Chapter 6
Landon Castle commanded the rise above the River Dee’s fertile plain, its curtain walls visible from a distance across the Cheshire countryside. Low on the horizon, the Welsh hills rose dark and brooding. They spoke of old clashes and uneasy borders.
Landon’s single keep stood square and solid. It was fronted by a gatehouse built for strength rather than show. Orchards clustered below the castle walls—apple, pear, and quince laden with blossoms that perfumed the dusky air.
The demesne lands spread outward in a patchwork of plowed strips and common pasture where sheep grazed, and the lord’s tenants labored.
The village of Landon huddled near the castle gate, and from it rose drifts of smoke that spoke of cooking fires and domesticity.
Beyond the curtain walls, the great forests stretched south and eastward.
Up ahead, a church spire pricked the lowering skies, and even as the horsemen approached, bells rang out to welcome the lord home. They had been spotted.
Edward visited Landon seldom and usually only for the hunting. The modest keep, prosperous and well run, had been his headquarters when, at age fifteen, he had foiled a plot against Henry’s father, Henry Bolingbroke.
Mere weeks before the Battle of Shrewsbury, the Chester region had seethed with dissent. Henry Percy’s abrupt betrayal threatened to destroy the very king he once championed.
One man in particular, Sir Ralf Dacre, had seized the moment to raise the Percy banner against King Henry.
Dacre was one of many who had never accepted Bolingbroke as the legitimate king.
Bitter and bloody-minded, Dacre began raiding Lancastrian lands and those around Chester, including Landon, burning and killing in a glut of savagery.
In three days, Edward had successfully eliminated Dacre as a force and secured the road to Shrewsbury.
In truth, Edward associated that time with a great sadness in his life and hence the avoidance. Currently, however, Landon suited his purpose. It was far closer to Keelington Court than his preferred estate of Ravensworth.
Mathew rose in his stirrups and shaded his eyes from the westering sun. Mathew Landry made up the trio of Edward’s elite bodyguard along with Dunstan Bolt and Lanval Deraye, their captain. “They are gathering upon the road, already,” he called out, a smile lighting his pleasant face.
A buzz of satisfaction rose from the horsemen, their attention focused on good ale and meat and home—even if a temporary one.
Dunstan interrupted their reverie, expressing his jolly mood with a song. He had a foul voice and knew it. Nevertheless, he sang full-throated and without a shred of restraint, his ditty unfit for polite ears.
“Ah hurry-doe, my heart doth sing, a hurry-doe my love, and I am coming home to thee, for twixt your legs to lay, and I am coming home to thee, as only true love may…” he sang, gesturing with his arms in a most dramatic way.
His companions laughed, pointing out his double falseness. Sir Dunstan stood for many things, but neither singing nor faithfulness were among them. The knight had ladyloves in every place they went.
As a troop, Edward’s knights were a well-trained bunch and held some stature in the land.
They were battle-hewed and dignified and held it an honor to carry Ravensworth colors.
Not surprisingly, they were known for their charm and did well with the ladies.
Even Dunstan, the joker among them with his plain face, relied on charm when it came to women.
“Oh, indeed, and which of the many wenches will be your one true love this time?” quipped Lanval.
Dunstan sent him a dark look. “There’s only one sweet, beguiling woman in all of Landon, and you know it, knave that you are. Do you not recall how lovesick I was when we left last time? ‘Tis brown-eyed Martha, I am devoted to and have pined for withal.”
“And you are declaring her your one true love, here before all who witness it?”
“I am.”
“Well then, clown, you would do well to remember her name is Alma,” said Lanval to shouts of laughter all round.
Dunstan could do naught but bluster.
Edward chortled. “One true love? You would do well to heed Lanval, Dunstan. Women object to being called by another’s name, especially when she finds herself twixt your legs.”
* * *
Walter Ashby, steward of Landon these many years past, stood in front of the welcoming party in the outer ward, as the horsemen clattered through the gatehouse.
