The Sunne in Splendour

  9

  London

  October 1471

  Hugh and Alice Brownell had that summer celebrated twenty-five years of wedlock. They’d been luckier than most; of their ten children, six had survived the perilous voyage through infancy and they now had four able-bodied sons and two healthy daughters gathered at their hearth, helping in the operation of the inn and giving promise of a secure old age for the elder Brownells.

  They’d made quite a press of people as they crowded that September Sunday into Hugh and Alice Brownell’s bedchamber to hear the story that suddenly was not as easy in the telling as Véronique had expected it to be. She’d found herself faltering before this circle of trusting faces, and her conscience was not eased when she saw her hesitation only served to make her tale that much more credible to them.

  “…and so we could not stay there, not once I knew what he…he wanted of me. I didn’t know what else to do. I had nowhere to go but here…. You are the only friends I do have in London, in all of England. I know how much I do ask of you, but…Oh, please, will you not help us?”

  All eyes shifted to Hugh Brownell, for the decision would be his to make. He was a greying, weathered man who looked considerably older than his forty-some years, so lean of frame that it seemed incongruous that he should have sired four such strapping big-boned sons. Now he rose with the slow deliberation he’d cultivated of necessity to balance a stiffened right leg, the result of a fall taken in youth.

  “I cannot say it does surprise me any, your story. I’d no sooner expect to hear good of Clarence than I would of Judas. But never you mind. You and your sister be welcome here, for as long as you like.”

  That was all the others had been waiting for, and Véronique and Anne found themselves engulfed in warmth. Véronique felt tears prick her eyes as she looked about her at these people so willing to offer a roof, refuge, friendship.

  Stephen was, at twenty-three, the eldest Brownell son; Véronique now received a shy hug and a smile from Celia, his flaxen-haired wife who was very young and very pregnant. Sixteen-year-old Matthew Brownell was watching Anne with an interest only slightly dampened by the news that she understood very little English, spoke it hardly at all. Catherine, who was seventeen, was fingering the skirt of Véronique’s gown, saying it was too fine for everyday wear but she was sure she and her mother could find some spare russet in their materials coffer.

  Véronique murmured her thanks, watching as Anne thawed under Alice Brownell’s maternal solicitude, answered questions with a soft “oui” or “non.” She watched and smiled and nodded and felt very guilty, for the lies she’d told them that they’d accepted without question and for the terrible trouble she might be bringing down upon them.

  It was early, just past eight. The streets had been astir for several hours, however, as life in London began anew with the coming of light. Véronique’s basket was beginning to rub against her wrist, and she paused to shift it to her other arm. She was pleased with her thrift and knew Alice Brownell would be, too, for she’d been able to buy six ounces of butter for a halfpenny and a large cheese for a shilling. Much of the time, the Brownell women churned their own butter, but this coming Sunday was the Feast Day of St Edward the Confessor, and Alice was laying in a store of food in expectation of a greater flow of wayfarers than usual.

  It had been a source of some controversy at first, whether Véronique should share the marketing duties with Catherine. The Brownells were very conscious that Véronique was not of their class; she was the daughter of a knight, had been privileged to serve their ill-fated Queen. They were not all that comfortable that Véronique should be gathering eggs or drawing water or assisting Alice and Celia in the brewing of their ale. But they were far from affluent. The livelihood they earned from their inn was marginal; it was old and rather run-down, and the Brownell boys confided in Véronique their suspicion that they’d been hurt, as well, by their known allegiance to the House of Lancaster. They were clearly relieved when Véronique insisted that she wanted to do her share.

  So, too, did her sister Marthe, she assured them, but she must ask that Marthe be spared any errands which would take her beyond the confines of the inn, given her unfamiliarity with English. The Brownells looked at Anne’s delicate profile, mistaking her wide-eyed wonder at the strangeness of her surroundings for extreme timidity, and agreed at once that Marthe should stay within the inn, under Alice’s protective eye.

  Anne had shown herself to be more adroit at deception than Véronique had expected. She had yet to forget and not respond when addressed as Martha, and she’d adapted very well to the Brownells’ peculiar habit of chattering to her as if she spoke fluent English and, at the same time, feeling free to discuss her to her face as if she could not comprehend a word being spoken. That, she’d laughed to a bemused Véronique, was an offshoot of the deeply rooted conviction of the English that you could make any foreigner understand you if only you spoke loudly enough.

