Sara Douglass - The Wounded Hawk

SARA DOUGLASS

The Crucible: Book Two

The Wounded Hawk is for Diana Harrison who first opened the way into parallel worlds across my kitchen table one damp afternoon in Bendigo (our way aided, as always, by a few good glasses of wine).

Cover

Title Page SARA DOUGLASS

PART ONE Margaret of the Angels PART ONE Margaret of the Angels Ill father no gift, No knowledge no thrift. Thomas Tusser, Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

PART TWO The Wounded Wife

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

PART THREE Well Ought I To Love

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

PART FOUR The Hurtyng Tyme

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

PART FIVE The Maid and the Hawk

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

PART SIX Dangerous Treason

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

PART SEVEN Horn Monday

I

II

III

IV

V

PART EIGHT Bolingbroke!

I

II

III

IV

EPILOGUE: Pontefract Castle

Glossary

About the Author

By Sara Douglass

Copyright

About the Publisher

Ill father no gift, No knowledge no thrift.

Thomas Tusser,

Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie

The Feast of the Beheading of St John the Baptist

In the first year of the reign of Richard II

(Monday 29th August 1379)

Margaret stood in the most northern of the newly harvested fields of Halstow Hall, a warm wind gently lifting her skirts and hair and blowing a halo of fine wheat dust about her head. The sun blazed down, and while she knew that she should return inside as soon as possible if she were to avoid burning her cheeks and nose, for the moment she remained where she was, quiet and reflective, her eyes drifting across the landscape.

She turned a little, catching sight of the walls of Halstow Hall rising in the distance. There lay Rosalind, asleep in her crib, watched over by her nurse, Agnes. Margaret’s eyes moved to the high walls of the courtyard. In its spaces Thomas would be at his afternoon sword play with his newly acquired squire, Robert Courtenay, a likeable fair-faced young man of commendable quietness and courtesy.

Margaret’s expression hardened as she thought of the banter the two men shared during their weapon practice. Courtenay received nothing but respect and friendship from Thomas—would that she received the same respect and friendship!

“How can I hope for love?” she whispered, still staring at the courtyard walls, “when he begrudges me even his friendship?”

Margaret might be Thomas’ wife, but, as he had told her on their wedding night, she was not his lover.

Margaret had never imagined that it could hurt this much, but then she’d never realised how desperately she would need his love; to be the one thought constantly before all others in his mind.

To be sure, this was what they all strove for—to force Thomas to put thought of her before all else—but Margaret knew her need was more than that. She wanted a home and a family, and above all, she wanted a husband who respected her and loved her.

She wanted Thomas to love her, and yet he would not.

She turned her head away from Halstow Hall, and regarded the land and the far distant wheeling gulls over the Thames estuary. These had been pleasant months spent at Halstow Hall despite Thomas’ coolness, and despite his impatience to return to London and resume his search for Wynkyn de Worde’s ever-cursed casket.

There had been mornings spent wading in clear streams, and noon-days spent riding wildly along the marshy banks of the estuary as the herons rose crying about them. There had been afternoons spent in the hectic fields as the harvest drew to a close, and evenings spent dancing about the celebratory harvest fires with the estate men and their families. There had been laughter and even the occasional sweetness, and long, warm nights spent sprawling beneath Thomas’ body in their bed.

And there had been dawns when, half-asleep, Margaret had thought that maybe this was all there ever would be, and the summer would never draw to a close.

Yet, this was a hiatus only, the drawing of a breath between screams, and Margaret knew that it would soon end. Even now hoof beats thudded on the roads and laneways leading to Halstow Hall. Two sets of hoof beats, drumming out the inevitable march of two ambitions, reaching out to ensnare her once again in the deadly machinations of the looming battle.

Margaret’s eyes filled with tears, then she forced them away as she caught a glimpse of the distant figure striding through one of the fields. She smiled, gaining courage from the sight of Halstow’s steward, and then began to walk towards the Hall.

Visitors would soon be here, and she should be present to greet them.

Master Thomas Tusser, steward to the Neville estates, walked though the stubbled fields at a brisk pace, hands clasped firmly behind his straight back. He was well pleased. The harvest had gone excellently: all the harvesters, bondsmen as well as hired hands, had arrived each day, and each had put in a fair day’s work; the weather had remained fine but not overly hot; the ravens and crows had devastated neighbours’ fields, but not his; and little had been wasted—like their menfolk, the village women and girls had worked their due, gleaning the fields of every last grain.

There would be enough to eat for the next year, and enough left over to store against the inevitable poor years.

The fields were empty of labourers now, but the work had not ceased. The threshers would be sweating and aching in Halstow Hall’s barns, separating precious grain from hollow stalk, while their wives and daughters swept and piled grain into mounds, before carting the grain from threshing court to storage bins.

Tusser’s footsteps slowed, and he frowned and muttered under his breath for a few minutes until his face suddenly cleared. He grinned, and spoke aloud.

“Reap well, scatter not, gather clean that is shorne,

Bind fast, shock apace, have an eye to thy corn,

Load safe, carry home, follow time being fair,

Give just in the barn, life is far from despair.”

Tusser might well be a steward with a good reputation, but that reputation had not been easy to achieve. He had made more than his fair share of mistakes in his youth: leaving the sowing of the spring crops too late, allowing the weeds to grow too high in the fields, and forgetting to mix the goose grease with the tar to daub on the wounds on sheep’s backs after shearing. He had found that the only way he could remember to do the myriad estate tasks on time, and in the right order, was to commit every chore to rhyme. Over the years—he was a middle-aged man now—Tusser had scribbled his rhymes down. Perhaps he would present them to his lord one day as a testament of his goodwill.