, otherwise I must keep you pinioned.’

She looked back at him proudly. ‘I shall give you no such promise, Master Devane,’ she said icily. ‘I am completely at your mercy and expect no soft treatment from you.’

‘Nor will you get it, Mistress Hoyland,’ he returned, but without rancour.

He was smiling and she had no way of knowing whether there was malice in the words or merely an amused rejoinder.

A hut loomed up before them suddenly, almost hidden by the dense foliage. It was a poor place of wattle and daub with a roughly constructed and warped door of split logs. Smoke was escaping from a hole in the ill-thatched roof.

The hut had obviously been used occasionally by some woodcutter or charcoal burner, Clare thought, for it was hardly substantially built enough for winter weather. She shivered inside her fur-lined cloak and was glad of its warmth and the protection it afforded her from Robert Devane’s eyes observing how she was trembling.

One of the men slipped inside and, almost instantly, a woman emerged, big, raw-boned, unfriendly looking. She stood, arms akimbo, regarding Clare stonily as Robert Devane lifted her down from her palfrey.

He greeted the woman cheerily, ‘Ah, Margery, as you see, we have a prisoner. This is Mistress Hoyland. I wish you to keep a very close watch on her.’ He gave a brief bubble of laughter. ‘Especially since she decided to dispense with the services of her maid. Didn’t trust the lass to our menfolk.’ He looked over at them jovially. ‘A sentiment I can well understand. But now she is without chaperon and will need you to act as such.’

The woman addressed as Margery looked even more sourly from her master to his prisoner.

‘And she is the prize, is she? What of her uncle, Sir Gilbert?’

‘Had left her on the road to our mercy, gone on to London about his own concerns.’

‘What you’d expect from a Hoyland,’ the woman spat out vituperatively. ‘Has no care for his own womenfolk nor any respect for others.’

Clare felt herself going even paler and, stiffened from her ride, almost fell as Robert Devane’s supporting arm was withdrawn from round her waist.

The woman stood aside as the prisoner was marched through the hut doorway.

‘So you intend to hold her for ransom instead of her uncle?’

Clare was sure that the woman was a servant yet her familiarity of expression showed she had been close to Robert Devane over a number of years. Clare’s eyebrows rose as she stared at her. Was she his mistress? No, Clare decided, unlikely, the woman was now revealed as much older than her master and by no means comely. She was strong, though, and Clare doubted that, in any trial of strength with the woman, she would come off best. Margery, whoever she was in the Devane household, was trusted and her strengths well known.

Her hostility towards Clare probably proceeded from the attack on the manor. Had she lost some kin in that raid? If so, she would prove as formidable an opponent as any of the men, yet the sight of another female in this place was some small measure of comfort.

The fire gave little warmth but there was protection from the wind in the hut and Clare sank thankfully down on a pile of dried bracken that Robert Devane indicated. She made no effort to remove her cloak or put back her hood.

Robert Devane stood directly in front of her, his thumbs thrust deep into his sword belt as he grinned down at his captive. She waited anxiously for his answer to Margery’s question.

‘Ransom?’ he said slowly, his eyes raking over Clare’s huddled form. ‘It is a possibility. At any rate I’ve forbidden any of my men to touch her until I’ve finally decided. I’ll need you to guard her like a dragon, Margery, both from her own desire to escape and lose herself in this unfriendly wood and from the others—’ his eyes twinkled merrily ‘—particularly from Piers.’

Clare controlled a shudder as she recalled the predatory gaze of the Frenchman. She looked up to meet Margery’s cold brown eyes in direct appeal.

‘Aye, I’ll keep my eyes on her, you can be sure of that, Master Rob,’ the older woman said with a disparaging glance at the prisoner.

There was a savoury smell issuing from the pot suspended from a roughly made iron support over the fire. Clare was made aware for the first time that she was actually hungry. Her escort had not paused on the journey to eat. Sir Gilbert had been anxious to press on and Clare had thought to stop at an inn in Brinklow. She looked away, flushing darkly, as she saw Robert Devane’s amused glance follow hers to the pot.

