‘You refer to the Earl of Richmond?’ she asked snootily, as if I had just crawled out of the cess-pit.
‘The only one you’ve got, isn’t he?’
‘We do not all breed like conies, Dame Beauchamp. Richmond is in exile. Safer so. Since the death of King Henry and the Prince, my son is the senior surviving Lancastrian claimant.’
‘Hmmm!’ I said, thinking back to a profitable afternoon I had spent in Warwick’s library, reading Every Damosel’s Guide to Genealogy. ‘I’m none too sure of that. I think you will find that King Henry IV, of unblessed memory, the first of our Lancastrian sovereigns, specifically excluded the Beaufort family from the succession. Even though the Beauforts of the time were his own half-brothers, old John of Gaunt’s bastards.’
‘Legitimated bastards,’ Margaret returned, somewhat testily. ‘Henry Bolingbroke had no right to make such a distinction.’
‘Even so, it does make your son’s claim a tad thin. I can’t believe that King Edward lies awake at night worrying about it.’
You could tell that she didn’t want my advice on the subject. She snorted and pulled another book from the shelf. As it opened a letter fell out. I bent to pick it up, but she snatched it from me so fiercely that my fingers almost caught fire. I only had time to see that it was from someone called Morton.
‘You know Morton,’ Roger assured me. ‘Dr. John Morton. Master of the Rolls. Clever fellow. Spends all his time sniffing round for a bishopric. Dare say he’ll get one in time. Probably be Chancellor into the bargain. He was a Lancastrian right up to Tewkesbury, but he’s too damned useful for the King to bear grudges on that account.’
‘I’ll have to ask Hastings to send his file up, ‘I said. ‘Margaret Beaufort sure as hell didn’t want me to know what he had to say to her, and I’d be interested to know why. How did you get on with Stanley?’
‘He’s a slippy bastard. It’s hard to tie him down. Anyway, at least I’m through to the quarterfinals of the Hoodman Blind tournament.’
‘Husband,’ I said, ‘that is truly a big deal. I come to the regretful conclusion that we are no further on than we were when we bloody started.’
I decided that I needed to have a scout around. Next morning Roger and Stanley rode out for a day’s hunting, while Margaret went off for one of her long sessions in the chapel. I claimed to be ill, and in need of my bed, but it wasn’t long before I was sneaking my way into the Stanleys’ private apartments.
There were some interesting papers in there, believe me. Stanley had spent years going from one side to another, like a ferryman, and at times he had had the cheek to ask York and Lancaster to bid against each other for his services! Now, it seemed, he was trying to play King Edward off against Clarence, with Henry Tudor as a spare counter in the background, ready to be brought into the game at any time. At the same time, and despite what she had said to me, his wife was busily intriguing for her son to be allowed home from exile, and it was clear that the man Morton was her agent at Court, greasing palms and issuing threats on her behalf as appropriate.
I was just getting ready to copy down some of the most incriminating bits when in walked Lady Margaret. She drew herself up to her full height. (About four foot.)
‘So,’ she cried triumphantly, ‘it’s as I suspected. You’re here to resume your affair with my husband. Why else would you seek out his bedchamber?’
I have to admit that I laughed. ‘You bloody fool! I’d not go with Lord Stanley if each drop of his body fluid came complete with a free manor house in Kent. Give me some credit for taste.’
‘There were rumours at Court.’
‘They were someone’s idea of a joke. Mine, in fact.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ Her eyes went to the pile of letters and other documents on the bed and she had her answer. She was carrying a breviary in her hand to show how religious she was. Now she slid a nasty little dagger out of its spine and advanced on me.
I snatched my hennin off. Inside I had something similar but even nastier, supplied by Hastings, an Italian job as used in the best murders in Milan. It had a fancy little knob in the crosspiece which sent a second blade shooting out of the hilt. Just the job for slicing pears.
She lunged at me. It’s at times like this when you wish that you weren’t wearing skirts. They don’t half get in the way when you’re dodging a knife, and the only saving grace was that she was similarly encumbered. I tripped her as she flew past me, and she stuck her nut on the chamber-pot with a clang that they probably heard back in Middleham.
‘You’d better put that down before you get hurt,’ I said. ‘I’m bigger and stronger than you, and I’ve won more fights than you’ve had syllabubs.’
She stood up, shaking the pain out of her head, then raised the dagger again and started to circle around me, working herself up to strike.
‘You’re still in my castle,’ she said, ‘and you are not going to escape. I’m going to call for help. We’ll soon see who has the advantage here.’
‘I’d have a look behind you first,’ I suggested.
She grinned at me.
‘Really, Alianore! I expected better than that from you. That trick is so old that you couldn’t catch Julius Caesar with it!’
She was still grinning when Guy dropped the big sack over her head and twisted the knife out of her hand. Well, I did warn her.
‘Well done, Guy!’ I said.
‘All in a day’s work, my lady.’
‘You know what to do? Plan C?’
‘Doddle, my lady. Do it with our eyes closed. Won’t we, lads?’
Bill and Ben walked in, grinning inanely. Between them they tied Margaret up so tightly that she couldn’t even wrinkle her nose. Then they wrapped her up in the carpet and carried her out of the castle.
Where, I hear you ask, were her legion of damosels, her esquires, her pages, her gentlemen of the household? Well, I don’t really know, although a fair few of them were out hunting with Stanley and Roger. The rest presumably thought that she was disposing of an old carpet and that Guy and the others were taking it to its new home. It’s amazing what you can get away with if you’ve got barefaced cheek. Ask any thief.
That evening we were all about to tuck into our wild boar pottage when an arrow came flying in through a window and buried itself in the table in front of Stanley. (Don’t ask me how Guy contrived this without killing anyone, but I like to think that he practised a few times beforehand.)
Stanley dropped his spoon in his pottage, and hot brown liquid flew up into his face. He swore a couple of times and plucked the note from the shaft of the arrow. Everyone within six feet, including me, craned to see what it said. And what it said was:
‘If you would see your Lady dear,
Come and seek in Martin Mere.
Bert Amend-All.’
It was at this moment that Stanley realised that Margaret was missing. His mouth dropped open, and he stared at the empty place next to him, as if she had just disappeared in a cloud of smoke.
‘Martin Mere?’ he choked. ‘A man could catch his death wading about in that morass! I’m damned if I’m going there at this time of night. Damned if I’m going to pay any ransom, either. The buggers can keep her.’
Roger was genuinely shocked. ‘That’s unthinkable!’ he cried. ‘You’d lose all respect, all honour. You’ve no choice but to do as they ask.’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed. ‘It’s not the sort of thing a man in your position can let pass, someone just wandering into your castle in broad daylight and stealing your lady. They might come back tomorrow for the valuables. No, you’ll have to summon every man you can muster to avenge this insult.’