  But there was no denying that life in an Aldgate inn was a far cry from the world as they’d known it at the Herber. Anne was accustomed to eating from silver plate; now she made do with a wooden bowl and spoon. These days she wore frieze, a coarse wool, when once she’d worn only velvets and satins. From childhood, she’d lain upon the softest of feather beds; she now stretched out at night upon a mattress filled with straw in the little chamber she and Véronique shared up under the eaves of the roof.

  There was no fireplace, of course, and the only source of warmth in the room was a small brazier heaped with coals. Year-round frequent baths were a pleasure Anne had taken for granted all her life; at the Rose and Crown, a bath became a complicated and cumbersome affair, involved the dragging of a large unwieldy tub before a well-stoked kitchen fire, heating pots of water beforehand and, most difficult of all, trying to ensure that rarest of luxuries, privacy.

  There were no chairs in the inn, merely a few stools, coffers, and a bench or two, one large trestle table for family meals, and several smaller ones for cooking and sewing; the bedchambers held beds, coffers, lavers for washing, and little else. There were no arras hangings for the walls, no mirrors, no glass for the windows, some of which were open to the elements when not shuttered and others screened with oiled linen, which blocked out the wind but much of the light, too. There were no garderobes, either, only chamber pots and an outdoor privy.

  Mealtimes were no less a novelty to both girls. Anne was used to eating manchet loaf made from white flour; Véronique had acquired a like taste at the Herber, but at Aubépine, she’d breakfasted on the coarsergrained ravel bread of unbolted flour and bran. Now they both ate barley bread and acorn loaf. Véronique was positive Anne had not eaten roasted turnips before seeking shelter with the Brownells; neither girl had ever tasted boiled cabbage before.

  Anne had yet to complain about this unusual fare; she ate without comment the salted herring and pottage served up for breakfast. And during those sun-warmed days of late September and early October, she even learned to cook those breakfasts herself.

  Not that Anne was ignorant of the arts of cooking. That was something all girls were expected to know. Anne, like Véronique in France and Catherine Brownell in Aldgate, had been taught how to season meats with herbs and stew apples with almonds, saffron, and salt, how to prepare frumenty stew and to bake custard and cheesecake. But there the similarities among the three girls ended.

  Catherine’s education had been confined strictly to the teaching of household tasks. She could neither read nor write, nor did she feel the lack. In Catherine’s world, it was enough that she could cook and sew, that she had a basic knowledge of medicinal herbs, that she would know how to tend to her children and content her husband.

  Véronique’s education had been more extensive than Catherine’s, although it had much of the aspects of a patchwork quilt, with a bit of learning snatched here and there, from a number of sometimes surprising sources. Her brother could not afford to board her with the nuns who generally saw to
the teaching of young girls of her rank. He had, however, engaged a tutor for his sons, and from him, Véronique had learned the alphabet. Spurred on by the boredom of Aubépine more than anything else, she’d disciplined herself until she read without difficulty and could write as well, although with far less ease. From her sister-in-law, she was taught needlework and cooking and the arts of healing; at Marguerite’s court at Koeur, she’d gained some knowledge of music. She had no Latin other than the Pater Noster, the Ave, and the Credo, but from Ralph Delves she’d learned English, and this summer past under Anne’s tutelage, she’d begun the struggle to translate it from the ear to the page.

  With Anne, it had been quite different. Anne was fluent in French, had some comprehension of Latin. She rode well, had been taught to hawk, to dance, to play chess. She played the lute quite well, and could pick out a passable melody upon the lyre. But these accomplishments were only a portion of what she’d been taught to do.

  Anne had been raised with the expectation ever in mind that one day she would have to manage a great household of several hundred people. She had to be able to balance a budget, to keep orderly household accounts from Michaelmas to Michaelmas. She had to know how much money should be set aside for almsgiving and what should be paid out in wages. She would have to be able to supervise all that must be done to keep functioning a castle such as Middleham or Warwick, to see that bread was baked in ample amounts, that sufficient draughts of ale were brewed in the alehouse, that butter and cheese were being produced in the dairy and candles in the larder, that meat was salted for the coming winter and herb gardens tended.

  But it was one thing to understand how to perform a task for supervisory purposes and quite another to turn her hand to it herself. In that, Anne had not been prepared for what was expected of her now that she had abandoned the Herber for Aldgate.

  Anne knew quite well that Gauncele sauce was made with flour, milk, saffron, and garlic; she had never stood before an open fire stirring the concoction in a heavy brass frying pan. She knew sheets must be soaked in a wooden trough with a solution of wood ashes and caustic soda; she had never knelt before the tub scrubbing out the stains herself. Never before had she made beds or washed dishes or swept floors, all of which the Brownell women did every day, with some haphazard help from Mary and Dorothy, their kitchen maids.

