It did not take long for Will to return to Acton Court where he entered by the north east gate – close to John’s chamber. As he crossed the small courtyard, illuminated only by a single torch, and passed by the brew house, he was startled by the sudden appearance of the steward, Thomas Legge.
“Master Will, is it?” enquired Legge, peering out at him from the brew house doorway. “What’s amiss that you make such haste?”
Will, uncertain how far he could trust the servant, replied: “Nothing to concern you, master steward.”
The steward’s responded with a thin smile that gave little away, reminding Will what a difficult task his cousin had in trying to tease out the traitor. Hurrying on his way, he found John ready and waiting in his chamber with their Irish comrade, Conal. As soon as Will arrived with his news, John moved fast.
“Conal has the horses saddled and ready at the stable. Let’s waste no time! Alain!” he called.
Dashing down the steps into the courtyard, they found Alain waiting for them and made for the gate only to find it now locked.
“Damn me!” cried Will. “It was open only a moment ago – it must have been the steward, coz – Master Legge. He saw me come in.”
Moments later Robert Poyntz joined them in the yard. “Have you found them, my lord?” he demanded.
“We may have done,” replied John, “but your steward has just shut the gate against us!”
Unnoticed by Will, Legge had followed Poyntz out and now stepped forward. “I thought that, since Master Will had returned, I could lock up,” he said. “Have I done wrong, lord?”
On the face of it, Legge could be telling the truth, thought Will. Perhaps his brusque response when he entered had led the steward to think that he was done for the night. On the other hand, if the steward was the traitor then he would be determined to delay them leaving. It was also perfectly possible that Poyntz himself had told the steward to lock the gate. By Christ, how difficult it was to tell truth from lies.
“Come on,” urged Poyntz. “I’ll go with you, my lord. Legge, in the name of God, get that gate open!”
Once they reached the stable, they lost no time in mounting their horses to leave, but of course Poyntz’ mount was not ready.
“Wait, my lord!” he cried. “I’ll have my horse saddled in no time.”
But, as far as Will was concerned, it meant that even more precious moments were sacrificed. Finally, leaving only Meg, the wounded René and Gibb behind, the men rode off to the deer park. They were joined, at Poyntz’ insistence, by two of his foresters, though their presence only added to the uncertainty Will felt. Although he thought he knew where he was going, darkness in the landscape of trees, played tricks with his memory. He was forced to admit that without several helpful interventions by one of the forest men, he would have spent hours longer finding his way.
“I know this place well,” remarked Robert, as they dismounted to investigate the cottage. “It served as a hunting lodge when I was a boy.”
As they crept nearer to the building, Will was struck by two things: first, there was no sound of any kind coming from the house and second, Hal was no longer waiting outside it.
“So, what now, coz?” asked Will. “Do we go in?”
In response, John hesitated. “In a moment…”
“It looks quiet enough,” observed Poyntz.
“Robert, get your two fellows to search for fresh tracks into the trees,” John ordered. “We’ll take a look inside – is there any other way in?”
Poyntz nodded. “Round the back.”
“Will and Conal, you take the back door – Robert, Alain and I will go in at the front.”
Will was first inside and, following the smell of blood, he found two men dead on the floor. Bending down to examine them, he looked up when John arrived.
“One had his throat cut and this one was stabbed many times, lord. In the old days, I wouldn’t have put it past my mother but now, I suspect this was Hal’s work.”
“Take a look, Robert,” said John. “Do you know either man?”
After examining the corpses, Poyntz shook his head. “They’re not from my estate, my lord.”
But then he would say that, thought Will…
“Tracks, lord!” reported one of the foresters.
“Good,” said John. “How many sets?”
“About four, or maybe even five,” replied the forester and Will’s heart sank, for it was too many to follow them all.
“Can you tell which were made by the women?” asked John.
The forester glanced at his comrade and then nodded. “Two sets, lord, but going different ways…”
“God’s teeth! Why didn’t they stay together?” cried John. “We’d better leave the horses here and split up to follow them on foot.”
While John and the others pursued one trail, Will and Conal set off with one of the foresters to investigate the other tracks. Will tried desperately to convince himself that since the women had escaped, they would be safe. That his mother had found a way out did not surprise him at all, but why had the pair gone their separate ways?
