Revenge (33 page)

   Even though the Huntleys were no threat any more, the torments Mary had endured at their hands were burned into her memory. She frequently suffered nightmares of her captivity at Greystones, and could not walk past their graves without shuddering. A dutiful Christian, she frequently prayed for the salvation of their souls. In her secret heart she wished them both in Hell, condemned to roast for eternity.

   She felt a slight pressure on her hand, and smiled down at her daughter. The girl was a pretty, dark-haired creature, though too thin and quiet for her mother’s liking. Mary had named her Elizabeth, after her grandmother.

   Her father and Mary’s husband, Henry of Sedgley, had also fallen victim to the wars. There was no gravestone for him. His body had been dumped in one of the mass grave-pits at Towton.

   Another gravestone was missing from the cemetery, her family’s traditional burial-place for centuries. Until recently Mary’s eldest brother, Richard, was also thought to have died at Towton. In recent months stories had begun to circulate in Staffordshire, snatches of rhymes and ballads, of an outlaw roaming the forests of Lancashire and the Marches of North Wales. His identity was unknown, but he called himself The White Hawk.

   Mary recalled a snatch of one of the rhymes:

  
The White Hawk bent a right good bow,

   Carved from a trusty tree,

   He shot the justice in the heart,

   And laid low his enemy,

   “God’s curse be upon this man,” he said,

   “And all who traitors be,”

   “For this hawk stoops to gather you all,

   “That betrayed our good King Henry…”

  
Most of the rhymes were in a similar vein: short and simple, and invariably described the outlaw taking brutal revenge on ‘traitors’ i.e. those loyal to the House of York. 

   The White Hawk was the symbol of the Boltons. Mary had a good idea of the outlaw’s real name. She remembered Richard in her prayers every morning and night, and begged God to preserve him from harm.  
 

   “We have suffered enough, eh?” whispered Mary, slipping her hand out of Elizabeth’s and stroking her long, raven-black hair.

   Not quite enough, it seemed. Stephen had slowed to a walk more in keeping with the dignity of his office. He coughed and smoothed his surplice as he approached Mary and her daughter. A slow blush was already creeping up his neck, and Mary braced herself for another painfully awkward conversation.

    “Lady Mary,” he began, folding his hands and giving a stiff little bow, “I notice your visits to All Saints are becoming ever more frequent.”

   “Not – not that I disapprove,” he added hurriedly, his eyes bulging, “you are welcome, of course.”

   “I find this place a great comfort,” said Mary, ignoring his fluster, “there is a kind of peace of here. At times I can sense my mother’s presence.”

   Stephen looked proudly over the little cemetery, the ordered rows of gravestones and immaculately-kept grass. It was a peaceful place, as most graveyards are, heavy with the sense of time and mortality.

   “I flatter myself that all is as it should be,” he said, “I take pains to keep all in good order, unlike my…”

   His hand flew to his mouth, and his face flushed bright red. Mary took pity on him.

   “Unlike your predecessor,” she said cheerfully, “my brother James, who for many years did little but drink and whore away the contents of the poor-box. Until, of course, he found the road to Damascus.”

   She referred to the sea-change in James’ character had that occurred over eight years previously, when he had given up his dissolute ways to rescue his family from the Huntleys. Since then James had remained sober and attended to his duties as chaplain with astonishing fervour.

   He had come to the attention of John Hales, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield and a staunch Lancastrian. Hales summoned him to serve in his household at Lichfield, and installed Stephen as chaplain of Cromford in his place.

   Mary was glad of James’ success, but wished the Bishop had not summoned him away. With him gone, her mother dead and her middle brother Richard missing since Towton, she was left with only her daughter and Martin, her youngest brother.

   She scowled at the thought of Martin. Her mood darkened further when Stephen shuffled closer to the graveside.

   “I know you have carried a heavy burden since your mother was received into Christ’s bosom,” he wheedled, knotting his long fingers together, “if there is anything I can to do to comfort you, anything at all…”

   Despite her mood, Mary was amused by the way he left the sentence hanging. The little priest actually had lecherous designs on her!

   Still, he was just a man under his surplice. Since her husband’s death every young bachelor in the district had come galloping to Heydon Court with amorous intent.

   Not, Mary was well aware, because they thought her any great beauty – at twenty-six, her youthful bloom had long since fled, and she had inherited her mother’s spare frame and hatchet face – but for her assets. Her late husband’s manor house at Sedgley, along with over four hundred acres of decent farmland, was enough to offset her plain looks and blunt manner.

   Stephen smiled down at Elizabeth and stretched out a grubby hand to tousle her hair. The little girl never made any secret of her dislike for him, and dodged behind her mother’s skirts.

   “This one is in need of a father,” he said, hiding his obvious irritation behind a hollow chuckle, “the sapling must be bent while still young, as they say.”

   “They may say as they please,” retorted Mary, “I am quite capable of bringing up my child alone.”

   Stephen spread his hands. “But, lady, what about her schooling? You have no private tutor at Heydon Court that I know of. I would be happy to offer my own poor services in that regard.”

    
The saints shall rise again before you worm your way over my threshold
, thought Mary. “My thanks, but that is not necessary. I am teaching her myself. Good day, Father.”

    She turned and walked away hand-in-hand with Elizabeth. One of Mary’s servants, a man-at-arms named Piers, was waiting outside the graveyard with her horse. Piers was armed as if going to war, in jack and sallet and with a falchion strapped to his hip. Lawlessness in England had decreased somewhat under the energetic rule of the Yorkist King, Edward IV, but the roads were still unsafe.

   “Good day to you, Lady Mary,” Stephen called after her. She winced at the desperation in his voice. “And remember, you have a friend here at All Saints. Always.”

