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