“Shit of a dog,” grumbled Conal, coming to a halt amid a thicker stand of trees.
Will breathed a sigh of despair, for the forester had lost the trail.
It was late in the evening – indeed getting beyond evening and closer to morning – yet no-one slept in Robert Poyntz’s household at Acton Court. Meg Elder had watched them ride off: her brother John, cousin Will, Poyntz and all the others but, in truth, Meg welcomed the silence in the house. Setting her friend, Gibb to watch and listen to the servants for any hint of complicity in recent events, she prepared to do a little investigation of her own.
She found her hostess, Lady Margaret Poyntz in the parlour, using the unexpected waking hours to tackle a troublesome piece of embroidery. Lady Margaret had surrounded herself with an array of candles so that she could see to work and Meg blinked as she entered, finding it a stark, bright contrast after the darkened passages elsewhere in the house.
“Come in, my lady,” said Lady Margaret. “We can await the return of the men together – and perhaps you can help me with this irksome piece.”
With a grimace, Meg sat down beside her. “I fear that such fine work has always been a trial for me,” she said. “I was never able to master it.”
Lady Margaret smiled back at her. “Nonetheless, it’s wonderful to speak to you at last.”
“At last?” said Meg.
“I know so much about all your family,” said Lady Margaret. “All that happened to you as a child, and your brother’s exile. Indeed, you might be surprised just how much I know about you all. My father, Earl Rivers, had great respect for your father, Ned; and he talked a great deal about your brother, John. It’s been a… difficult few years for us all, hasn’t it?”
Meg had little doubt that Lady Margaret, as the bastard daughter of Anthony Woodville, Earl Rivers – brother of the late King Edward’s queen, Elizabeth – must know all about ‘difficult years’. After King Edward’s death, it was Rivers – a mentor of John’s at Ludlow – who had, unwittingly, started the Elders on the perilous road to treason. Rivers, of course, had paid with his life, but Meg was anxious not to dwell on the troubles of the past. Thus, she intended to steer their conversation towards the present, acute danger.
Abducted at the age of ten, Meg had spent many months in the company of thieves and whores – an experience that must either shape her, or ruin her. In Meg’s case, it forged slivers of steel into her God-given spirit; but it also taught her guile. So, though still very young, Meg possessed all the skills required to be either circumspect, or direct as the occasion demanded. That night she sensed that the latter approach might elicit more honesty from Lady Margaret.
“As you say,” she agreed, “both our families have endured much pain, but at least your husband Robert’s treason did not bring him down – as John’s did.”
If Lady Margaret took offence at the clear implication of Meg’s words, she revealed no trace of it.
“Robert was offered a pardon,” she said simply, “and he took it. I think he was wise to do so; but I suspect your brother was not offered a pardon?”
“Hah! My brother was so steeped in treason against King Richard that no pardon could ever be offered, or accepted – then, or now. I fear that if my brother is captured, my lady, an axe is the best that he can expect.”
Margaret set aside her embroidery and looked Meg in the eye. “My husband is not a traitor,” she declared.
“And how do you know that?” asked Meg, a sardonic smile upon her lips. “Men can dissemble well enough, if they want to.”
“I know my husband.”
“Men deceive their wives every day,” countered Meg. “How many women have placed trust in their husbands – and later regretted it?”
“But I do know my husband,” insisted Lady Margaret.
“A husband who, having rebelled in 1483, was rewarded by being given the post of Sheriff of Gloucestershire – a position of great local importance,” said Meg. “Such a post would surely only be granted to a man the king trusted. So, my lady, what has Robert done to earn such trust?”
Her hostess, clearly stung by the question, retorted: “It’s not an easy path he treads. Supporting a regime he despises means he must watch every step he takes – for he has the king’s spies marking all he does for the slightest hint of betrayal.”
“My family knows all about that,” replied Meg. “We’ve lived under close scrutiny for years. God knows, I was born in such a time of strife, lady! Surely you must understand why we have doubts about your husband?”
“I do, yes. I do understand why,” conceded Lady Margaret. “But, leaving aside for a moment, the shadow of doubt that lingers over him, can I ask you, Meg: do you trust me?”
The question took Meg a little by surprise. Did she, thought Meg, as she studied the other woman’s intent face and looked into her eyes? It was such a simple question, yet one that carried so much weight.
