Roseblood (30 page)

‘It needs widening!’ she gasped.

Once again they clawed and tore at the ancient plaster and wood, coughing on the dust, pausing now and again to listen for noises from outside. At last Katherine whispered that she was satisfied. Once again they embraced. Katherine made sure she had everything and crawled out into the dark.

The night air was thick with the heavy scent of vegetation and the odours of the camp. Voices called faintly, followed by snatches of song. Katherine scaled the cemetery wall and sheltered beneath a deep-shadowed yew tree. She stared back at the cottage, waiting for the mysterious promised signal. Night birds chattered, bats swooped swift and darting, black smudges against the fading light.

She smelled the smoke first, then caught her breath at the orange-yellow flames that burst up through the thatched roof of the cottage she had just left, a spurt of furious fire to greet the gathering night. As she stared in sheer anguish, a horn wailed its warning, followed by shouts of alarm. Katherine opened her mouth in a silent cry. She recalled the kindling, the oil, the wine. The inside of the cottage was bone dry; its wooden timbers and scraps of furniture would be kindling for a furnace. Eleanor must have collected herbs to induce sleep, mixing these with the wine to dull her senses so that she could go quietly into the eternal dark. Katherine fought to curb the sorrow piercing her heart.

The yelling voices drew closer, the flames now roaring up. LeCorbeil could do nothing. The cottage windows were sealed, whilst the locks and bolts on the door would be fiery hot. Any trace of Katherine’s escape would be destroyed by the conflagration. Eleanor had sacrificed herself, and Katherine realised she must ensure it wasn’t in vain.

She crept out of the shadows and almost stumbled into the figure that rose from behind a tombstone. A gloved hand stifled her screams. She struggled madly, but her assailant’s steel-like grip did not slacken. Katherine was raging so much at being trapped, she ignored the hoarse whispers in her ear. Then she felt the prick of a dagger.

‘Katherine, for pity’s sake!’ The voice was clearer; the grip over her mouth slackened. ‘Peace, Katherine. It is Amadeus Sevigny. I am here to protect you.’

Katherine let herself go slack, leaning against Sevigny, sobbing quietly, her ears dinned by the flames now roaring like those of a furnace. She recalled crossing the cemetery earlier that day, the feeling of being watched…

‘Come, Katherine, come.’

She turned; Sevigny’s face was almost hidden by a deep cowl and muffler.

‘Come!’ he urged. ‘We must put as much distance as we can between us and them. No, don’t speak.’

Katherine was half dragged, half carried across the cemetery. She scraped her leg on a sharp stone and winced quietly. At last they left God’s Acre, Sevigny pulling her deeper into the trees along an arrow-thin trackway. She was aware only of the cold, the darkness and his strong grip. They reached a clearing; Katherine heard the whinnying of a horse, and Sevigny called out whispered endearments to his destrier Leonardo. The great silky black warhorse was harnessed and ready. Sevigny unhobbled it, lifted Katherine into the high-horned saddle and swung himself up behind her. Then he gathered the reins, guiding the horse out of the trees on to a broader path.

Once they reached one of the pilgrim roads, Sevigny dug in his spurs and Leonardo burst into a gallop. Katherine could only nestle closer, conscious of Sevigny’s arms around her and the sheer relief of his presence. They rode all night, galloping through sleepy villages and hamlets, past the campfires of other travellers, until they reached the London road. Just after daybreak, they entered the yard of the Cokayne, one of those majestic taverns that served the pilgrim trade. Sevigny hired a chamber and Katherine collapsed insensible on to the bed.

She did not wake until long after midday. Once she had washed and tidied herself, they sat in the tavern’s rose garden, feeding their hunger on strips of spiced chicken, fresh bread and a pottage of crushed onion, carrot and leek. Katherine ate quickly; Sevigny laughed and told her to be careful.

‘You came looking for me.’ Katherine held the clerk’s hard gaze and recalled Bertrand’s cruel face.

‘Your father,’ Sevigny replied, ‘was distraught. He established that you, Eleanor and the others had been abducted. What happened to them, by the way?’

