them had one ambition only: to retain and improve the wealth and power of his family; and that could only be done by expanding the boundaries of their manors—and willing it intact to the next heir and the heir after him.
Alys, her quill pen scratching on the downstrokes on the good-quality vellum, realized that the conception of Hugo’s son, the old lord’s grandson, was not a personal matter between Hugo and his shrewish wife, not even a family matter between the old lord and his son. It was a financial matter, a political matter. If Hugo inherited and then died childless the lordship of Castleton would be vacant, the manors would be broken up among buyers, the family history and crest revert to the king and be sold to the highest bidder, and the great northern family would fall, its history at an end, its name forgotten. Someone else would live in the castle and claim castle, crest, and even family history for their own. For Lord Hugh that prospect was the deepest terror in the world; another family in his place would deny that he had ever been. Alys heard his fear in every line he dictated.
He wrote also to the court. He had a hoard of treasure from Alys’s wrecked abbey to be sent south as a gift for the king. The inventory Alys translated was a masterpiece of sleight of hand, as gold candlesticks were renamed silver or even brass, and heavy gold plates disappeared from the list. “We did the work, after all, Alys,” he said to her one day. “It was my Hugo that wrecked the abbey, doing the king’s work with patriotic zeal. We deserve our share.”
Alys, listing the silver and the gold which she had polished and handled, remembering the shape of the silver chalice against the white of the altar cloth and the sweet sacred taste of the communion wine, ducked her head and continued writing.
If I do not escape from here, I shall go mad, she thought.
“It went wrong at the nunnery,” Lord Hugh said one day. His voice held only faint regret. “The king’s visitors told us that the nuns were corrupt and Father Stephen and Hugo went to see the old abbess and persuade her to pay fines and mend her ways. Everywhere else they had been, the nuns or the monks had handed over their treasures, confessed their faults, and Hugo used them kindly. But the old abbess was a staunch papist. I don’t believe she ever recognized the king’s right to set aside the Dowager Princess Catherine of Aragon.” Lord Hugh said the title carefully. He had called her Queen Catherine for eighteen years and he was careful not to make a slip even when Alys was his only listener. “She took the oath to acknowledge Queen Anne but I am not sure how deep it went with her.”
He paused. “She would not discuss her faith with Father Stephen, not even when he charged her with laxity and abuses. She called him an ambitious young puppy.” Lord Hugh snorted in reluctant amusement. “She insulted him and faced him down and threw them both out—my Hugo and Father Stephen. They came home like scolded boys. She was a rare woman, that abbess.” He chuckled. “I’d have liked to meet her. It’s a shame it all went wrong and she died.”
“How did it go all wrong at the nunnery?” Alys asked. She was careful to keep her voice light, casual.
“Hugo was drunk,” the old lord said. “He was on his way home with the soldiers, they had been chasing a band of moss-troopers for seven days up and down the dales. He was drunk and playful and the men had been fighting mad for too long, and drunk with stolen ale. They made a fire to keep them warm and give them light to pick over the treasures. They were taking up a fine, it was all legal—or near enough. Father Stephen would not meet them to reason with the nuns, he was still angry with the old woman. He sent a message to Hugo and told him to burn her out—and be damned to her. The soldiers wanted a frolic and some of them thought they were doing Father Stephen’s wish. They made the fire too near
Alys, her quill pen scratching on the downstrokes on the good-quality vellum, realized that the conception of Hugo’s son, the old lord’s grandson, was not a personal matter between Hugo and his shrewish wife, not even a family matter between the old lord and his son. It was a financial matter, a political matter. If Hugo inherited and then died childless the lordship of Castleton would be vacant, the manors would be broken up among buyers, the family history and crest revert to the king and be sold to the highest bidder, and the great northern family would fall, its history at an end, its name forgotten. Someone else would live in the castle and claim castle, crest, and even family history for their own. For Lord Hugh that prospect was the deepest terror in the world; another family in his place would deny that he had ever been. Alys heard his fear in every line he dictated.
He wrote also to the court. He had a hoard of treasure from Alys’s wrecked abbey to be sent south as a gift for the king. The inventory Alys translated was a masterpiece of sleight of hand, as gold candlesticks were renamed silver or even brass, and heavy gold plates disappeared from the list. “We did the work, after all, Alys,” he said to her one day. “It was my Hugo that wrecked the abbey, doing the king’s work with patriotic zeal. We deserve our share.”
Alys, listing the silver and the gold which she had polished and handled, remembering the shape of the silver chalice against the white of the altar cloth and the sweet sacred taste of the communion wine, ducked her head and continued writing.
If I do not escape from here, I shall go mad, she thought.
“It went wrong at the nunnery,” Lord Hugh said one day. His voice held only faint regret. “The king’s visitors told us that the nuns were corrupt and Father Stephen and Hugo went to see the old abbess and persuade her to pay fines and mend her ways. Everywhere else they had been, the nuns or the monks had handed over their treasures, confessed their faults, and Hugo used them kindly. But the old abbess was a staunch papist. I don’t believe she ever recognized the king’s right to set aside the Dowager Princess Catherine of Aragon.” Lord Hugh said the title carefully. He had called her Queen Catherine for eighteen years and he was careful not to make a slip even when Alys was his only listener. “She took the oath to acknowledge Queen Anne but I am not sure how deep it went with her.”
He paused. “She would not discuss her faith with Father Stephen, not even when he charged her with laxity and abuses. She called him an ambitious young puppy.” Lord Hugh snorted in reluctant amusement. “She insulted him and faced him down and threw them both out—my Hugo and Father Stephen. They came home like scolded boys. She was a rare woman, that abbess.” He chuckled. “I’d have liked to meet her. It’s a shame it all went wrong and she died.”
“How did it go all wrong at the nunnery?” Alys asked. She was careful to keep her voice light, casual.
“Hugo was drunk,” the old lord said. “He was on his way home with the soldiers, they had been chasing a band of moss-troopers for seven days up and down the dales. He was drunk and playful and the men had been fighting mad for too long, and drunk with stolen ale. They made a fire to keep them warm and give them light to pick over the treasures. They were taking up a fine, it was all legal—or near enough. Father Stephen would not meet them to reason with the nuns, he was still angry with the old woman. He sent a message to Hugo and told him to burn her out—and be damned to her. The soldiers wanted a frolic and some of them thought they were doing Father Stephen’s wish. They made the fire too near
Similar Books
