The tray was left at the door. Nicholas carried it in. Emeline clapped her hands and shrugged off the dismal past. “Apple codlings?”
He left her after they had eaten, kissing her cheek with apologies. She asked, “To wait for Adrian?”
“I’d hoped he’d be back by now. But until he is, I can’t settle to much else, my sweet. If you were ill, that would take precedence. But you’ve eaten a dinner large enough for two, and I need to talk to Jerrid.” He poured her another cup of wine, but took his own with him.
Downstairs Nicholas found his uncle and his father outside, talking quietly together beneath the wide fluttering shade of the oak. Across the stable courtyard and the grassy bank, he joined them as they turned, hearing his steps. The ladies had presumably retired to their shared chamber. Nicholas blinked through the sunbeams.
“My lord. No sign yet of my cousin?”
Jerrid shook his head but the earl turned quickly, thumbs hooked into the opening of his doublet. “Ah, my son, claiming more gallant deeds, no doubt. And what do you intend to do, my boy, when Adrian arrives? You’ve no proof I assume. What if you’re wrong? You’ve been wrong more often than right over the years, whatever you may like to boast about now.” He paused, eyeing first Nicholas, and then Jerrid. “Personally,” he continued with belligerence, “I find it quite impossible to believe my nephew is a traitor.”
Nicholas laughed. “You never fail me, Papa.”
Harry, Rob and Alan were lounging against the stable doors as the hostelry ostlers led out two of the horses for grooming in the sunshine. There was a jangle of bridles, the slop of water over the cobbles and the clank of buckets. Jerrid yawned. “It’s time you trusted your son, Symond, and gave up this phantasm of Peter the Great. And you’ve no admiration nor love for young Adrian, so why support him against your own son?”
“To call my nephew a traitor? And have another Chatwyn scandal to blush for?”
“Blushing? I’ve never seen it.” Nicholas leaned back against the trunk of the oak, lit by dancing shadows through the foliage. “It’s ignorance you should fear, Father, and turning blind stupidity to the steel at your throat.”
“Yes, I know the name Urswick,” the earl said, thrusting out his chin. “I’m neither ignorant nor gullible, impudent boy. But how many Urswicks are there in England? Adrian was knighted on the battlefield, and proved himself a loyal king’s man. Been loyal to this family too, offering you a home after the fire, and looking after Lizzie.”
“Aunt Elizabeth looks after him, and Sissy both,” Nicholas pointed out. “Financially, amongst other services.”
Jerrid interrupted. “Just how much do you know, Symond?” he demanded. “So let me tell you a little of what you probably don’t know – which is what we’ve been up these past weeks.” He lowered his voice, conscious of the busy grooms behind him. “If nothing else, you’ve heard of Henry Tudor, son of Stanley’s wife, the Beaufort heiress. Her strong Lancastrian loyalties, fanatical some might say, inspire her son. But he’s been an exile in Brittany and France for many a long year.”
The earl tapped his foot on the cobbles. “I’ve been at court long enough to know all this. Indeed, I’ve known much of it from my cradle. But there’s been little need to resurrect those memories for many years.”
“The king has spies in France,” Nicholas nodded. “They send information, and there’s been more of it lately. After many years of dismissing this Tudor byblow as barely worth the notice, now he’s becoming more relevant. The French have him in hand, and the French will always make trouble for us where they can.”
Jerrid nodded. “But Tudor’s simply the grandson of poor mad Henry VI’s French mother, result of a secret liaison the old woman had with a servant after failing to win the man she wanted. It was the Beaufort gallant she chased, but evidently ended taking a servant from her own chambers instead.”
“She claimed she’d married the man,” muttered the earl, still scowling.
“In any case the king legitimised the affair afterwards, welcomed the offspring as his own half-brothers. He even arranged for the elder son to wed the Beaufort heiress.”
“A woman of immovable determination, and a will of iron.”
“Why are we discussing a past nonsense of no interest today?” demanded the earl.
“It matters, because that’s why we’re here today,” said Jerrid with impatience. “Thinking his dream of a union with the old king’s bastard daughter was in tatters, Tudor wrote to Northumberland, asking him to broker a union with one of his own sister-in-law.”
The earl was puzzled and shook his head. “A mumble jumble, boy, and as foolish as your other ventures. One marriage that won’t happen, and another that can’t. An exile with no money dreaming of a woman with plenty. Or is this letter a rumour like all else?”
“I have the letter Father, and have read it. The reason for suspicion is the surprising friendship between an exile and the good earl, who should by affiliation have nothing to do with each other, let alone plan a marriage which would unite them in a fairly close relationship.”
The earl snorted. “And what has this to do with Adrian?”
“His highness authorised my uncle and myself to come down and intercept the messenger.” Nicholas shrugged. “You may not see the danger in this exile’s sudden friendship with one of the greatest nobles in the land, but the king does. And that’s where Urswick comes in, for he was designated to bring the letter to this coast and then pass it to someone less conspicuous who would deliver to Northumberland. That letter is now, in safe keeping.”
“But we were attacked twice,” added Jerrid. “And one of Nick’s boys was killed. Perhaps because he recognised one of Adrian’s henchmen.”
“Are we surrounded by traitors?” The earl stared around, raising his voice. “My own family? Northumberland himself?”
“The French, certainly, since we still hold Calais, though little else, and our previous kings laid claim to their throne and flourish the fleur-de-lis on our banners.”
“The French,” snorted the earl. “They’ve wanted revenge ever since old King Hal beat them into the mud at Agincourt and before. So they hold this exile hostage. Why should we care?”
“Hostage? Or honoured guest? Dorset is held against his will, not Tudor.”
“Why would Adrian support the French? He’s hostage to no one and was knighted fighting for king and country.”
“I’ll ask him,” smiled Nicholas. “But I’ll surround him first. Apart from myself and my uncle, I’ve four men with me, including my squire David. There’s also the guide who accompanied my wife and Adrian’s sister. Then there’s a bunch of armed guards who came down with my mother-in-law and Aunt Lizzie. And there’s your own entourage, Father dear, if you’ll give them the order.”
“To capture your own cousin? You’ll hardly need an army, boy.”
“He has a pack of ruffians with him, though some may have come with Urswick, and have left now, sailing back to France some days back.”
“I’ve no intention of starting a war,” said Nicholas softly. “I’ll give my cousin a chance to explain. To exonerate himself if he can. But there’s more than treachery to talk about. There’s also murder, and that may involve more than words.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Nicholas paused, looking over his shoulder to the tiny open window where the breeze combined the dizzy sulphur of sunset with the rising moon’s first silver puddles. He grinned at his wife, his eyes reflecting the sun’s last flame.