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
