“Let’s hope the king don’t send another bridegroom to her,” Albert remarked.
“I think the duke will help her avoid that trap,” Elsbeth said. “Besides, she is now of little importance to the king. He has other matters to consider that will take precedence over a bastard daughter’s well-being. My lady served the royal purpose. She was wise to come home when she did. King Edward has the Tudors to contend with, I’m thinking. They will not be easily satisfied. Peace, I learned at court, is all very well and good. But with folk of high degree it is power that is more important.”
Chapter 5
Middleham Castle had been constructed in north Yorkshire in the year 1170. It was one of the largest keeps in England. It had been built upon the southern hills. Its great gray stone towers and walls stood tall above the little village of Wensleydale, and near the town of Leyburn. The curtain walls, gatehouse, and moat had not been added until a century later. As he rode toward it, Andrew Lynbridge could see the white boar pendant of the Duke of Gloucester flying high in a brisk spring wind. As the day was coming to an end he hurried his horse toward the refuge of the castle.
He was tired, and he was hungry. He would find generous hospitality within Middleham’s walls, as well as old friends. Crossing the moat bridge he was recognized and waved through by the smiling man at arms. In the courtyard his horse was taken away, and he entered the castle going to the great hall, where he knew the duke was likely to be at this hour of the day.
Andrew stopped a serving man. “Would you tell your master that Andrew Lynbridge is here with a message from the Countess of Stanton?” he said.
The servant nodded and hurried off. Andrew watched him, and so saw him stop by the duke’s chair and murmur in his ear. Richard of Gloucester looked up andaround. Andrew stepped from the shadows, and, seeing him, the duke beckoned him forward. Andrew Lynbridge obeyed the command and came to kneel politely by the duke’s side. Having kissed the hand extended to him he arose and drew the folded parchment from where it had rested between his skin and his shirt.
“Do you know what is in this?” the duke asked as he took the message.
“I do, my lord,” Andrew replied.
Richard broke the seal on the parchment, and, opening it out, swiftly read the contents. When he had finished he folded the communication back up, laid it aside, and asked, “Was it an accident? Or did she kill him?” The startled look on Andrew Lynbridge’s handsome face gave him the answer before the man even spoke.
“We were returning from a cattle fair near Stanton,”
Andrew said. “A party of Scots borderers attacked, attempting to steal the animals. FitzTudor went to the aid of his wife when their leader made to carry her off.
Frankly I wouldn’t have thought he had the balls, my lord, but he did. Alas, he was no soldier. Did his father never have him taught better? The Scot skewered him easily.”
“There was no saving him?” the duke asked.
“My lord, the wound was mortal. The Scot slew his heart. The lady jumped from her horse and comforted her husband, but he died in her arms,” Andrew Lynd-bridge said.
“Then my niece had become reconciled to the marriage?” the duke queried.
“Nay, my lord. She despised him, and he, I think, thought little better of her. But he had great pride in being the Earl of Stanton, and he tried hard to be possessive of her, and master of Stanton, but she would not allow it,” was the reply.
“Do you think there might be a child?” the duke said.
“You would have to ask her women that question, butI would wager he never got into her bed, my lord,” Andrew Lynbridge replied.
The Duke of Gloucester nodded. Then he sighed. “I do not fear telling my brother this news, but the Earl of Pembroke is another matter. Jasper Tudor doted upon the lad, though frankly I never understood why. The boy was ignorant and prideful. He had little to recommend him that I could see. I tried to talk the king out of making the match, but my brother would not listen.”
“Perhaps the Earl of Pembroke had a particular fondness for the boy’s mother,” Andrew suggested.
The duke nodded. “That could very well be it,” he agreed. “She died when her son was born, and dead mistresses, I am told, always hold a warmer place in one’s memory than discarded mistresses. Well, the boy is dead, and there is an end to it. Perhaps I will wait a bit before informing the king of these unfortunate events.”
“I should not, my lord,” Andrew said. “The young earl’s body servant, a Welshman called Anfri, believes that the countess caused her husband’s death. He said so, and the morning after the lad was slain he was gone from the hall. I suspect he has fled south to tell Jasper Tudor his version of what has happened. As he was not there he has nothing but his suspicions and dislike of the countess to speak on to the Earl of Pembroke. That could cause great difficulty for the countess.”
“And you would not like that,” the duke said slyly.
Andrew Lynbridge grinned. “I will admit that before I learned that she was the Countess of Stanton, and not simply the lady of the hall, I considered courting her.
And before the king sent her a husband. My grandsire was extremely annoyed to learn that. He has always coveted the Stanton grazing meadows.”
“And would the lady consider your suit if you approached her?” the duke pressed.
“I have no idea, my lord,” Andrew replied candidly.
“Once I learned she was wed I did not even consider it.”
“You’re a baron’s son,” the duke said. “Your blood isevery bit as good as Radcliffe blood. John Radcliffe was a baron, and gained a greater title only by letting my brother futter his pretty wife. Jane served the queen, and though Edward pursued her she would have nothing to do with him. So my brother made an arrangement with Radcliffe, and Radcliffe told his wife to please Edward. They are no great family.”