“I’ve only just met you,” said Meg.
“Well, having met me,” said Margaret, almost breathless, “what do you make of me?”
The lady would be almost thirty years of age by now, Meg reckoned, and being the bastard child of a prominent Woodville executed for treason, she must have learned a thing or two about masking her true feelings. Yet John had brought Meg to Acton Court to form an opinion about Pointz and his wife; so what did she truly feel about Margaret Poynzt?
“Yes, Lady Margaret,” replied Meg finally. “I’ve no idea why, but I do trust you.”
“Well then, I trust my husband too,” implored Margaret. “And he’s not a traitor; I can tell you that!”
“But still,” Meg pressed her. “How can you be certain?”
Cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with welling tears, Margaret cried: “Because he knows how much I loved my father, who was so cruelly cut down by Richard of Gloucester – a man he trusted. Robert knows that, if he played any part in keeping Richard in power, I would stab him in the heart myself!”
For a few moments, there was an awkward silence between the two women, as Lady Margaret leaned forward, staring at Meg, wiling her to believe in her.
“Well, let’s say I believe that too,” said Meg, “but someone betrayed both my brother and my aunt. Others might have known that John was coming here; but almost no-one knew that Lady Eleanor and I intended to visit Acton Court. Yet we were intercepted – not followed, but intercepted – almost at the gates of the manor. Your husband, Robert knew all these things – as I suspect did you; and there’s the problem, my lady: if it was not Robert, then who else could it possibly have been? Who else is there, privy to such arrangements, who might have betrayed us all?”
“Don’t you think that Robert too is trying to discover exactly that?” cried Margaret.
René de Merckes was out of sorts. His sole reason for accompanying John Elder on his clandestine visit to England was the hope of seeing Eleanor Elder again. Since the last occasion they had met, he had struggled to put the memory of her aside. For all he knew, she had long forgotten him – perhaps she even thought he was dead. Such was the nature of their tenuous connection: a few fleeting encounters and only one or two moments when their lives were truly intertwined.
Yet, she was not a woman easily forgotten – nor did he want to forget her. He had not come to revisit their past, but to offer her a future – if she wanted it. He was prepared for rejection – expected it perhaps – but, even if she ridiculed his advances, he was determined to try. What he was not prepared for was that she might be snatched away before he could even speak a word to her.
Had it not been for his cursed leg wound, he would have been scouring the estate for her – and, by God’s breath, he would have searched until he found her! But that task now fell to others and here he was, reduced to a halting cripple. He must content himself with the responsibility of defending the ladies of the house. Thus, he spent the late evening limping through the grounds that surrounded the inner moat of Acton Court, growing ever more frustrated that he could do nothing more to help.
When he heard someone approaching, through the low scrub that bordered the deer park, he assumed it was one of those who had ridden off earlier. But it was soon clear that this was a person on foot, so he began walking towards the sound of movement. Could it be one of Poyntz’s servants, skulking about; or perhaps one of the traitors returning to the house? Drawing out his sword, he readied himself to intercept, but then caught a glimpse of a cloaked shadow lurching erratically though the bushes. As he thrust out an arm to catch the dark, fleeing figure, she cried out and he hissed at her: “Eleanor! Is that you?”
“No, it sodding isn’t!” cried the woman. “Take your hands off me!”
“Your pardon, lady!” replied René.
“You sound like an alien to me,” she retorted, pulling her arm from his grasp.
“Are you in trouble?” he asked. “I’m René de Merckes – I’m with Lord Elder.”
For a moment the breathless woman remained silent then she said: “Now, that’s a name I do recall…”
“Who are you then?” he enquired gently, for she was still gasping for breath.
“I don’t believe we’ve ever met,” she told him. “I’m Mary Ford, Lady Eleanor’s servant.”
“So you’ve escaped!” he gasped. “Brave woman! Is your lady close by?”
At that, Mary slumped down onto the wet ground and began to sob. “I’ve lost her,” she wept. “I’ve lost my lady…”
“Lost her?” cried René. “No, no; she cannot be lost – not now!”
“We both ran out… and I thought she was following me…”
“And the devils killed her…” groaned René.
“I don’t know as they killed her,” murmured Mary, “but when I looked around, she just wasn’t there.”
