carriage over the flat, marshy fens. “I do not recall it taking this long. I hope we are on the right road.”
“Mother! Ermine Street is the only road from London to Huntingdon, and we turned off to take the Corby road a few miles ago. We are not far now. ’Tis strange how I remember the road after all this time. I was not ten years old the last time I traveled it.”
The wheels were stuck again, and while some of the servants attempted to move the heavy chariot, others chose to dismount, relieve themselves and let their horses chomp the coarse fenland grasses. The cold rain was turning to sleet, and Cecily was afraid they would have snow before reaching Fotheringhay.
Margaret poked her head through one of the side openings to watchthe progress with the wheel and failed to notice a shadowy figure emerge from behind a tree some thirty paces from her and let loose an arrow. The thwack three feet from her head alarmed her, and when she saw the still quivering arrow, she screamed. All at once, several more men came running from the forest towards the royal group, waving sticks and knives. Margaret, Cecily and their ladies huddled in a corner of the chariot and listened to the skirmish outside. Shouts, groans and clanging of weapons behind the chariot told the occupants that their armed escort was valiantly defending them. Cecily led the women in prayer, telling her rosary and entreating the Virgin to spare them. When one knife-wielding ruffian peered into the dark interior of the vehicle, they all shrieked in terror.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” he snarled, his mouth curling into a menacing grin. “Oooh, tasty morsels! Pretties! Prizes!” He was reaching for Jane, who was the closest, when suddenly his filthy face contorted in pain. As the women watched in horror, he fell forward with an anguished grunt into Jane’s lap, his lifeblood flowing from a sword wound in his back. Jane swooned, but Margaret didn’t hesitate to move forward and heave the man off her attendant.
“Have a care, Margaret,” Cecily cried. “He may still be alive!”
“I doubt it, your grace,” a familiar voice came from the outside. “I ran the measle through from stem to stern.” He pulled wide the curtained door. “Our men have run the vagabonds off, madam. You have no cause to be afraid any longer.”
“John Harper!” Margaret laughed, relieved. “Mother, ’tis the messenger from Towton field.”
Cecily had not the faintest recollection of the man, but whoever he was, he had saved them from certain death, she was sure. “Thanks be to God!” she said, and allowed John Harper to escort her out of the chariot.
“And to Master Harper!” Margaret called after her and could have bitten off her tongue.
“Don’t be impertinent, Margaret,” her mother scolded. “Certes, ’twas our prayers answered, and God led Master Harper to us!”
“Aye, Mother,” Margaret said, meekly. “Thanks be to God.”
She was next out of the carriage. John put his hands around her waist and lifted her down, lingering a second more than necessary. Margaret again smelled the scent of sweat and rosewater, and with her sensesheightened from the adventure, his nearness intoxicated her. She allowed him to hold her longer than was seemly, but Cecily was already commending her soldiers for their bravery and did not notice Margaret’s lapse of etiquette. John’s tawny eyes looked admiringly at her, and Margaret felt her pulse race.
“I am at your service, my lady,” he said graciously. He bowed over her hand and went to join the other retainers, calling one to remove the body from the chariot. Four outlaws, including the one inside, had been slain. Cecily commanded that they be buried right there in the woods. “Certes, this is where they belong. Surely they will rot in hell for their misdeeds eventually,” she said. The two soldiers who had been killed were strapped onto their mounts to be buried at Fotheringhay.
Back in the bloodstained
“Mother! Ermine Street is the only road from London to Huntingdon, and we turned off to take the Corby road a few miles ago. We are not far now. ’Tis strange how I remember the road after all this time. I was not ten years old the last time I traveled it.”
The wheels were stuck again, and while some of the servants attempted to move the heavy chariot, others chose to dismount, relieve themselves and let their horses chomp the coarse fenland grasses. The cold rain was turning to sleet, and Cecily was afraid they would have snow before reaching Fotheringhay.
Margaret poked her head through one of the side openings to watchthe progress with the wheel and failed to notice a shadowy figure emerge from behind a tree some thirty paces from her and let loose an arrow. The thwack three feet from her head alarmed her, and when she saw the still quivering arrow, she screamed. All at once, several more men came running from the forest towards the royal group, waving sticks and knives. Margaret, Cecily and their ladies huddled in a corner of the chariot and listened to the skirmish outside. Shouts, groans and clanging of weapons behind the chariot told the occupants that their armed escort was valiantly defending them. Cecily led the women in prayer, telling her rosary and entreating the Virgin to spare them. When one knife-wielding ruffian peered into the dark interior of the vehicle, they all shrieked in terror.
“What ’ave we ’ere?” he snarled, his mouth curling into a menacing grin. “Oooh, tasty morsels! Pretties! Prizes!” He was reaching for Jane, who was the closest, when suddenly his filthy face contorted in pain. As the women watched in horror, he fell forward with an anguished grunt into Jane’s lap, his lifeblood flowing from a sword wound in his back. Jane swooned, but Margaret didn’t hesitate to move forward and heave the man off her attendant.
“Have a care, Margaret,” Cecily cried. “He may still be alive!”
“I doubt it, your grace,” a familiar voice came from the outside. “I ran the measle through from stem to stern.” He pulled wide the curtained door. “Our men have run the vagabonds off, madam. You have no cause to be afraid any longer.”
“John Harper!” Margaret laughed, relieved. “Mother, ’tis the messenger from Towton field.”
Cecily had not the faintest recollection of the man, but whoever he was, he had saved them from certain death, she was sure. “Thanks be to God!” she said, and allowed John Harper to escort her out of the chariot.
“And to Master Harper!” Margaret called after her and could have bitten off her tongue.
“Don’t be impertinent, Margaret,” her mother scolded. “Certes, ’twas our prayers answered, and God led Master Harper to us!”
“Aye, Mother,” Margaret said, meekly. “Thanks be to God.”
She was next out of the carriage. John put his hands around her waist and lifted her down, lingering a second more than necessary. Margaret again smelled the scent of sweat and rosewater, and with her sensesheightened from the adventure, his nearness intoxicated her. She allowed him to hold her longer than was seemly, but Cecily was already commending her soldiers for their bravery and did not notice Margaret’s lapse of etiquette. John’s tawny eyes looked admiringly at her, and Margaret felt her pulse race.
“I am at your service, my lady,” he said graciously. He bowed over her hand and went to join the other retainers, calling one to remove the body from the chariot. Four outlaws, including the one inside, had been slain. Cecily commanded that they be buried right there in the woods. “Certes, this is where they belong. Surely they will rot in hell for their misdeeds eventually,” she said. The two soldiers who had been killed were strapped onto their mounts to be buried at Fotheringhay.
Back in the bloodstained
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