I rode on through the gap, and found plenty of tracks beyond, with hoof prints and boot marks leading off in all directions. The most promising trail took me into Three Mile Wood, and down a steep slope onto the public road that runs through it.
Three Mile Wood is on Berkeley’s land, and he neglects it sorely, and has for years. The road is much overgrown, especially in summer, so that you can scarcely force your horse through.
I visited Berkeley to see whether he had been troubled by the same scumbags, but he said not. As part of his hospitality a large venison pasty was served up, and I got the impression that he was trying to get me drunk, the amount of wine he pressed on me.
After a while he started talking about the deeds of Perkin Warbeck, the young man who has been giving friend Tudor so much grief of late.
Warbeck claims to be Richard, Duke of York. The same Dickon who fled from Margaret of Burgundy’s Court all those years ago. Whether he is truly Dickon, or a mere impostor, is more than I know, and the days have gone when I would have been curious to establish the truth. Some people take the line that Dickon – if it is Dickon – has a better claim to the throne than Bessy’s husband. If Bessy is legitimate, it follows that Dickon is his father’s rightful heir.
Berkeley wanted to know what I thought of all this, and I told him that I was but a foolish woman, and did not dream of meddling in men’s business.
‘I’ve heard that your husband favours this Warbeck,’ he said, studying my face.
‘That is a lie.’
‘I hope no such lies reach the Sheriff’s ears,’ he murmured. ‘Or the King’s. His Majesty is of a notably suspicious nature, and might not trouble to listen to Beauchamp’s side of the tale.’
He ran his dirty fingers down the length of my thigh, and I jumped to my feet, astonished.
‘I’ve always fancied the look of you, Alianore,’ he announced, tilting his head to one side and grinning.
‘I thought it was my daughter you wanted.’
‘Oh, it is. But I’ve a big bed. There’s room enough in it for both of you. You can’t beat a mixture of youth and experience.’
‘You’ve more chance of flying to the moon,’ I spat out. ‘I’d sooner die.’
He did not move. He just leaned back in his big chair, and leered. ‘It’s not your death that is in question, my lady. You see, the rumours are not just a matter of tongues clacking. I’ve certain papers in my possession that could prove most embarrassing to your husband. Of course, as long as the friendship between our families is maintained – and deepens – those papers will remain safely hidden. But if you spurn the hand of friendship, I’m afraid I shall have no choice but to do my duty as a loyal subject. There will, I regret, be unfortunate consequences when the King discovers that Sir Roger has been intriguing with the impostor Warbeck. But you will only have yourself to blame.’
‘You’re bluffing,’ I said. ‘You can’t produce papers that don’t exist.’
‘Try me. Whom do you think the King will believe? A man who bore arms against him at Bosworth? Or one who fought for him?’
He stood up, and began to walk towards me, slavering like a hungry dog that’s had a meat pie held under its nose for ten minutes. ‘I think it’s time to cement our family alliance, Alianore,’ he said. ‘Let me help you out of those uncomfortable clothes.’
I don’t know how I stopped myself from puking all over his carpet.
‘I’m expected home,’ I told him. ‘My sons know that I’m here, and it’d be more than a tad inconvenient if they came looking for me. Ride over to Horton Beauchamp. Tomorrow. After noon. Come alone. Bring some proof of what you say. I’ll make sure that I’m on my own, and that we’ll not be disturbed. We may as well make a proper job of it. Take time, and enjoy ourselves.’
He hesitated, just for a moment. Then nodded. ‘Very well. I admit that there’ll be a certain spice in cuckolding Beauchamp in his own bed. Don’t disappoint me, though, will you?’
‘Definitely not,’ I promised. ‘You’ll never be closer to heaven. I give you my solemn word.’
I had to let the foul pig take a few minor liberties, although I itched to butt him in the face and break his crooked nose for the second time in its life. (The first was at Bosworth, I believe. He got a little bit too close to King Richard.) At last I managed to wriggle free.
When I got home, I sent for Thomas and Rick. I told them about the damage to the park, and my suspicion that the raiders had come from Berkeley’s land. I didn’t dare mention his attempt on me. I do not exaggerate when I say that my boys would have burned his house about his ears and disembowelled him before the day was an hour older. I didn’t want any unpleasantness of that kind. It lowers the tone of the neighbourhood.
‘Three Mile Wood is very overgrown, down by the road,’ I added. ‘Small wonder that we have outlaws plaguing us. There’s plenty of covert. Enough to hide a small army in ambush. Some day, some unfortunate traveller is going to be waylaid, and killed. I can see it coming. I don’t know what Berkeley’s foresters can be about.’
‘Berkeley’s behind all this trouble, if you ask me,’ said Thomas. ‘The stolen cattle. The raid on the park. God knows what else.’
‘There’s no doubt of it,’ I said. They were taken aback by my certainty, but pleased to have their suspicions confirmed.
‘I sure as hell don’t like the thought of him marrying my sister,’ Rick snorted.
‘Nor do I. In fact, I’m determined that he shall not. But I think he has some hold over your father. A hold that may be difficult to break, unless…’
‘Unless he meets with some unfortunate accident,’ said Thomas.
I nodded. ‘Quite. He’s coming here tomorrow, to pay court to Constance. Completely alone. Let’s pray that the outlaws don’t hinder his passage.’
They exchanged significant glances.
‘What time tomorrow?’ Rick asked.
‘Some time after noon.’
Rick grinned. ‘Careless of him, to ride through the woods without escort,’ he said.
‘Very careless,’ agreed Thomas, sharpening his dagger on a whetstone. ‘The pity is that we’re all going to be far too busy to ride out to meet him. In fact, we’re each and every one of us going to be fully occupied, and some miles away.’
Tudor was in no hurry to marry Bessy. He had himself crowned in solitary splendour, and had Parliament declare him our rightful King. The weeks continued to slip by. It was Tudor’s way of showing everyone, including Bessy, that he was the man in charge, and that he didn’t need Bessy’s claim to the throne to shore up his own. (Even though he did.)
If I’d been Bessy, I’d have given him sixty different kinds of hell. But she just kept on being her own, sweet self, and when he did trouble himself to visit her, she always made out that she was delighted to see him. It was the way she had been brought up, I suppose, to be pleasant to whatever fellow fate threw at her.
I was summoned to the presence of the Countess of Richmond. Margaret Beaufort was in her element now that her darling little boy was crowned. It amused her to keep me on my knees for half an hour while she finished reading her book.
‘Dame Beauchamp,’ she said suddenly, just as I was beginning to drift off to sleep, ‘I deem you a most unfortunate influence on the Lady Elizabeth of York. I think we shall have to consider an alternative location for you. Especially as the Bishop of Rochester informs me that you are not at all inclined to be co-operative.’
‘How co-operative would you like me to be?’ I asked. ‘I’m ready to say whatever you want me to say. Just give me the script.’
‘I see. Then perhaps you can begin by informing me of the whereabouts of the Intelligence archives.’