“My lord Ravensworth, welcome home,” he said, bowing, his hands clasped before him in salute. “Welcome indeed and sincere felicitations, m’lord, on behalf of all here.”
Edward inclined his head in acknowledgment of the household staff who had come out to greet him.
Dismounting, he ran a hand over his mount’s withers and greeted the steward and several others by name.
He took time to exchange pleasantries before he and the steward led the way to the great doors, flung wide to receive them.
Grooms and other servants ran out amid the jangle of harnesses and snort of horses. Men dismounted and called out greetings to those they knew, as overhead the banners of the black raven snapped and waved. The Lord of Landon had returned.
“Ashby, you are well, I see. And Landon, too, is no worse for wear, if my eyes do not deceive me,” said Edward as they gained the threshold.
“Indeed, m’lord, all is well, very well, as I am sure you will discover when we take a tour—whenever you are ready to do so.”
Edward nodded. He’d always been impressed with his steward who ran the demesne with rare competence. But then, Ashby stewards had served Ravensworth lords for many generations, and Landon was more their home than his. Indeed, many people assumed it did belong to Ashby.
A fortuitous circumstance, for at the moment it suited Edward to keep his whereabouts obscure from his in-laws. Furthermore, Landon sat a convenient one-day’s ride from Keelington Court which meant he might have some access to Lily’s company.
Ravensworth, an estate many times the size of this one, stood near a sennight’s distance and closer to London. Definitely too far distant for any courting he might be inclined to do.
“I think, m’lord, you will be pleased with the improvements we’ve made since last you were here,” Ashby was saying as they reached the Great Hall.
“I am in no rush. What I want now is a bath, as hot as you can make it, followed by a meal that tastes like food. I have just endured the poorest fare I’ve ever had, Ashby, and the insult to my mouth corrupts me still.”
“I am distressed to hear it on several counts. Who is the scoundrel unwise enough to give you insult, may I ask?” said Ashby, obviously taken aback that anyone would risk displeasing his master so carelessly.
“You may indeed,” said Edward with a soft laugh. “Alas, the meager table I speak of is owned by the lady I am about to marry. Fortunately, I doubt she has any connection to the selection and preparation of the victuals, or at least it is to be hoped.”
He grinned, thinking of Lily pottering about with pots and pans, dreaming up imaginative ways of spoiling his appetite.
He had received an emphatic response to his request to see her before leaving Keelington Court this morning. He had the note still in his possession, not that he needed it to remind him what it said, for it contained one single word.
An overfed old dame in a grubby wimple had delivered it straight from her mistress’s hand, so she assured him.
NO was what it said in tall letters alongside a good sprinkling of inky blotches.
Ashby spluttered out an embarrassed platitude, but Edward laughed it off.
“Let me obtain your assurance, Ashby, that you will order Dobbins to prohibit my wife from stepping a foot inside her kitchens. That way, all of us will live another day in peace.”
He knew he’d shocked Ashby by making so revealing a jest at his future wife’s expense. Which brought him to a new realization, one of domesticity and family. He pictured Lily in one or other of his many homes and was surprised by the feeling of contentment it stirred.
How long, he wondered, would it take him to wean her from her resentment of him? He chuckled aloud as he made his way to his bedchamber. Not long, he decided. After all, he managed to command many thousands of battle-hardy men to obedience. What was one slender, young maiden against that?
* * *
The hunting party had assembled in the grey pre-dawn, horses stamping and snorting in the April chill. Wisps of mist crawled about the forest floor. The men exchanged quips and snipes. Excitement stirred in eager faces, the thrill of the hunt evident in horse and rider.
“What say you, Jessop?” called Edward, scanning the small forest clearing where servants went about collecting stirrup cups from the mounted men.
The old tracker rose from his crouch, where he had been examining the ground. Both his attire and his face were as weathered as the forest itself.
“Fresh, my lord. Not an hour past. He runs true—his gait, see here, evenly paced.” He gestured to a deeper depression in the pale grass. “We’ll have him by midday, I trow.”