‘Don’t worry, Mistress Hoyland, I have no intention of starving my prisoner. I have an excellent memory and was very grateful for your hospitality extended to me in your barn. Without that fine wine to give me strength, I might never have managed the escape when my men came for me.’

If he had expected her to make some spirited comment that she would have done better to have held her hand from such kindness, he received no reply. He turned his attention to arranging for adequate guard to take turns while the little company ate. A slight stir outside informed Clare that the rest of the group had returned. Soon they were all crowding into the small hut.

The Frenchman was eyeing her speculatively again and she turned from him stonily to look fixedly at the rough daubed wall.

Robert Devane placed two men outside to keep a close watch and he himself sat down very close to Clare while Margery began to deal out the stew into wooden bowls. Someone had come well prepared from the Devane manor, Clare thought. Robert Devane handed her a bowl and wooden spoon and gratefully she began to eat. The stew was good—rabbit or pigeon, she thought—seasoned with herbs from the wood.

The men ate steadily, again with little comment, and Margery sat down at last to consume her share of the stew, after taking rations to the two outside. The Frenchman Robert Devane had called Piers sat back idly after he had finished, swinging his wooden spoon loosely from the fingers of one hand and emitting a tuneless whistle which both irritated and alarmed Clare. In some subtle way he managed to raise her fears without one word or action of threatening behaviour.

She had the notion that he was no servant of Robert Devane, but a close companion, and any control Rob Devane had over the man lay in the friendship each had for the other. Were she to be separated from either Devane or Margery, she would become very frightened indeed.

The light in the hut was beginning to fade and Clare realised it would soon be full dark. The guard outside had been changed and Rob Devane had been discussing with his men his plans for the following day. She had been kept with Margery Lightbody—as she had discovered the woman’s full name to be—at the other end of the hut and, strain her ears though she might, she could not hear what was said.

Margery took her outside at last so she might obey the call of nature and Clare was embarrassed to see not only that the woman kept her in sight all the time but they were shadowed by another of Rob Devane’s men, though at a somewhat discreet distance. She was beginning to get more and more fearful about the sleeping arrangements, but kept trying to reassure herself with the thought that Robert Devane had declared his intention of holding her for ransom. Were she to be molested by him or any of his men, she would prove virtually worthless, so, surely he would see to it that she was kept safe throughout the dark hours.

He came to her side as she and Margery returned to the hut, still followed by their watchful guard.

‘You will sleep in this corner of the hut.’ He indicated the pile of bracken which had been drawn out into the shape of two rough beds. ‘Margery will lie beside you and you will remove your shoes and hand them to me now.’

When she was about to protest he said, ‘If your feet are cold in the night you must accept that as a consequence of your refusal to give me your word you would try no tricks. Wrap them up in your cloak. You are lucky I do not intend to carry out my threat and keep you tightly pinioned. That, I’m sure you realise, would prove acutely uncomfortable.’

Mutinously she lifted her gown and began to remove her shoes, conscious that covert glances were being cast at her from the far side of the hut. The Frenchman’s regard was not in the slightest covert. He continued to smile as she withdrew both soft riding shoes and handed them to Robert Devane.

‘Good,’ he said tersely. ‘You would find it extremely painful to try to hobble through the wood without these, mistress, and, I warn you, there are predators out there, animal as well as human, so lie down now and do your best to sleep. We have quite a way to travel in the morning and will set off at first light.’

‘How will you send to my uncle and demand ransom?’ she asked. ‘I trust you will do so very soon and allow me to be free of your hateful presence as quickly as humanly possible.’

He made her that little, mocking bow she found so annoying.

‘I assure you, Mistress, I am as anxious as you are to see an improvement in my fortunes. Your brother’s conduct has forced this hateful necessity upon me. I can only hope that your uncle is as willing to value your freedom as you hope he will be and makes no delay in meeting my demands.’

She turned from him angrily. She did not wish him to see her expression and was grateful for the dimness within the hut, the one horn lantern being furthest away from where she was to lie. She, too, had her doubts about her uncle’s intentions. He had been in such a hurry to further his own interests that she feared he would take some time before he considered the welfare of his niece, who had been thrust so quickly as an unwelcome burden upon him.

