An Honourable Estate (9 page)

“I saw Wistan Bennett killed.  I have to go and tell his
wife.”

“Eat first,” said Mabel as Edith put the bowl down in front
of him.  Ned needed no further urging as he took up the spoon and ate
eagerly, mopping the dregs with a piece of bread still hot from the oven. 
Mabel poured a generous cup of ale and handed it to him.

“Thank you, my lady.  Tis two days since I ate anything
at all,” he said.  “The sheriff has his men searching the countryside for
those who managed to flee the battle.”

“I know.  He has been here this morning seeking Sir
William.  Have you any news of my husband?” she asked him again.

“I do not know what became of him, my lady,” Ned told
her.  “We won the first battle at Preston, but Edmund Neville arrived
later the same day with a force that far outnumbered ours.  We were
already tired and many of the men had been celebrating the earlier
victory.  We were taken unawares and when a second force hit us side on
many men were lost in the melee.  I fought for as long as I could, but
then Banastre bid us all run for our lives and I needed no urging.”  Mabel
watched as he took another drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.  “I
saw Bennett cut to pieces before my eyes and I fled.  I don’t know if Sir
William survived, though I cannot say with certainty that he is dead.”

The man looked up and Mabel tried to smile.  “Then
perhaps we should not give up hope just yet.  Did you see Harry Palmer?”
she asked, glancing across at Edith.  Ned shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Mabel. “I am sorry that it has come to this. 
Please know that I am grateful to you for standing by my husband in this
ill-conceived endeavour.  Go home to your wife,” she told him.  “She
will be overjoyed to see you safe.”  But not so Avril Bennett, she
thought, or her three young children.

That afternoon Mabel left her own children in Edith’s care
and walked to the church at Wigan to pray.  The stone walls shrouded her in
cold as she looked around at the squalid remnants of the army’s camp, shocked
that they had so defiled the house of God.  Brushing aside a moulding
trencher of bread she knelt before the chancel steps and her quiet voice echoed
around the empty building as she prayed aloud the pater noster.

As she knelt, lost in grief and despair she saw a form move
towards her and almost cried out her husband’s name until she blinked back her
tears and recognised the priest, Father Robert.

“Father, will you hear my confession?”

“Bless you my child.  What sins have you to confess?”

“Mostly lack of faith, Father.  I pray that my husband
is safe, but God does not answer me and I fear He has deserted me in my time of
need.”

“God will grant you the strength you need to face each day,”
said Father Robert gently.  “But He will not grant your every wish. 
We mere mortals cannot hope to understand the plans He has for this world and
for us.  We can only trust that He loves us.”

“But surely it cannot be His plan to take my husband?” she
asked.

 “He has taken other husbands – and wives and children
too.  Many have been taken.  Why should you expect exemption, Lady
Bradshaigh?”

She looked down at her thinned hands, still grasped tightly
around her rosary and she knew the priest was right.  She was no different
from the poorest villein in God’s eyes.

“Forgive me, Father, for my vanity,” she said.  The
priest laid his hand briefly upon her head and made the sign of the cross on
her forehead with his thumb.

“Go home to your children,” he said.  “They need you, as
do the villagers.  You are called on to be strong; may God grant you that
strength.”

Two
days later news came that Adam Banastre and Henry Lea had been taken at the
house of Henry de Eurfurlong.  They had sought shelter, but he had
betrayed them for a few paltry marks.  Henry Duxbury was also taken,
caught in the forest by a party of Neville’s men and conveyed to Lancaster to
stand trial.  Of William there was still no word.

“They say Banastre was hidden in the barn and fought against
his captors valiantly,” Siward, another villager who had crept back to Haigh
under cover of darkness, told Mabel.  “But he was taken alive and was
beheaded at Martinmas on Leyland Moor at the command of Thomas, Earl of Lancaster. 
Henry Lea also.” Mabel reeled at the news and reached for a stool to sit down.
“You’ve turned dreadful pale, my lady,” said the man.  “Just praise God it
was not Sir William.”

“Indeed,” she managed to say.  Adam Banastre may have
been a fool, but she would never have wished this for him and she wept again,
though not so much for him as for the not knowing what had become of her
husband.

Chapter
Five

A Year and a Day

It was
fast approaching Christmas and the days were growing ever shorter. 
Everyone was trying to complete their daytime tasks before the early dusk fell,
to save them having to burn the candles that must last them until the longer
days returned, and Mabel and her daughters were going early to their beds to
try to conserve their meagre supplies of food and fuel.

One dull Thursday, when it seemed to have never come full
daylight, Mabel was helping Edith to pour the fresh brew of ale into barrels
and secure them when she heard horses approaching.  She looked up at Edith
whose face had frozen in fear at the sound and, briefly brushing her hand
across the girl’s arm, she went, wiping her hands on the rough apron that
covered her gown, to see who had come.

She immediately recognised Sir Edmund Neville as he
dismounted his black stallion and walked across the courtyard towards
her.  He was dressed in a thick woollen cloak of the darkest blue that
made his pale eyes more intense, and his expression remained as enigmatic as
ever.

“My husband is not here,” she told him defensively as he
greeted her with a formal but curt bow.

“Though I see that some of the other villagers have
returned,” he remarked as he nodded his head towards the houses he had just
passed.

“There are menfolk in the village, yes,” she agreed. 
“Maybe more than at your last visit, for on that day I think many had left
early to go to market‒”

“Save yourself the trouble of concocting some story,” he
said, holding up his gloved hand to silence her.  “I do not care whether
the men were part of the rebellion or not.  They are only villagers and
villagers must do as their lord bids them.  I do not hold them
responsible.  Neither does my master, the Earl of Lancaster.  It is
the ringleaders, those who bid them rise up against the noble lords, that the
earl seeks to punish.”

