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