“Ah.” René breathed a sigh of relief. “Lost, as in… lost. Come, Mary. I’ll take you to the house.”
“But what about my lady?” protested Mary.
“As soon as you’re safe inside, I’ll come straight back out to search for her,” he assured her. “And there are others already out there looking.”
Despite his calm reply, René was desperate to return to the search but, hampered by his leg, it took him some time to escort Mary back to the house. Leaving her with the two Lady Margarets, he set off again, with a flaming torch in hand, to search the deer park through which Mary had escaped. But he found no-one else – nor even the sound of anyone; and his previous encounters with Lady Eleanor persuaded him that, if she was there, she would certainly be noticed.
Lacking any familiarity with the estate, he realised after a while that he was wandering around in circles, but he could not allow himself to stop looking. When his aching leg obliged him to sit on a fallen oak to rest, a rustling close by caught his attention. But, before he could even stand, he found his arms pinned behind him and a gruff, angry voice snarled: “Who are you, damn you?”
Then, almost as swiftly, the grip on his arms was relaxed and Hal said: “Oh, it’s you, René; what are you doing out here?”
“Looking for Lady Eleanor,” confessed Rene miserably.
“Yeah,” grumbled Hal. “Me too – and my Mary!”
“Mary’s safe, Hal,” René told him.
“She’s safe?” cried Hal.
“I saw her into the house myself,” said René. “But she was not with her lady.”
“Christ’s blood!” said Hal. “Where’s Lady Eleanor gone then? I’ve been searching for ages.”
“You don’t look fit yourself, Hal. Why don’t you go to Mary and I’ll carry on looking for Lady Eleanor.”
“Yeah, I took a few blows,” conceded Hal. “But if I go to Mary without Lady Eleanor, she’ll land a few more on me! No, come on. Let’s go closer to the moat.”
“The moat, my friend, is by the house,” said René.
“The outer moat, my friend, is not,” corrected Hal.
“There’s another moat?” said René.
“Yeah, I just crossed the bridge over it.”
They made their way back through the deer park, desperate to call out Eleanor’s name, but fearful that others might hear her if she replied. But when they heard a woman cry out in alarm, both men abandoned all caution and shouted out her name.
Careless of the noise she was making, Eleanor splashed wildly in the water in a desperate effort to keep herself above the surface. Then, in the midst of her panic, she remembered that she could swim – by Christ, of course she could! Shocked by her sudden plunge into the chill water, all reason must have been driven from her mind. Calmer now, she kicked out with her legs until she could rest her trembling arms upon the muddy edge of what she imagined was a fish pond. Clambering out of the water proved a lot more difficult than falling in so that, by the time she scrambled out, she was thoroughly exhausted and her aching left shoulder was crying out for mercy.
Soaked through and hands plastered with an evil-smelling slime from the water’s edge, Eleanor lay for a time, allowing her cold, wracked body to recover a little. She peered across the pond, but could not tell how large it was. Nonetheless, it was an obstacle she must go around if she was to reach Acton Court. Gathering what little strength she had left, she heaved herself up onto her knees and managed to stand up. But which way would offer the shortest route, she wondered? Never having visited the house before and unable to see more than ten feet ahead of her, all she had left was guesswork.
On rather shaky legs, she set off to her right, but could not find the furthest extent of the water. Gradually, it dawned upon her that she was walking around a large moat. It was a surprise to her because, since Acton Court was a moated manor, she expected the house to be close within the moat. So, if she had indeed stumbled upon the moat then where, in the name of God, was the house? However much she glared at the trees on the other side of the water, no building of any sort appeared; nor was there a bridge across it either. She was feeling very cold now and her breath misted the air as she walked on.
There must be more than one moat, she decided, but whether there was or not, what was clear was that she must still cross this stretch of water to get to the house. While she walked on, silently cursing the lack of an easy crossing place, she thought she glimpsed a distant glimmer of light through the trees. Was that a house, further away? With a jolt, she realised that the light she could see was drawing closer now – and wavering like the light of a torch. Someone was looking for her and the knowledge brought tears of relief to her tired eyes. Mary must have returned safely and now they were coming for her. If she crossed the moat, she reckoned they would find her all the sooner.