“My husband is not here,” repeated Mabel.

“Then perhaps, my lady, he was slain in battle – or died from
his wounds soon after,” he remarked with a hint of cynicism.  “I offer you
my condolences.  It is sad that you do not have the small comfort of
burying his body.”

“Until I see his body I will not believe that he is dead,”
Mabel told him defiantly.

“You believe he still survives in the forest?” asked Neville
with a raised eyebrow.

“I pray that he survives.  Though I do not know if it is
so,” she replied quickly, worried that her words may have raised suspicions in
the sheriff’s mind that she knew more than she did.

 “May I come inside?” he asked.  “I need to convey to
you certain... information and I think it would be better for you to hear it
within the house than standing here.  And perhaps the dog could be
restrained,” he suggested, glancing down at Calab who had come to stand beside
Mabel and was making his menacing, deep throated growl.

Mabel reached down and tucked her fingers under the dog’s
collar, though she didn’t bid him to be quiet.  “Come in,” she said and
led the way into the hall before securing the dog loosely and telling him to
lie down.

The dog continued to watch Neville as he strode into the hall
and closed the door behind him.  He took off his gloves and rubbed his
hands at the flames of the small fire as Mabel watched, her arms folded
protectively across her chest as she waited for him to speak.

“There has been a hearing at Lancaster into the death of
Henry Bury,” he told her at last.  “Certain men, in their absence, have
been found guilty of the murder: William Tegg and Stephen Scallard.  They
have been outlawed and if discovered will pay with their lives for their
despicable crime.  Henry Duxbury has also been found guilty of instigating
rebellion and for being suspected of complicity.”  He paused and looked
directly at her.  “And for failing to attend as a witness in the case of the
Bury murder, your husband William Bradshaw has also been declared an
outlaw.”  As Edmund Neville watched her Mabel saw the reflected firelight
dance in his eyes.  “You do know what that means, don’t you?” he asked.

“It means my husband is a wanted man, although he has committed
no crime.”

“As an outlaw he is indeed a wanted man,” said Neville. 
He is outside the law and as such...” He hesitated as he watched her. “As such
it means that he cannot own land.  The estates of Blackrod and Haigh are
forfeit to the king for a year and a day and he may dispose of them how he
pleases.”

“But these lands are my inheritance,” replied Mabel, finding
that she was shaking with anger.  “They belong to me.  No one can
take them away.”

Neville shook his head.  “The lands have been taken into
the protection of the king, and I am granted the authority to seize them in the
name of the king until it is decided to whom they should be demised.”

Mabel stared at him.  “And when the time is over?” she
asked.  “Will they be returned?”

“A court will decide the ownership.  It will depend to
some extent on whether or not your husband is found, alive or dead, and the
outcome of any trial that may ensue.”

“And what will happen to me?  To my tenants?  Will
Sir Robert Holland take control?  He is the mesne lord below the Earl of
Lancaster.”

“I am sorry, my lady, I do not know.  Until I receive
word from the earl about the matter I cannot say more about the outcome or
about what decision he may take.  All I know is that it is my duty to
inform you what the court at Lancaster has decided.  The lands are forfeit
on William Bradshaw being declared an outlaw.”

“For a year and a day?”

“Yes, my lady.  That is correct.”

Mabel turned and looked around Haigh Hall.  It was her
home. She had been born here.  It wasn’t possible for her to give it
up.  And where could she go, she wondered, and what would become of her
little girls.

“Sir Edmund, please,” she said, turning to the tall stranger
who was still warming his hands before her hearth.  “Can you not tell me
what will happen to me?  Will I be forced to leave?” she asked him,
thinking that Sir Robert Holland would be unlikely to treat her kindly after
the way William had plundered his house and the house of his brother.

“I can only advise you to be compliant with any request made
of you.  I’m sure that it will be easier for you that way... if you do not
strive for conflict,” he told her.  There was a moment of tense silence
between them until he took up his gloves and pulled them slowly over his fingers. 
“Have you seen your husband, or heard from him?  Tell me the truth, Lady
Bradshaigh,” he warned her.

“No,” she replied.  “And that is the truth, my
lord.  I have had no word.”

“None of your villagers...?”

“None saw him after the battle, though one saw him thrown
from his horse.  The horse came home alone,” she confessed and, angry with
herself for showing weakness in front of this man, Mabel turned away to try to
regain control over the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.  She was
surprised to feel the gentle pressure on her arm and to hear Edmund Neville’s
voice close to her ear.  “Be brave, my lady,” he said.  Then she
heard his footsteps retreat and by the time she had regained her composure he
was mounted on his horse.  As she stood in the doorway and watched him
ride away she noticed him glance back at her.

Mabel
told no one what had been said to her, but every day afterwards she expected
Robert Holland to come calling.  Christmas drew nearer, but there was
little cause for celebration and certainly no prospect of feasting.  They
would all count themselves lucky not to go to bed hungry on Christmas Day.

Almost every morning there were more dead sheep to bury and
as she watched the sacks of grain and sheaths of hay and straw grow fewer and
fewer, she imposed strict rationing at the manor house and advised the
villagers to do the same.

Illness too continued to take lives.  As Advent drew to
a close and the dark December days were unrelieved of the mist and gloom, and all-pervading
dampness that seemed to creep into the bones and joints of even the most robust
of them, Elmer Andrew began to cough up blood as well as phlegm and on
Christmas Eve he died in the evening.

 “I do not know how much longer I can bear it,” Mabel
told Father Gilbert when the mass for his soul was finished.  “You tell us
that God is testing our faith, but surely we are tested beyond all
endurance?  Why would God see us suffer so?” she asked.