Brian Wainwright - The Adventures of Alianore Audley

‘That’s right, my lady,’ said a plump dame, leaning in over the very door of the litter. ‘These youngsters nowadays! No respect for their elders at all. Don’t know where the world’s coming to, I don’t. It’s not like it used to be when we were young, in good King Harry’s time. Give them a damn good thrashing, that’s my counsel. Never did us any harm, did it?’

‘Madam,’ I answered, rude in my haste to be rid of her, ‘I am not likely to take advice about the ordering of my household from a woman in a dirty coverchief, and most certainly not in the middle of the public highway. Be so good as to sod off.’

She scowled and pushed back into the crowd. ‘Stuck-up cow,’ she complained to her friend. ‘Get a four horse litter and a bit of a place at Court and they think they own the Bridge. All the same, these northerners. Not used to having money, that’s their trouble.’

Roger had also been caught up in conversation, with a knight, Sir George Browne, he knew from his days in King Edward’s service.

‘Didn’t know you had any lands south of the Thames, Beauchamp,’ Sir George bellowed.

‘Nor do I,’ said Roger. ‘We’re just off to Canterbury for St. Thomas’s shrine. The wife hasn’t seen it yet. Have you, my dear?’

I inclined my head, and tried not to smile as Browne’s horse backed up and stood on a man’s foot. The fellow dropped his basket of oysters and ran through the complete London catalogue of abusive terms. The boys sniggered helplessly.

‘Tyrell here is going along for the ride,’ Roger continued, ‘and to look for a suitable wife for his son.’

‘Dead right,’ nodded Sir James, ‘and I’m also in the market for any decent horses that are going. That’s not a bad one you’re sitting on, Browne. Fancy selling him to the King?’

Sir George ignored this question, as well as the curses rising from the gutter. ‘I hear from my nephew, Paston, that there are some very strange rumours afloat about the young Princes,’ he ventured. ‘Even that they’re dead. You two are much closer to the King than I am. When can we expect an official statement from the government?’

‘No comment,’ said Tyrell.

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear in the alehouses,’ Roger added. ‘The King will make an announcement in his own good time, but I wouldn’t advise you to press him for it.’

‘Ah, well,’ sighed Browne, ‘just don’t be surprised if you come across a fair amount of grutching and grumbling as you travel through Kent. Even the odd fool tattling about some conspiracy or other. All hot air, of course. It won’t come to anything. We’re all staunchly loyal. But people will talk. Especially the lower orders, you know. They get such wild ideas in their heads.’

It always arouses my suspicions when a man makes a point of stressing his own loyalty, and some inner voice told me that Browne’s security file needed a thorough checking. However, it was only a hunch, and I was in no position to do anything about it. I had enough on my plate keeping the two boys in order.

The writing of this Chronicle has been interrupted by the arrival of our neighbour, Sir Humphrey Berkeley, who has told me that he wishes to marry my daughter. One cannot afford to be too choosy these days, and so he may have to do for her, even if he did fight for Tudor at Bosworth.

Constance herself seems less than impressed with him. She appears to think him disqualified as a potential husband by his advanced age – he is past fifty – his huge belly and his sour breath. I don’t know where the girl has got such romantic notions. Certainly not from me. Perhaps from her father. Roger was born into the wrong century. He’d have been much happier back with William Marshal, or Roland, or some other armour-polisher. He could have gone around slaying dragons, and rescuing damosels from towers.

I hope I don’t have to persuade her to do her duty. I find nowadays that I can’t give anyone a really good beating without my arm aching for a week afterwards. I must be getting past it.

As I told her, the advantage of marrying an old man is that he is likely to be worn out in no time. Before you know it, he’s dead, and you’re left with nothing but a fat jointure to comfort you. Once you have security of tenure you can afford a little romance, if you’re that way inclined.

Guy has also been to see me, to inform me that we have some surplus malt that needs to be sold off before it rots. I don’t know what he expects me to do about it. Ride into Gloucester, perhaps, and hire a stall in the market. I find these days that there’s always someone pestering me over some trifling matter. Roger has written from London, bidding me go to the Sheriff and obtain a writ of Replevin, whatever that may be, against our neighbour, Berkeley. Something to do with our cattle finding their way onto his land and not coming back. First I’ve heard of it, and how Roger has learned of it is beyond me. I tell you, I had a quieter life when I was working for Yorkist Intelligence, and it was a damn sight more interesting. I think I shall write to ask Roger what I’m to do with the malt. It’ll give the impression that I don’t do anything without his instructions, which should please him no end. I do hope he remembers to bring my new girdle home with him. And the scarlet gown I hinted about in my last letter. Of course, I shan’t be at all sarcastic if he lets me down.

Guy, by the way, has become our Steward at Horton Beauchamp. He’s a grizzled fellow now, and his eyesight is not quite what it was, so he’s retired from competitive archery and taken on a desk job. He settled down, not long after Tewkesbury, with a nice young shepherdess he found somewhere towards Burford and they’ve produced quite a quiver of little arrows over the subsequent years.

I owe a lot to Guy. After all, he did save my life. And he led me to the church door, when not even one of my own brothers could be bothered to put in an appearance. As far as I’m concerned he’s part of the family, and always will be. It’s a pity he hasn’t got a coat of arms, especially in these days when any little rat can buy one from Mr. Tudor if he’s got the wit to forge a pedigree for himself. I can think of a pushy family from Northampton way who’ve done exactly that. They claim to be descended from the Despensers of all people. Well, my grandmother was wife to a Despenser before she met my grandfather, and I can assure you that those damned graziers are no relations at all. Cheeky rogues! I absolutely refuse to be connected to them. They’re the kind that clear their tenants from the land to accommodate more sheep, and bring the whole ruling class into disrepute. Dwelling on their success only confirms me in my opinion that England is finished.

It was not easy to get in to see the Lady Margaret of York, Duchess of Burgundy. Her Court at Malines was very formal, and you had to study a manual of etiquette and hand over a copy of your pedigree before they would even let you through the door. A solemn lady, Duchess Margaret, very much like her brother, King Richard, both in looks and demeanour. A woman born to wear black if I have ever met one.

We were kept in her waiting-room for quite a long time. Behind a grille was her collection of books and manuscripts, which was almost as big as Margaret Beaufort’s. There was a portrait of her late husband, Duke Charles, and, next to it, a series of illustrations of Margaret herself doing good works – visiting prisoners, attending funerals, handing out alms, and so on. Her image consultant had obviously told her that piety was a strong selling point in Flanders.

She did not even snicker when she saw her nephews in their highly inappropriate attire. Instead she gave them each a brief hug and told one of her women to take them into her private apartments. Before they went, the two boys very politely thanked us for our trouble.