An Honourable Estate (15 page)

As she turned to look again towards the forest a pall of
smoke on the horizon caught her eye.

“Look at that!  Something is afire,” she said to Ned.

“That’s Chorleigh way,” he replied with a worried look.

“What can have happened?”

“I don’t know, my lady.  Surely it’s too far south for a
Scots’ raid?”

“Scots?  I wouldn’t have thought so.  Yet...” 
There was lingering doubt in Mabel’s mind as she watched the smoke drift on the
chill wind.  She looked down at Haigh and wondered if they could withstand
a raid if the Scots were forced, by their own harsh winter, to venture this far
south in search of supplies.  Perhaps she had better mention it to Lymesey
when he returned from his hunting and ask him what plans he had to protect the
village.

 “Nonsense, woman!  There are no Scots’ raids
around here,” replied Peter Lymesey when she told him what she had seen. 
“Pour me a cup of wine and attend to my supper and leave the manor to those who
are able to understand it,” he said.  She lingered as the young page boy
helped him out of his outdoor clothes in front of the fire that had been made
hot and bright in time for his return.  The boy looked exhausted, she
thought, as she watched him.  He was thin too and she suspected that he
was not given enough to eat; she must make sure that he had some extra in the
kitchen when Lymesey was not looking.  “Wine!” he demanded again. 
“Don’t just stand there dreaming.”  Mabel filled a cup and handed it to
him.  He drank noisily and then sighed and wiped his mouth on the back of
his hand.  “Women are fit only for the kitchen, and the bedchamber,” he
said, with a wink that she knew she was supposed to find amusing.  “Don’t
you worry about the manor.  I will take care of it for you.”

“Yes,” she said, tempted to remind him that she had spent the
day visiting the villagers and inspecting the pasture as well as helping to
brew ale, bake bread and prepare his supper, whilst he had ridden his horse
through the forest with a hawk upon his wrist and expected the page to follow
on foot and yet still be eager to do his bidding when he returned.  She
saw the boy stifle a yawn and Lymesey lashed out with a fierce blow to his
cheek. 

“Take my cloak and brush off every bit of mud if you want any
supper!”

“The boy is tired out.  Let him rest!” burst out Mabel
protectively.  “Why must you be so cruel when he does his best?”

“He is a lazy youth.  Get out!” he bawled at the
boy.  “And you, mistress,” he said, turning his narrow eyes on Mabel, “do
not reprimand me in such a manner ever again, or I will be inclined to beat
you, wife or not!”

“Then do you intend to beat me when I am your wife?” she
asked quietly, although her temper boiled within her as she clutched the handle
of the jug she held, only just preventing herself from cracking it against his
bald head, so pinkly tempting in the firelight.

Suddenly he laughed.  “Of course not, my lady.  Do
not look so alarmed.  Surely you can discern by now when I am jesting with
you?  Come nearer.  You do not need be afraid of me.  When you
are my wife you will understand my humour better.  See, pour me more wine
and take a sip yourself and let us get to know one another better.”  Mabel
refilled his cup whilst trying to avoid the hand that stretched to fondle
her.  Although she was worried to see how quickly the barrels in the
buttery were diminishing she found that Lymesey slept more soundly when he had
drunk amply, and even though his snores from the bedchamber disturbed her as
she lay on a pallet by the hearth at least she felt safer when she knew that he
was sound asleep.

In the kitchen she found Edith skinning the rabbits that
Lymesey had brought home.  At least they ate better for his hunting
expeditions, she thought, as she watched the girl chop the meat and add it to
the herbs in the stew pot, and she much preferred to have him out of the way
for most of the time.

A few
days later, after supper had been served and the boy, Dicken, had been given an
extra helping when he brought the bowls and trenchers to the kitchen before
assisting his unsteady master to bed; after Edith had been sent home, and
Lymesey’s men were still drinking in the hall, Mabel was covering the kitchen
fire for the night when she heard a gentle knock on the back door.  Her
heart lurched and she ran to open it, thinking it might be William or at least
a message from him, but it was Ned Kemp who stood outside with a dark cloak
pulled closely around him. 

