The House Of Allerbrook. Valerie Anand

inimically at Carew.

      “I’m Peter, the youngest son of your old friend Sir William Carew. I have escorted Mistress Jane all the way from Whitehall Palace. She has come home of her own free will and for a good and honourable reason. She’ll tell you all about it herself. Master Sweetwater, I don’t want to impose on you, but we’ve been on the road since early this morning. The horses need rest and fodder and both I and my grooms would welcome something to eat. I’m not inviting myself to dine, but…”

      “You’d better dine,” said Francis shortly. “And of course we’ll take care of the horses. Get down and come inside.”

      His voice was brusque, and as he helped Jane to alight she looked into his face and saw no friendly welcome there. His blue eyes were cold. He turned away as soon as she was safely down and led the way indoors without looking back. The maids came out to meet her, but their welcome seemed muted and the house felt curiously empty.

      Master Corby, she knew, had left his post and gone away, but neither Dr. Spenlove nor Eleanor appeared from anywhere to greet her, and why was there a goshawk in the hall? Francis had set up a perch for her; clearly keeping her there was now a regular thing. There were mutes splashed on the floor amid the rushes. Eleanor would hate that! Where was Eleanor? Timidly, as she pulled her drenched cloak off, she addressed Francis’s back and asked.

      For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he turned and she saw that his jaw was clenched and that his eyes had tears in them. “She’s in the family tomb in St. Anne’s, my dear. She died a week ago. Dr. Spenlove is down in Clicket now, talking to the mason about extra wording to go on the side of the tomb. I meant to write to you today.”

      It had been a chill, nothing more. Over dinner, which Peggy had hastily enlarged for the visitors by frying a lot of sausages and onions and cutting extra bread, Francis explained. They had been buying goods in Dulverton. The weather had turned suddenly treacherous and Eleanor had been both wet and cold when she came home.

      “She’d had a cold just before. She still had a cough. We set out in sunshine—it should have done her good. Instead—she relapsed. She was dead inside a week,” said Francis shortly. It was as though he were angry as well as grieving.

      With obvious sincerity Carew expressed condolences. Jane, both grief-stricken and shocked, shed tears and exclaimed, “Oh, Francis!”

      Francis, however, merely nodded coldly. The hall was warm and the food welcome, but there was a stiff atmosphere around the table which didn’t seem to be connected to Eleanor’s death. When Jane caught Peter Carew’s eye, she saw that he had noticed the awkwardness, as well. In an attempt to lighten the air, she said, “It’s as well I’m here. I can take charge of the house and look after you, Francis.”

      “I was managing very well, thank you,” said Francis, still in a voice which seemed to hold fury as much as sorrow.

      Peter Carew glanced at him thoughtfully, but maintained a tactful silence. After the meal, having been assured that the horses had been groomed and given food, he took his leave and with the grooms, rode off on the last stage of his own journey home to Devon. His home in Mohuns Ottery was still a long way off.

      “He was very kind,” said Jane as she and Francis stood at the door to watch them go. She wished Peter could have stayed. He had felt like a bulwark against whatever it was that was so angering Francis. “He took every care of Lisa and myself and behaved…behaved in a very gentlemanly way. I haven’t told you yet why I’ve come home.”

      “No,” Francis agreed. “And now, my dear sister, send your woman to unpack your belongings and let us sit by the hall fire, and then you can do your explaining. And by all the saints, your excuse had better be good.”

      “You complete fool,” said Francis when he had heard her story. “You unmitigated wantwit! I don’t suppose it will be any use to send you back. Very likely the court wouldn’t have you! I suppose I’ll have to send to Taunton to hire a messenger to let Queen Anna know you’ve reached your home safely. Thank you so much, Jane, for putting me to so much trouble, and for ruining your chances and mine.”

      “Francis, what are you talking about?”

      “You had a unique opportunity, my girl. Rumours get around. They reach us here, far from London though we are. Ralph Palmer is back in the west country now and he brought a tale or two. And there have been others. I went to a fair at Dunster just before Eleanor died. The Luttrells seem to be basing themselves at East Quantoxhead mostly now, but I came across the steward they’ve left at Dunster Castle. He hears from them and they hear plenty of news from the court. He says that the king hasn’t taken to his new queen. And now you tell me he’s had his eyes on you! By the sound of it, you could have become his mistress if you’d gone about it the right way.”

      “But…you wouldn’t want me to do that! Francis, you couldn’t!” It was the last kind of welcome she had expected. It was altogether the wrong response. “You were so angry with Sybil when…”

      “Sybil played the whore with one of my tenants! A man of no importance! You could have had the favour of the king! Think what rewards he might have given you, and your family! In fact, if the Luttrells’ steward was right, the king means to get out of that marriage. Maybe you’d have had a chance to be something more than a mistress, and think what that could do for us!”

      “Yes, I could end up headless!”

      “Nonsense. You would have more sense. I told you that before.”

      “I don’t believe poor Anne Boleyn ever did the things they said she did. She just didn’t have a son, that’s all. No woman can guarantee that!”

      “And many women do have sons! Why shouldn’t you? But you had to panic like a silly milkmaid and run away!”

      “I can’t believe this,” said Jane despairingly. “Francis, you can’t have wanted me to…to…”

      “It could have sent our fortunes soaring. I grieve for Eleanor. I miss her every day and I’ll mourn her decently. But in time I’ll look for another wife, and with you at the king’s side, I might have looked high. I might have been given a valuable appointment, a title! We live in a harsh world, full of competition—didn’t I say something like that to you before? But now, thanks to you, in King Henry’s eyes I’ll be just the brother of the girl who said no. What am I going to do with you?”

      There was a silence, furious and disappointed on Francis’s side, furious and frightened on Jane’s. It went on until the sound of honking and barking outside announced that a new visitor had come. Francis got up and went to the window.

      “Ah. It’s Harry Hudd. He had an errand to Exford and I asked him, while he was about it, to look at a young horse I’d heard of, a very uncommon colour, apparently. Copper’s getting old. I told Harry to buy on my behalf if the animal was sound. Why, yes.” Francis, for the first time since Jane’s return, sounded pleased. “Come and look. There’s a man in Exford who breeds unusual-looking horses. He bought a stallion from Iceland—not a large animal, but he’s been crossing him with bigger mares and this is one of the results. Look at that.”

      Jane joined him at the window. Harry Hudd, as red faced and gap-toothed as ever, was in the farmyard, swearing at the gander while simultaneously dismounting from his Exmoor gelding and grasping the halter of a striking young horse, nearly sixteen hands tall and gleaming black, except for its mane and tail which were silvery white.

      “Harry’s a good reliable man,” Francis said, “though I grant you he’s no beauty.” He paused, and then, as one to whom an interesting new idea has occurred, he said, “He’s been talking for a couple of years of getting married again but the trouble is, he hasn’t been able to find a young woman willing to take him. He wants a young wife. He’s a bit like the king—feels the need of a son.”

      At which moment, Jane became sickeningly aware of two things.

      One was that she