She stopped and took several deep breaths, trying to persuade herself to re-enter the water which she knew was deep, dark and filthy. And who knew what vile creatures might live in there, she pondered? But then, what did a little more water matter since she was already soaked through? She gulped in another lungful of air but just as she was about to slip back into the moat, she felt rough hands upon her shoulders.
“Lost, are you?” said a voice.
At once, she was lifted bodily off her feet and borne away from the water. Screaming her despair, she wrestled and wriggled with her captor, but her arms were pinned to her side in his strong grip.
Other, more familiar voices sounded from the trees beyond the moat.
“Lady! We’re coming for you!” It was Hal – dependable Hal.
And another voice rang out, a Breton echo from her past – a voice she never expected to hear again. But her attempts to shriek a reply were cut short when her abductor struck her on the side of the head with his fist.
René hoped that Lady Eleanor’s cries would alert John Elder and the others but, wounded leg or not, he was not going to wait for anyone else. Eleanor would not be torn away from him again. He had only one chance to find her – and that was right now.
“Fetch Lord Elder!” he yelled at Hal, before plunging into the moat.
For René, who had spent almost his entire life aboard ship, a little water held no fears. Though his leg hampered him a little, he was a strong swimmer and ploughed across the moat in only a few seconds. Even so, by the time he climbed out of the water, he had only a general sense of the direction in which Eleanor had been taken. East, he reckoned; it had to be east – away from the house and away from those still searching in the deer park.
Standing still to listen for just a moment longer, his conjecture was confirmed by a rustle of dead bracken fronds, as bodies lashed through them. Setting off at once, he broke into an awkward run, heedless of the damage he was inflicting upon his thigh. Though the wound was quickly torn open, rage drove him on through a barrier of agony.
Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of moving shadows ahead of him – one man only, he reckoned, bearing the lady upon his shoulder. Just one man, who could not move very fast; but René’s leg was on fire and, in his deteriorating condition even one man would likely be more than a match for him. Still, the fellow must tire soon, so at least René would discover where she was being taken.
The answer came all too swiftly, for René was suddenly aware of a large, dark shape looming up over the trees ahead. When Eleanor’s captor stopped abruptly, René lurched behind a tree to keep out of sight. He recalled that, when they entered the Acton Court estate earlier, he had seen a stone tower in the distance jutting out above the trees. At the time he had not paid it much attention, but it seemed certain now that the building was going to be Eleanor’s prison.
When she was tossed down against a stone wall, he almost leapt out from his hiding place to rescue her. But he forced himself to wait – and observe. He was unable, in the dark to discern more than a simple outline of the building but noted a square tower which marked its highest point. From the top, René thought, one might see some distance, making it the ideal base for a group of traitors who needed to keep the house under observation.
While Eleanor’s captor was fiddling with the door, René decided that this was his best hope of freeing Eleanor. Hand on his sword hilt, he was about to step forward when the house door was flung open to reveal two more men. Uttering a silent curse, René slid back into the undergrowth and could only look on, helpless, while Eleanor was bundled inside.
Fuming, he stared at the house, watching as the flickering torchlight moved up to the first floor. But it did not stop there and continued on up to the second floor and then beyond to the third, close to the summit of the tower. How in God’s name could he climb so many steps to reach her? Then of course there were at least three men guarding her…
Somehow, it was not enough to console himself with the knowledge that at least he knew where the lady was being held. Perhaps his comrades would be able to track him down and then they would have the numbers to free her. When, a few moments later, two horsemen rode up, René thought for an instant it was John Elder; but it wasn’t. Rapping on the door, the newcomers exuded a worrying degree of confidence, bordering on arrogance. Whoever they were, they clearly felt very much at home there.
Creeping a little closer, René was able to hear some of their conversation.
“You have her secure again?” queried one of the newcomers.
“Yeh, she’s up the top,” replied one of the guards.
“Good. See you keep her secure then,” growled the man in command.
“When do we move her?” the guard asked.
“We don’t” replied his superior.
“For the trade, I mean,” explained the guard.
“There isn’t going to be a trade, you fool; there never was. At dawn, John Elder will come to the gates and we’ll take him. Lord Elder is all Master Catesby wants; he doesn’t care whether Eleanor Elder lives or dies. But it’s safer for us that she dies, eh?”
René struggled to believe what he was hearing; had he come all this way never to see the lady again? He was so stunned that he scarcely noticed the two horsemen ride away.
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