‘Just tell me,’ Katherine replied harshly. ‘My father?’

‘He realised that your disappearance was a well-planned abduction. He sent Wormwood to me. He wondered if it was York or Malpas’s doing. I went to the Roseblood and told him not to be offensive; that I would never harm you. I insisted that you had been taken by a highly organised coven; I suspected LeCorbeil. I was soon proved right. Toadflax’s corpse was discovered in a laystall, whilst a cart had been seen leaving the church. I warned your father against sending pursuers out of the city. The fact that they had used a cart meant they were not travelling far. A short while later, we found out about the Venetian carrack at Queenhithe. When questioned, some of the wharfsmen told us that they had observed a group of foreigners hurrying people aboard.’ Sevigny shrugged. ‘War is imminent; every man keeps to his own business.’

‘And later?’

‘Oh, the carrack was seen sailing north.’ Sevigny forced a smile. ‘I know all about Cottesloe village, the secret hiding place of LeCorbeil. I persuaded your father to allow me to pursue them. It was relatively easy. I made camp in the woods and waited. I saw you arrive, but I was frustrated. LeCorbeil are professional mercenaries, master bowmen, well disciplined and amply provided for. Your wandering in the cemetery alerted me. I could see you were plotting something. Thank God you did. Once darkness fell, I hid near the church. I saw the first flames of a fire.’ He crossed himself. ‘God rest poor Eleanor. So,’ he drank from his tankard, ‘what actually happened?’

Katherine told him everything. From the moment they were abducted, to her escape. Sevigny heard her out before gathering the remains of the food on the platter and gently coaxing her to finish it.

‘Eternal rest to them all,’ he declared. ‘But Eleanor was correct. LeCorbeil would have used you to trap your father – indeed, if they could, your entire family. None of you would have been spared. A blood feud, Katherine. LeCorbeil want your deaths and there is nothing that will dissuade them from it.’ He saw the fear in her eyes and took her hand. ‘But your father is resolute. He accepts the blood feud, and given the opportunity, he will strike and strike hard.’

He took a deep breath. ‘There is more. Your father has something that both York and LeCorbeil want, a chronicle of scandalous secrets affecting the royal family as well as that of the good duke. It is the work of a former royal physician. I have heard the chatter. I suspect your father killed Argentine and seized his chronicle. If he has any sense, he will either destroy it or hide it away. LeCorbeil want to trade you for that document. They plotted to seize you, obtain the chronicle and still carry out their vengeance. Eleanor was very brave and cunning. It might take some time for your abductors to realise that the blackened ruins of that cottage contain the remains of only one corpse. So…’ Sevigny made to stand.

‘Amadeus?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are York’s man. You—’

‘Not any more, Katherine. A long story that I will tell you as we ride.’ Sevigny rose. ‘But we should not tarry. LeCorbeil might discover your secret and pursue us. If not, they will journey north to join York’s forces. I will confront them there.’

‘But why did you come looking for me?’

‘Oh.’ Sevigny leaned over the table and swiftly kissed her on the lips. ‘Because I love you, Katherine Roseblood.’

London, May 1455

‘T
hey have poured out blood like water…’ The swelling voices of the Franciscan choir echoed across to the guest chamber a short distance from the Good Brothers’ enclosure. Raphael Roseblood, sitting on a wall bench, leaned forward, feet apart, and threaded his fur-lined cap through his hands. The verses of the psalm were appropriate; the season of the sword was fast approaching. He glanced at his father sitting beside him, his back against the wall, face down, eyes half closed. He was not sleeping but, as he always did in such situations, carefully plotting. Across the herb-strewn flagstone floor, Raphael’s younger brother Gabriel, garbed in the earth-coloured sacking of his order, sandals on his feet, hair neatly tonsured, knelt on the prie-dieu beneath the cross of San Damiano. Father had informed Gabriel of the deaths of Eleanor, Dorcas and Father Roger, the attempted abduction of Katherine and her safe return due to the brave intervention of the Yorkist clerk.

