A Tapestry of Treason. Anne O'Brien

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      ‘Dickon…’ I rode forward, a little trip of concern as he hauled his mount to a halt beside me. It was sweating, and so was he. He grabbed hold of my bridle and pulled me a distance away from the soldiers, his strength surprising me, as did the severity of his eye and the lines that deepened the corners of his mouth. He was short of breath.

      ‘You must come back with me.’

      His voice broke on the hard consonants. His hair was wild, his garments dust-plastered. All his youthful flippancy had been stripped away, replaced by a raw anxiety.

      ‘Henry’s new parliament is out for blood,’ he said. ‘Our blood.’

      So short a statement, so savagely delivered. It was enough. Without a word I turned my mare, indicating that my escort should follow. Suddenly it was no longer merely a matter of our losing land and title, of patronage and office with this change of monarch. Now it could be that our lives were truly in danger if parliament was pursuing revenge.

      We had been far too complacent, expecting that the threats were over with the placing of the crown on Lancaster’s head.

      I kicked my weary horse on, urgency a vital spur. Of what value was my return? What could I do? Not a thing, but I knew that I must be there because, before all else, we must present an image of unity and loyalty, so that Henry could never question our demeanour in the coming days of unrest. What I did not know, what none of us knew, was whether our new King would allow his parliament to have its vengeance. Henry had been vocal about the empty state of his coffers. What price would parliament demand for granting him future finance and a peaceful existence?

      Furthermore, Cousin Henry might see this as an excellent opportunity to kill two plump partridges with one arrow. To remove his relatives whose loyalty was suspect at the same time as he made a favourable showing with parliament and obtained the promise of a hefty coffer of gold.

      Surely he would not.

      But how many enemies did we have?

      It was late, well into the evening, when I arrived in the York apartments in Westminster Palace, my father struggling from his chair, until held firmly back by Joan. She welcomed me with a rise of her mouse-brown brows, before withdrawing to sit with her back to a tapestry depicting a conspicuously bloody hunting scene, all bared teeth, rent flesh and gore, as if she had nothing more to say or do in the affair that was developing elsewhere in this vast palace. Yet what a complication of family connection there was for Joan through her marriage to my father. The executed Earl of Arundel, most influential of the five Lords Appellant, was her uncle; the Duke of Surrey, hand in glove with my brother and husband in bringing Arundel to his death at King Richard’s behest, was Joan’s eldest brother. The equally complicit Duke of Exeter was also her uncle. Noting her retreat, I felt nothing but mild contempt for her complacency. How could I admire a woman who was so inexplicably unperturbed by the events around her that touched her family so closely? I would not be complacent. I might adopt a serene mask but every sense was tuned to the latent threat to my family.

      ‘Dickon says we are in trouble.’ I had sent Dickon to procure spiced wine. I thought we would need a strengthening draught before this night was out. Judging from the deep seams between nose and mouth and his white-knuckled clasp around the arm of the chair, it was one of my father’s bad days.

      ‘So it seems. And I can barely move from this room.’

      His hands closed again on the arms, the tendons stark beneath the mottled skin.

      ‘Have they accused Edward of Thomas of Woodstock’s death?’ I asked, seeing here the real threat.

      ‘Yes. So I believe.’

      ‘Is he arrested?’

      ‘I think not. I hope I would have been told if my heir was at this moment under lock and key.’

      ‘And Thomas?’

      My father shrugged, a grimace of pain tightening his features. ‘I know not.’

      ‘What about Surrey and Exeter?’

      ‘I fear for them all.’

      ‘So it will be a witch-hunt to clear us all out.’ There was only one man who might have prevented it. ‘You did not think to be there, sir.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

      ‘My lord, your father, has been unwell.’ Joan had risen and interceded in his defence, quiet but firm. ‘The pain has kept him abed until an hour ago. He has only risen at the prospect of your return.’ Her quick glance toward me was a surprise in the challenge that it held, daring me to say more. ‘As you can see, he has had much to trouble his mind.’

      ‘I am aware. So have we all.’

      Accepting the challenge with a nod, for indeed my father looked drawn as if with a winter chill, I approached to touch his arm, the nearest we got to affection, as Dickon returned with a servant and a flagon and cups. I waved Dickon away. He went reluctantly, and I wondered if he might listen at the door.

      ‘It is that worm Bagot who is stirring the pot, so I am told.’ My father gripped my hand, which was signal enough of his anxiety. Sir William Bagot, one of Richard’s close associates, perhaps the closest other than Edward, had fled smartly back to Ireland when Richard had fallen into the hands of the Earl of Northumberland, rightly fearing for his life. It had not been a successful flight, for he had been taken prisoner and brought back to London in chains. I imagined him scattering accusations with the ready hand of a hen-wife feeding her chicks in an effort to deflect the blame of evil counsellor from himself.

      ‘A pity he could not have escaped more successfully,’ I said. ‘Or someone could have applied a knife to his throat when he was first captured. It would have saved us a deal of time and worry.’

      ‘Sometimes your vindictiveness concerns me, Constance,’ my father said. ‘It must be the Castilian blood in your veins.’

      ‘They were quick to deal with traitors in Castile.’

      ‘If we in England were to copy them with summary executions, my son might already be dead. Your Castilian grandfather King Peter was stabbed to death by his half-brother who coveted his throne. Do we wish to emulate such an example?’

      Which effectively silenced me.

      And then all we could do was wait. The time passed. My father sipped morosely from some potion supplied by Joan, who picked up her endless stitching. I turned the pages of a book of poetry without focus, conscious of my dusty dishevelment that for once meant little against the approaching storm. If Dickon was listening he would learn nothing.

      ‘What are you thinking?’ Joan asked eventually, quietly. She had moved to sit at my side as my father’s eyelids closed and he fell into a light sleep.

      ‘I am wondering what we should do if they are already all locked in the Tower with Richard,’ I replied with brutal honesty.

      She looked horrified. ‘Surely not. Surely the King would not be so precipitate…’

      Footsteps, more than one set, approaching. It could be a deputation of royal soldiers to arrest all of us. Edward and Thomas might already be in chains along with Bagot. The tension in the room became the twanging of an ill-stringed lute. I stood, closing the book, facing the door. My СКАЧАТЬ