“May I come in, my lady?”

Mabel stepped back and, with a finger to her lips to warn him
to be quiet, she watched as he stepped inside, ducking his head under the low
opening, before she quietly closed the door again.  She paused, but the
laughter from the hall continued and she was confident that they would not be
overheard.

 “Have you heard from Sir William?” she asked eagerly.

“No, my lady.” 

“Oh.” She heard the disappointed in her own voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it is not your fault, Ned.  But for a moment I had
hope,” she admitted.  “Sit down.  There are still some embers to warm
us,” she said, drawing two stools nearer to the hearth.

“I do have news that might interest you though, my
lady.  I was listening to the talk of Lymesey’s men as they bedded down
the horses.  It seems that the smoke we saw rising the other day was from
Chorleigh.  The village was burned and all the animals and grain were
taken – along with some of the menfolk.  It seems that it was the Scots.”

“Dear God!  That’s terrible!” burst out Mabel, before
glancing towards the hall door to check that no one had heard her.

“I hate to bring you distressing news, my lady, especially at
this time of night,” said Ned, “but there is something else that I thought
might interest you.  It seems that the villagers are being assisted by a
group of outlaws who are helping them rebuild their houses.” 

“Outlaws?” replied Mabel a little unsteadily as she watched a
slight smile play around Ned’s eyes.

“Aye, my lady.  And Harry Palmer’s sister lives at
Chorleigh.  I know it isn’t much news,” he said.  “But I thought you
would like to know.”

“Thank you, Ned.  The Chorleigh villagers will be in my
prayers tonight ‒ and I shall also thank God for the help they
have.  I’ve never believed that all outlaws are bad men,” she told
him.  “I think most have just been unfortunate.”

“And the law is mostly corrupt anyway,” added Ned. 
“What sort of law takes a person’s lands from them for no fault of their own?”

“Have
you heard news of the Scots’ raid on Chorleigh?” Mabel asked Father Gilbert after
he had heard her confession and given her his blessing. “I have been thinking
that maybe we should send some food, though we have little to spare.”

“The priest from Croston has seen them provided for I
believe,” he reassured her.

“What do you think made them come so far south?”

“Desperation.  Their winter has been even harsher than
ours.  Much snow has fallen in Scotland and starving men will go to what
lengths they can to feed themselves and their families.”

“You do not think them evil then?” she asked.

“Their acts are evil, but men are always capable of the
redemption of their souls.”

“I wish I could learn to be as forgiving as you, Father
Gilbert.”  She paused.  “I heard that outlaws were helping the
Chorleigh villagers to rebuild their houses,” she said, wanting to hear what
the priest knew.   Father Gilbert shrugged his shoulders.

“Rumours abound in times like these.  You cannot cling
to hope because of rumours,” he warned her.  “Have you thought more on
what I said about Sir Peter Lymesey?  If you are worried now, think how
much harder it will be with no man to protect you.”

“I have my villagers.”

“It’s not the same, Mabel, and you know it.  Villagers
do not have the ear of the sheriff or the Earl of Lancaster.  You will need
the protection of an influential man if these raids continue.”

“And what of Sir William?”

The priest sighed.  “I know you loved him, and that he
loved you.  It was my pleasure to minister to you both and to baptise your
children.  But these are hard times, Mabel, and it’s probable that Sir
William died in battle or soon after.  If he had been alive would he not
have come home to you?”  He took her hand in his.  “You know that I
see it as my task to advise you.  I promised your father on his deathbed
that I would be your friend as well as your confessor, and it is not just your
soul that concerns me.  I would not see you unhappy, but you cannot manage
alone.  It’s too much to expect you to oversee the manor and raise your
daughters without the help and support of a lord and husband.  I have made
enquiry about Sir Peter.”  He paused and Mabel looked up to find him
regarding her with a serious expression.  “Sir Edmund Neville speaks well
of him.  He is highly regarded and a wealthy man.  It would be a good
match for you Mabel.  I urge you to think hard about your future and see
whether it would not be better to accept this man as your husband when your
year of widowhood comes to an end.”