Just then, they all became aware of a latecomer lurching down the forest path at a riotous and unsteady lick. It seemed a miracle that he remained ahorse and did not fall and break his neck.
It was Sir Dunstan, or what remained of him. The poor man appeared to be half-dressed and not fully awake as he muttered apologies to the earl.
“Hell’s teeth, Dunstan, did sweet Alma twist off your ears in her passion that you never heard the gathering bell?” teased Lanval amid general laughter.
“Maybe he could not decide betwixt brown-eyed Martha and his one true love,” said Diggens. “The dilemma kept him up all night.”
“Nay, I think it otherwise. He could not choose betwixt the one or ‘tuther, and so he had them both,” chimed in Mathew.
“From his worn looks, that’s more likely,” said Lanval, and they all laughed.
“Whichever it was, you’re not likely to ever discover the truth,” said Dunstan with what bravado he could muster.
“Jessop,” Edward said mildly, trying not to smile, “we’d best find our stag quickly, before Sir Dunstan falls from his weary horse and frightens it away.”
* * *
The chamber, small and chill despite the brazier glowing in the corner, lay just off Landon’s Great Hall. Edward had chosen it for privacy rather than comfort. He stood now, contemplating the men before him, his powerful arms crossed over his chest.
Lanval, Dunstan, and Mathew, the knights entrusted with his life, would, he knew, keep his council on pain of death.
His eyes lifted to the chamber doorway where Jessop, his retainer of some fifteen years, stood patiently.
Edward considered himself a fair judge of men, and this tracker had already proven himself on a par with the knights, at least on the question of trustworthiness.
All the same, Edward was a cautious man. He assessed the tracker anew in silent contemplation. The man did not look away, a good sign. He stepped into the chamber for, at that moment, Diggens put his head around the doorjamb and looked expectantly at his master.
“See that we’re not disturbed,” Edward told the squire, who nodded and vanished, shutting the sturdy wood door.
“So, Jessop,” said Edward. “You will, I am sure, recall some years back to the Percy unrest? We had a need then of eyes and ears throughout the shire. A network of dependable men who moved unnoticed, who knew the roads and the taverns. Men with sharp ears and closed mouths.”
“I remember well, m’lord,” said Jessop.
“Well, we have need of them again, just as urgently as before. This time, the stakes include my own singular interests as well as the king’s.
There are people who wish to see his majesty’s crown tumble from his head, and for mine to tumble from my shoulders, whether or no.
I need watchers, Jessop. Reliable men who can bring word of sedition, of secret gatherings, of coin changing hands, of dark words in dark corners. ”
The tracker nodded slowly. “Aye, m’lord. And you shall have what you need, just as before. Gamekeepers. Charcoal burners. Men who work in the forests and move between the villages. They see everything and are noticed by none. I am known among them, acknowledged in the locale.”
“That is well, but how do you propose to get their information to us?” asked Lanval, his concerns as captain of the guard, always practical.
“As before, they will bring their information in person to me,” said the tracker. “I shall be the conduit.”
“That is satisfactory. Mathew, Dunstan, you will liaise with Jessop regularly; the timing can be worked as needed. No missives, no nameless messengers. Keep it tight. One loose word and the consequences could be dire. Lanval, you will show Jessop the area that concerns us most. And Jessop, see to it that you pay particular attention to the hamlet of Farley Chase.”
The knights and Jessop looked up with interest. “You have your eye on a particular mark, m’lord?” said Lanval, voicing the question they all had.
“Perhaps,” said Edward cryptically. “Meanwhile, let us see what Jessop’s little army can find for us first.”
“Then let us be about our work. If there is mischief brew—”
“There is,” Edward cut in, his voice had a deadly edge that Lanval recognized at once. His lord might be calm on first sight, but beneath the aplomb, he gathered himself like a giant coil about to spring. “The question is not if, but when and where,” he added, almost to himself.
Lanval looked at him pensively. Edward did not elaborate, and he knew better than to press. Whatever the earl knew, whatever he and the new king had discussed, he would impart it when the time was right.
That time, it seemed, approached.