“I believe it was Adrian. But believing isn’t knowing. I don’t know. I can’t know. Adrian denied it adamantly enough.”
“And blamed you instead.”
Nicholas shrugged. “An easy accusation for a guilty man. Perhaps even a genuine belief from an innocent one. But the sheriffs have been involved in both Peter’s and my father-in-law’s killings for some time now, and have no better answers than we do.”
The earl sighed. “Adrian then.”
Nicholas sat up, drained his cup and refilled it. “He can’t run far. But even if he eventually returns home, what can we do? What can we prove?” He slumped again, lounging back against the rough plastered wall behind the bench. “But he’s a man I never puzzled over, never understood, barely even saw before. I was never much interested and thought him dull.” Nicholas smiled. “He’s not dull after all. He’s a mess of tidal rages, seething fury and bitter envy. All that disguised hatred bubbling beneath a dull veneer. Has he been working against us in secret for years, perhaps?”
“Turned traitor against the king, purely to spite us profligate and idle relatives, you mean?” Jerrid had wandered into the parlour, having smelled out the best Burgundy. “Where’s the cups, Symond? I’ve been out talking to the men, and I’m parched.”
The earl snorted and passed his brother a cup. “We were discussing young Adrian. Motives. But no proof.”
Jerrid shook his head. “I’ll not be killing my own nephew – but someone should. The boy’s a menace. His father was a lout, for all he was my brother. And the mother was an ice cold wind. She cried three times a day every day – though perhaps with a husband like Edmund, she had good cause. As for the boy and all this well-nourished envy, well, we’re a wealthy family yet Adrian remains damn near penniless. Not that I consider myself a rich man, but I’ve more than he has. Did he hope to kill off Peter and then young Nick, and end up as the Chatwyn heir?”
“That’s one of the possibilities.”
“So where does that miscreant Tudor come into the picture? Trying to call himself the Lancastrian claimant to the throne, when he’s as much royal blood as the hedgehog I used to play with as a boy in the castle grounds.”
“Quiet little thing. But prickly.”
Nicholas regarded his father and uncle with slight confusion. “Henry Tudor? Or the hedgehog?”
“Well, probably both,” decided Jerrid. “But what has any of it to do with Adrian?”
“I imagine,” Nicholas said, “that Adrian started taking an interest in the Tudor claims for the same reason a few others have. Adrian’s a nobody with no hope. But bring in a new regime and new pathways might open, a new king, a usurper with small backing, needs new allies. Adrian could set himself up as a Beaufort loyalist and look for advancement, a title and a position at court.”
“And spit in the face of the loyal York Chatwyns, whom he’s loathed in secret for long gloomy years. A new royal line would likely frown at past loyalists who’d supported the previous dynasty. So Adrian could advance himself and stab us in the back at the same time. What better ambition?” Nicholas frowned. “Says he suspected me of ravishing his sister but never accused me. Well, it was safer to keep quiet of course since he couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to risk shaming Sissy if he turned out to be wrong. But by turning traitor and ushering in a Tudor dynasty, he’d revenge himself on all of us, whatever our guilt.”
“Or he knew it was Peter which is why he killed him. Now he accuses you for simple spite.”
The earl finished the last of the wine jug. “So we do nothing. With this threat, this treachery looming? We wait?”
“I don’t mind waiting, but not here. I’ve had enough of this tavern,” Nicholas shrugged. “Now Emma’s over her – chill. So I’m back to Westminster and then to Leicestershire. I don’t expect any of you to accompany me. That’s your choice. I’ve backers and men of my own.”
“Seems true enough, Nick, my boy. A trusty handful of men, as long as you do trust them of course.”
Nicholas nodded. “To the death, Father. David’s my squire of course, been with me half my life and has saved it for me more than once. You know him anyway, since he’s been at the castle for years. So has Alan – nearly as long – nearly as bright – just as trustworthy. They’ve both accompanied me on various jobs for the king. Harry and Rob are later recruits, brawlers from the London tenements, both with the courage of a badger and the determination of a kestrel.” His left thigh, heavily bandaged beneath torn woollen hose, was stretched below the table. The pain was minor and he ignored it. “And tomorrow I intend taking my men and my wife back to the Strand, and this absurd injury won’t stop me riding.” He looked to his father. “Apart from anything else, I’ve a letter to deliver to his highness. So will you travel with us, sir?”
They left on the morrow at dawn, a cavalcade including his lordship the Earl of Chatwyn and his clinking and dazzling entourage. The earl, his great destrier brightly caparisoned, rode at the head of the central body. A few paces behind, Nicholas rode beside his wife. Her ladyship Baroness Wrotham and her younger daughter Avice rode a little further in the rear, both in silence having decided that conversation was useless while reconsidering their particular grievances. The Lady Elizabeth Chatwyn travelled in the large covered litter, accompanied by her maid Joan, and the Wrotham nurse Martha. This lumbered and swayed, flanked by two men at arms and followed by the cart carrying a good deal of the ladies’ personal baggage and also the other maids, driven by old Bill who disguised his sneezes on the sleeve of his tunic. Three other carts were piled with luggage and travelled slow. Trunks, coffers and parcels bounced at each rut in the road. Mistress Sysabel Frye, silent and subdued, rode directly behind the baroness, keeping pace while avoiding bringing her mount alongside. Leading the cavalcade and ensuring free passage and a clear way ahead, were the Wrotham guards and two of the Chatwyn beaters, bright liveried and well-armed. Behind, with jangling grandeur, rode the remaining Chatwyn outriders, Harry and Rob Bambrigg who were arguing loudly with each other, Jerrid Chatwyn who was in conversation with the squire David Witton, and Alan Venter who kept back, but had one eye constantly on his master.
Streaming feathers, veils, and banners, the rattle of wheels and the squeak of leather, the splash of plumes and metal harness, the procession trailed for near on a quarter mile along the narrow country lanes with no pretence at speed and far more for comfort. It was a warm and sunny day with bright leafy trees sporting their spring growth above and to either side, and dewy spangles catching the sunshine from every cobweb and busily filled birds’ nest. The breeze was gentle and just enough to lift the litter’s canopy and flutter the ladies’ little white headdresses and the gentlemen’s proud feathers.
With the fine weather and the approach to summer, the roads were dry, the ruts worn deep and solid, the crossings of streams little more than a splash through a pebbled trickle, and even the rivers were easily forded. The carts lost no wheels, the horses kept their shoes, and the riders, little concerned for proprieties and status, stopped at the easiest reached of the wayside inns, and made no effort to save time. It was therefore quite some days before they arrived at their destination. The Lady Elizabeth stated that she would never again travel by litter or indeed by any other means but the rest of the party felt that the journey had been easier than most.
Sir Adrian Frye was not present and nor was he seen. His sister took care not to mention him and kept her conversation at all times polite and without substance. She said, “Yes please, aunt.” Or “No, thank you, Uncle.” She took bread, beef and dumplings on her platter at mealtimes and no one, therefore, noticed that she had entirely stopped eating.