Mabel pulled her hand from the priest’s.  She found that
she was shaking her head, but words of dissention would not shape themselves on
her lips.  She had known Father Gilbert for a long time; she had always
trusted him and his advice and although she thought he was wrong now she felt
unable to say so.

“I... I will think on it,” she said at last. 

There
were men and horses circling the courtyard when Mabel came out of the
chapel.  Their surcoats bore the emblem of a red diagonal cross and Mabel
knew before she reached the hall door that Sir Edmund Neville would be inside.

But it was the white face of Ned Kemp that she saw first as
he turned to look at her with a thankful expression.  “Lady Mabel. 
Thank God you have come,” he said, his voice shaking with fear.  Ned’s
arms were firmly held by two of the sheriff’s men.  Mabel looked from him
to Edmund Neville, who was standing, still clad in his dark cloak, at the far
end of the hall.  Behind her she heard the door close firmly and saw a
man-at-arms move to block the way out.   

“What is amiss?” she asked as her eyes strayed towards
Lymesey, who sat beside the hearth with a large cloth held to his face ‒
and cowering in the far corner the boy, Dicken, let out an unexpected and
audible sob into the taut silence.

“This man stands accused of a serious assault on his lord,
Sir Peter Lymesey,” replied Edmund Neville.  “Though it is only through
courtesy and personal respect that I reply to you at all, Lady
Bradshaigh.  You have no jurisdiction in this matter.”

“Neither has she the right to be called ‘Lady’,” muttered
Lymesey.  “Plain Mistress Bradshaw will suffice.”

As Mabel looked across at him she saw that, behind the wet
cloth, his left eye was swollen tightly shut and his  lip was bleeding
profusely.

“I use the lady’s former title as a courtesy only,” replied
Neville.

“Ned?” said Mabel, looking at the distraught and visibly
trembling man. “What happened?”

“I caught him beating the boy and I hit him,” he told her.

“So you admit the crime?  That at least is in your
favour,” replied Neville.

“Twas no crime, my lord, twas justice, and justice that’s
been too long coming in his case,” said Ned, glaring across the hall at
Lymesey.

“Hush Ned.  You are not making things easier for
yourself,” warned Mabel, fearful for what was going to happen to him.  She
knew that the mere presence of the sheriff meant that Ned would not go
unpunished no matter how much Lymesey had deserved the blow. 

“Is Dicken hurt?” she asked, though the low sobbing from the
corner was confirmation enough.

Mabel pushed past Edmund Neville and went to the boy. 
She saw straight away that he was naked except for his braies.  The dozen
or so weals across his back and legs were bleeding and swollen where he had
been whipped.

“Dicken!” she exclaimed in horror as she knelt beside him,
one hand on his head and the other hovering above him, wanting to hold the boy
to her and comfort him, but afraid to touch him and cause him more pain. 
She turned to look up at Neville.  “Anyone who could do this to a child
deserves more than a fist to his face!” she told him.  “It is Lymesey you should
have under arrest for his crime, not Ned Kemp!”

She saw that he had the grace to look uncomfortable as she
reprimanded him, but then the momentary disquiet faded from his blue eyes.

 “It is my duty to uphold the law.  A complaint has
been made and I must make due judgement.”

“And what is your judgement?” she asked.  “Will you
punish Ned for protecting a child against this... this tyrant?”

“Ned Kemp has admitted assaulting his lord.  I cannot
ignore the crime,” he argued.

“Then you are a weak and stupid man who has no right to hold
the office of sheriff!” Mabel told him.  “If Sir William was here he would
show you the true meaning of justice!”

“But your husband is not here, my lady, and if he was I would
arrest him too.  The law must be upheld and it is my duty to uphold
it.  I cannot pick and choose the parts of it that I prefer!”