   The journey home was uneventful. Mary halted on the rise overlooking Heydon Court to look down at the house and its surrounding parkland and forest.

   This was her favourite vantage point at her favourite time of day. The sun was slowly sinking behind the range of gently rolling hills west of Heydon Court, beyond which lay wild Wales. A few deer were scattered about, peacefully cropping grass or drinking from the fish pond beside the little orchard south of the house.

   The pond and the orchard were the work of Mary’s father. She pictured him walking among the trees in summer, plucking ripe apples and tossing them to her as she trotted beside him with a basket.

   Edward Bolton had been a huge man, bear-like in his sheer size and strength. He had spent his life striving to win the acceptance of the neighbouring gentry, old Norman families who could trace their ancestry back to the Conquest. Instead they had shunned the Boltons, made no secret of their contempt for such jumped-up tradesmen, and at last conspired to slay Edward on the battlefield.  

   Mary’s eyes prickled. She hurriedly wiped away the tears before they could fall. It would not do for her daughter to see her weep. Her father had impressed upon his children the importance of never showing weakness in public.

   “The gentry are a different breed,” she remembered his words, a faint echo drifting down the long years, “they, or rather we, are born to be leaders. We do not show fear or sorrow in public. We do not ask for anything. What we want, we take.”

   These were harsh lessons, Mary reflected. Perhaps he had taught them too well.

   She gave her reins a twitch and let her horse amble down the incline towards the house. The painful image of her father slowly faded into the deep recess of memory, where Mary harboured all the ghosts of her past.  

   Martin was sprawled on a bench before the fire in the hall, apparently asleep, when she came in. She paused on the threshold to study him.

   Of Edward’s three sons, Martin would grow to resemble him the most. Not yet sixteen, his body was still growing, an alarming thought since he was already well over six feet of rangy, well-honed muscle. He appeared to be no great thinker and spent his days hunting, exercising with weapons, fighting, drinking and whoring. Mary’s mother had despaired of him.

   Mary suspected there were depths to her younger brother. He took little joy in his life of vicious indulgence, and when she looked into his eyes there was a strange emptiness to them, as though his true self was concealed behind a steel door.

   As if sensing her presence, he stretched out his long limbs until the joints clicked, and took a final swig from the pewter tankard dangling in his hand.

   “Sister,” he murmured without opening his eyes, “welcome home. How was mother?”

   Mary’s jaw clenched. “I have warned you before of speaking about her in that trivial fashion,” she snapped, “do not dishonour the dead.”

   A lazy smile spread across his face. He was handsome in a florid, heavy sort of way, and had started to grow a beard. “You sound just like her,” he said. “The resemblance increases every day. No wonder you were her favourite.”

   He tossed away his tankard and flowed to his feet. Mary bent to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek and usher her to bed. The girl went gladly, shooting one fearful glance at her uncle as she trotted toward the stair. Martin grinned and winked at her.

   Mary folded her arms and fought an impulse to retreat. She was secretly afraid of her towering, enigmatic brother, his brute strength and appalling temper when roused.

   He yawned and moved to stand with his back to the hearth. “The nights grow cold,” he said, rubbing his big hands, “we shall have a frost soon.”

   “Maybe the cold will make you stay indoors,” she threw back, “and keep you from getting into trouble. The Sheriff will not turn a blind eye to your misdeeds forever.”

   “That for the Sheriff,” replied Martin, cracking his thumb, “Stanley won’t dare touch me. He knows what happens to those who cross the Boltons. But you need not worry, dear sister. I have higher things on my mind these days.”

   Mary was cold from her journey, and wished to feel the benefit of the fire. She approached her brother and laid a gentle hand on his forearm. “Do you mean Kate Malvern?” she asked, softening her tone, “have you decided to court her at last?”

   He grimaced and brushed her off. “No I have not, and you may quit your attempts to wheedle me into doing so. Kate may well be the most beautiful girl in the county, but she is not for me. Her family and ours are sworn enemies.”

   Mary’s fragile patience snapped. “That is all done with, years past!” she said. “Her father paid for his crime with his life. Let that be the end of it.”

   They had been through this argument many times in recent months. Mary stubbornly clung to the hope that he would eventually see sense and drop his grudge against the Malverns. He, with equal stubbornness, refused to let it go.

   “His son still lives,” he said grimly, “and thrives at court in London. He must be held to account, along with all the other traitors who now rule this kingdom.”

   At times like this Mary’s fear of her brother evaporated, and she longed to box his ears as she had occasionally done when he was a child.

   “For God’s sake,” she cried, “can you not see that this is how blood-feuds start? Death on death, murder on murder, down the generations until no-one can remember the cause! Someone must have the courage to break the cycle.”

    “Spare me the rhetoric,” he said impatiently, “you know this is more than a personal feud. It is a matter of self-preservation. Geoffrey Malvern is now a viscount, and holds eight or nine rich manors scattered about England. He could destroy us in a heartbeat. It is only due to God’s grace that he has not done so already.”

   Martin moved away from the fire and returned to his seat. “I cannot live with his sword poised over our necks. Nor can I tolerate living under the usurper. King Henry must be restored to his throne.”

   Mary waited sadly for his explanation. She was reminded of her middle brother, Richard, and how he had engineered a brutal revenge for their father’s death at Blore Heath. The consequences had been terrible, and now she could see the same pattern re-emerging. Mary could find no way of preventing it.

   “Thank God we are alone,” she said quietly, “for you have just spoken enough treason to put a rope around your neck.”

   “Nonsense. Who would betray me? All our servants are loyal.”

   “Are they? You were just a child when the wars ended, Martin. No-one with any sense would want them back again. If the current peace must be maintained by stretching the necks of a few unhappy dissidents, then so be it.”