Her thoughts sped to the Queen at her Court in Coventry. By now messengers would have been sent alerting her to Clare’s arrival. Soon it would be recognised that she was overdue. Would the Queen consider herself at all responsible for her newest attendant—and one, at that, whom she had never seen—and send out a search party? Clare rather thought not.

Both the King and Queen had overmuch upon their minds during these uncertain times to worry themselves about the safety of some hapless and unimportant girl. Her only hope lay in being ransomed. If her uncle could not be contacted soon…or should he refuse to cooperate with Robert Devane—she thrust that fear aside as being too terrible to contemplate.

Margery Lightbody saw to it that the fire was safely banked down and eventually lay down beside her charge. Not once since she had first seen Clare had she addressed one word to her and Clare felt she could expect no help or mercy from that quarter. Margery was entirely devoted to her master and would obey his commands to the letter.

It was becoming bitterly cold and Clare lay huddled in the corner. The men had also settled themselves to sleep some distance from the two women. Robert Devane had gone outside to take his turn on watch. Clare lay sleepless, unwilling to turn or move and disturb Margery Lightbody. Her thoughts went over and over the events of the day and her fears for the future.

She wondered if Bridget had been able to alert someone at Brinklow who would return to the Hoyland manor or send word of her predicament. Surely Bridget would not be feckless enough to forget her duty and run off with some man from the escort. Sighing inwardly, she had to admit that, knowing Bridget as she did, that was quite within the realm of probability.

She had to face the bitter knowledge that she was helpless in Robert Devane’s hands and unlikely to receive succour from any outside source—at least within the next two or three days.

Clare was roughly shaken awake at first light. Again she went outside with Margery and returned to the hut where the men were dividing up a quantity of dark rye bread and sharing ale. Robert Devane silently handed her a hunk of the bread and a wooden cup containing ale. He made no apologies for the poorness of fare and she made no complaints. It was still very cold, but the wind had dropped considerably and she had noticed a lightness, compared to the previous day’s leaden sky, which heralded the possibility of a wintry sun showing itself later.

She saw the men making preparations for departure, packing their meagre supplies and checking their weapons. She became anxious to know if Margery Lightbody was to accompany the party. Hostile as the woman was, she represented Clare’s one female supporter amongst this motley company of men.

Robert Devane soon disabused her of that fear.

‘Margery is to go with us. Unfortunately, she cannot ride alone and must go pillion. Have I your word that you will be sensible? Otherwise, I must carry you face down upon my saddle bow.’

Clare grimaced. The very humiliating idea of the threat convinced her that, for the present, she must cooperate with her captor.

‘I will agree to ride with you throughout this day only,’ she rejoined coldly. ‘Later, I will make no promises.’

He nodded and gave the signal for the little group to leave the hut and saddle up.

She was glad of her own palfrey, who whinnied with pleasure at sight of her. Margery watched stolidly while Robert Devane assisted Clare into the saddle. Then, somewhat apprehensively, she mounted behind Sym Fletcher, who made some ribald remark that made her snort as he insisted she tuck her arms firmly round his waist. Clare noticed that the Frenchman rode companionably close to Robert Devane and, though he said nothing, his black snapping eyes showed his amusement at her discomfiture.

The company rode as silently as they had traversed the wood the previous day, only the clopping of the horses’ hooves and the faint snapping of an occasional twig marking their passing. She still had no idea where Robert Devane was taking her and was much too proud to enquire. They fell into single file as the woodland path grew narrow and Clare saw Silas Whitcome was bringing up the rear leading the sumpter mule.

She looked about her constantly and, at last, realised they were heading south, eventually taking a well-worn path, which she thought ran parallel to the Roman highway that ran to London and St Albans. While they were still comparatively close to Clare’s own manor, Robert Devane was taking no chances of riding along the main highway, with the risk of Clare being recognised and the company challenged.

Some miles further south he issued an order. Apparently, he now thought it was safe enough to run onto the main Roman thoroughfare. Were they riding to London? Clare wondered. Perhaps Robert Devane was intending to join his master, the Earl of Warwick, whom she had heard had now left Calais and landed on English soil. If so, then the Yorkist lords were already beginning to once more gain ground and confidence after their defeat at Wakefield.




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