Red Rose, White Rose. Joanna Hickson

the corselet was lifted from his shoulders a faint smile flickered across the knight’s face and was gone. ‘Indeed it will, Lady Cicely. To be precise then, I have told the dowager countess that you are free to leave as soon as we hear that the castles of Middleham and Sherriff Hutton have been handed over to my brother’s agents.’

      These words fell between us with the impact of a cannon shot. Middleham and Sherriff Hutton were the two vast Neville estates in Yorkshire, the original foundation of the family’s assets. Lady Westmorland gave a little crow of delight; her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes began to glitter with gleeful excitement.

      I exploded with fury. ‘So this is your idea of chivalry, Sir John! This is how you help a lady in distress? I think your fellow knights would call it dishonorable extortion.’

      He met my anger impassively, his expression veiled. ‘We shall see,’ he said coolly. ‘Some might say that extortion has been practiced on me and mine, rather than by me.’

      I fell silent, still hostile but bereft of words. By now the industrious squire had removed all elements of the knight’s armour and gathered them up for removal and cleaning. Sir John stood in his doublet and hose but made no less an imposing figure, tall and lean with well-muscled shoulders and the powerful thighs of a man who could control a war stallion through day-long combat. He also had the air of one embarking on a venture with some relish, anticipating the challenge ahead. The squire returned with soft leather shoes and a blue, fur-lined gown which he proceeded to help Sir John put on.

      Eventually I broke in with a request. ‘Perhaps the next time you send anyone to Raby they would inquire after my bodyguard. When last I saw him he was tackling a band of cut-throat reivers single-handed. I would be grateful to hear how he fared.’

      Lady Westmorland’s response to this cut the air like a knife. ‘You show great concern for a servant, Lady Cicely. I wonder what my cousin would think.’

      At first I did not follow her train of thought. ‘Your cousin? Oh, do you mean the Duke of York?’

      The countess nodded. ‘Yes, your betrothed. Perhaps you did not know that I am Hotspur’s daughter and my mother was a Mortimer, like his. I wonder how happy his grace would be to hear you so excessively concerned for your bodyguard.’

      I resented her implication. ‘Of course I am concerned!’ I cried. ‘It is my brother Cuthbert I speak of. I suppose I may show concern for a brother without offending against any code of conduct?’

      Lady Westmorland’s lip curled. ‘Ah – the late earl’s unfortunate by-blow.’

      ‘Unfortunate!’ I echoed, incensed. ‘I am sure that even Sir John would allow that, illegitimate or not, Sir Cuthbert of Middleham is one of the finest knights on the Western March.’

      I swung round to seek the knight’s endorsement but my use of Cuddy’s full name had touched a raw nerve in the countess. ‘Marie! Not just a by-blow but a Middleham by-blow. He certainly spread himself far and wide, your father.’

      ‘Enough!’ Sir John’s face had darkened; his grey eyes were narrow beneath knitted brows. ‘Let us speak no more of such things. Is there no refreshment for returning travellers, my lady? I am starving!’

      The countess rose from her chair, her expression sulky, but she snapped her fingers at the servant who had been stoking the fires. ‘Go, boy! Fetch food and wine for Sir John.’

      ‘And for Lady Cicely,’ added her brother-in-law as an afterthought. ‘She will also need a bed somewhere safe, sister. I am sure that can be arranged.’

      He had fixed the countess with a steely gaze and she held it for several seconds as if tempted to deny him but then nodded briefly and made for the exit to attend to his request. I wondered why she had no lower-ranked female companion to whom she could delegate such a task but supposed that none could stomach her sour disposition. Certainly I had no desire to be beholden to such an unpleasant hostess but although my stomach was rumbling with hunger I needed other bodily relief more urgently. As she passed by me I adopted a placatory tone.

      ‘Lady Westmorland, I have been riding since morning and would be grateful for the use of a guarderobe.’

      I have an audible voice, low and clear, but to my consternation the countess made no acknowledgement and disappeared under the screen arch in a swirl of skirts. I felt my cheeks burn.

      Sir John gave an apologetic cough. ‘My sister-in-law cannot have heard you. I will summon a female servant to show you the way,’ he said. ‘There will be refreshments when you return.’

      Of necessity there is always a guarderobe or latrine off every great hall but I was not shown to one so close by. Perhaps being mainly for the use of visiting knights and their retinues it was not considered suitable for ladies. Instead a hatchet-faced serving wench led me two flights up a spiral stair built into the thickness of the wall, which ended in a small tower chamber bare of furniture but with a small guarderobe leading off it. Although I was used to an upholstered seat rather than cold wood, at least I could not complain about the latrine’s cleanliness. After making use of it I spent a few minutes attempting to remove the gorse twigs and prickles still stubbornly attached to my clothes and hair, observed with dumb curiosity by the servant, who made no attempt to help.

      On my return to the hall I encountered an influx of young men, all seating themselves noisily at a newly erected and cloth-covered trestle-table. Among them I recognized Tam and the squire who had removed Sir John’s armour. Two pages stood by with bowls and napkins for hand-washing. There was no sign of Lady Westmorland but Sir John had been joined at the dais fire by a thin, pale-faced individual well wrapped in fur-lined robes and seated in a curiously constructed chair equipped with a foot-rest and slots for carrying-poles. I approached them hesitantly, unsure of my welcome.

      ‘Ah, here is our visitor,’ said Sir John, catching sight of me and beckoning me onto the dais. ‘Lady Cicely, allow me to present my brother Ralph, Earl of Westmorland.’

      ‘My lord of Westmorland.’ I made the required acknowledgement with little enthusiasm in either voice or curtsy.

      ‘Well, there is no disputing your Neville breeding, my lady,’ responded the earl, showing more amiability than his wife. ‘You are nearly as tall as John here.’

      ‘She is Lady Joan’s youngest,’ remarked Sir John.

      His brother glanced at him sharply. ‘The Beaufort’s youngest?’ he repeated. ‘I thought that one had married the Duke of York.’ He made a seated bow in my direction. ‘You must forgive me for not rising, your grace. I am unable to trust my legs.’

      ‘She is not “your grace” yet, brother. That is a betrothal ring on her finger, not a wedding band.’

      I glanced down at my right hand, where the big polished cabochon diamond glinted even in the gloom of the ill-lit hall. ‘I am not yet married, my lord, no. But I am surprised to hear Sir John call me a visitor. I believe hostage would be a more accurate term.’

      ‘Hostage?’ Lord Westmorland looked up at his brother, one eyebrow raised. ‘What does she mean, John?’

      The knight shrugged. ‘I have sent word to her mother that she will be returned to Raby only when Middleham and Sherriff Hutton are yours.’

      His brother held his gaze for several seconds, blinking slowly, before bursting into delighted laughter. ‘Ha! She is right, she is a hostage. I do not know how you came by her, John, but you have clearly made good use of your windfall. You are the pillar of my house, brother, indeed you are.’

      This was too much for me. I cut through his offensive laughter with a voice like flint. ‘I would have expected honourable treatment from a man of nobility, my lord! But clearly I am mistaken.’

      The earl reduced his mirth to a smile. ‘I see no dishonour in demanding ransom for a noble prisoner, Lady Cicely, and you are certainly that. Daughter of an earl, betrothed to a duke – and what do they call you in these parts? The “Rose of Raby”,