Once again Raphael peered at his father. Simon looked wearied. He had been left distraught, almost to the point of madness, by the abductions, but this had turned to speechless joy at Katherine’s safe return. Sevigny had been very astute, avoiding all drama. Katherine had appeared, cloaked and hooded, in the tavern porch, to be swept away by her father. Sevigny had only returned after dark, slipping into the tavern to join them in the Camelot Chamber. Simon’s joy at Katherine’s return had been tempered by the news of the deaths of the others. He had, for a short while, kept to his own chamber. When he re-emerged, his face, still not fully recovered from his furtive escapade in the lazar house, was drawn and tear-stained, his eyes dulled and red-rimmed.

Father Roger’s suicide had remained confidential. Father Benedict had been summoned to join Simon’s council, where Katherine had informed him about what she had heard, seen and felt. The old parish priest simply shook his head, threading his Ave beads as he listened. Once Katherine had finished, he sat for a while, head down. When he looked up, his craggy, lined face was twisted in sorrow.

‘Roger was strange. I tried to treat him as a son,’ he murmured. ‘A man besotted with his own mother. After her funeral, I did detect a most subtle change. He was a priest who always found his celibacy a great cross, but a murderer…?’

‘I have seen the same.’ Simon spoke up. ‘As I am sure others have: men who hate women to the point of violence.’

‘And I have heard similar stories in the shriving pew.’ The old priest sighed. He got to his feet and nodded at Sevigny. ‘My thanks, sir, for bringing home our little Roseblood. What I have seen and heard in this chamber I regard as sacred and secure, as under the seal of confession. Simon,’ Father Benedict spread his gnarled hands, ‘whatever Roger was, whatever he did, I cannot leave his body to rot in a latrine ditch. Dorcas too; her corpse should be brought home.’

‘Katherine will give me precise details,’ Simon replied. ‘I will provide a cart and some of my men. As for the burial, Father, I will leave that to you.’

The priest thanked him and, lost in his own thoughts, walked slowly towards the door.

‘Father?’

‘Yes, Simon?’

‘Eleanor…’ The taverner fought to keep the tremble out of his voice. ‘How much did she tell you?’

‘My friend,’ Father Benedict walked back, ‘not a day passed that Eleanor did not mourn for your brother. She told me that he was her soul, her life.’

Simon swallowed hard, as if he had been struck. He closed his eyes, not wanting to meet the searching gaze of Raphael and Katherine.

‘And her illness?’ He opened his eyes, blinking furiously.

‘She complained about pain but dismissed it as some petty ailment. Simon, Eleanor has gone. I will sing masses for her soul, but I wager she is more at peace now than she ever was.’

The priest left. Simon sat quietly for a while before abruptly asserting himself and summoning the mute, who stood guard on the door.

‘Ignacio,’ he spoke even as his fingers translated his words, ‘the King has issued his writ. I must leave with men from this ward to join the royal marshals of array. You, however, take careful note of what I tell you. Find, if possible, the corpses of Roger and Dorcas. Take as many men as you can summon, all those who owe me favours, both here and beyond. Search out Cottesloe village. LeCorbeil will have left. Find the remains of Mistress Eleanor, preserve them in waxed linen sheets and bring them here for burial. Then,’ he smiled dourly, ‘burn that village and everything in it. Pollute the well and, before you leave the area, spread the word about those hidden pits. Tell the farmers and peasants that there is a veritable treasure of stores to be unearthed. Don’t worry,’ he laughed sharply, ‘those moorlands by the sea might be deserted now, but when the news spreads, not for long. Order the fishermen to keep a sharp eye out for French ships.’

Satisfied, Simon brusquely turned to other business, listening again to Katherine and Sevigny’s description of what had happened.

‘And what will you do now, Master Clerk?’ he demanded of Sevigny.

‘Thanks to you,’ Sevigny replied wryly, ‘my visit to London was not as successful as it should have been, but,’ he pulled a face, ‘I will tell my master what I have seen and heard. After that…’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘My lord and I have reached a parting of the ways. I will formally withdraw from his service, both pen and sword.’