  Anne did all this now, and without complaint. But she was unaccustomed to sleeping in an unheated room, to groping her way at night down unlit stairwells and out into the damp ground of the garden to use the privy, to be awakened by rain dripping through the eaves, and like a garden flower suddenly uprooted to grow wild, she’d soon sickened. She’d had a hacking cough for more than a week now, and Véronique was beginning to become concerned.

  So, too, was Alice, and she’d directed Véronique to stop at an herb shop for white horehound; when mixed with honey, it was thought to be an effective cough medicine. Having done so, Véronique continued west on Cornhill Street, purchased six wax candles from a local chandler’s shop. She wasn’t overly worried about venturing out on her own, felt sure that only the most accursed ill luck could bring her to Clarence’s eye. Much of the time, she felt that to be true for Anne, too. As long as Anne was sheltered within the Rose and Crown, she was safe; Véronique could not conceive of anyone thinking to look for the Earl of Warwick’s daughter in an Aldgate inn. No, they were well camouflaged here, need only wait till the Duke of Gloucester did come back to London.

  But when he did come, how would they know?

  It was a cruel jest of God, Véronique thought, that the Brownells’ Lancastrian sympathies, which had proven to be the bridge to their salvation, should now isolate them as thoroughly as if a moat were dug around the inn. None of the Brownells, even the youngest, were inclined to gossip about the happenings at the Yorkist court. They did not know what was occurring at Edward of York’s court; nor did they much care. And the result was that Anne and Véronique knew no more of what was happening in Westminster than they did of the events taking place in the North of England, where Richard might or might not still be.

  Véronique had begun to offer at every opportunity to shop, to run errands. In this way, she hoped to hear some word of Richard’s whereabouts; most people, she knew, were not as indifferent as the Brownells to Yorkist comings and goings, would be only too happy to gossip about the King’s youngest brother. She’d even discussed with Anne the advisability of making the long walk across town to Baynard’s Castle, but Anne had been adamantly opposed to letting her take such a risk. Both girls were convinced that George would have Baynard’s Castle under close surveillance, just waiting for one of them to try to contact Richard. Until they were sure that Richard was back in London and able to give them his protection, they could do little but wait.

  Three days later, however, Véronique found herself on Thames Street, staring up at the greying stone walls of Baynard’s Castle. She was shivering, as much from apprehension as from the cold, and to her uneasy eye, every man that passed seemed suspect, seemed sure to be a spy for the Duke of Clarence. She shouldn’t have come; Anne had been right. But Anne was ill, drifting in and out of a fevered sleep, drenched with sweat and suffering from coughing spasms so severe she’d begun to bring up phlegm flecked with blood.

  After two days and nights at Anne’s bedside, Véronique, too, was far from well, was numb with fatigue and fear. It was the fear that proved strongest, that sent her out into city streets slick with rain, that brought her now to Baynard’s Castle. Once there, however, her courage failed her. It was so imposing a structure, a veritable stone fortress rather than a manor house like the Herber. She hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next, loitered for some moments, hoping fervently that Richard might magically appear. He didn’t. Instead, she attracted the attention of several men clad in the blue and murrey of York; taking her for a harlot in search of customers, they began to yell offers down from the outer bailey walls. Thoroughly flustered, she retreated in haste, moved back up Addle Street to regain her composure and to nerve herself to approach again the gatehouse guards.

  Directly in front of the castle, several drovers were swearing and struggling to free a cart mired down in the muddy swamp the streets had become after three days of heavy rains. They’d attracted a small crowd of spectators, one of whom now detached himself from the other onlookers, began to follow Véronique up Addle Street.

  Her suspicions at once flared up into active alarm. She quickened her pace, and glancing back over her shoulder, was panicked to see that so had he. She never for a moment considered that he might have made the same mistake the guards had, might have taken her for a woman of the streets. To Véronique, this man stalking her up Addle Street could only be one of Clarence’s hirelings, and she began to tremble with fright.

  She had to lose him, could not lead him back to the inn, to Anne. By now she’d reached Carter Lane; he was still behind her, had narrowed the gap somewhat. A large crowd was thronging the churchyard of St Paul’s, gathered for the St Edward’s Day High Mass, and she plunged into their midst. Ignoring the curses and punishing elbows of people she was dispossessing, she forced her way into the churchyard.

  Not daring to look back, she shoved and pushed until a path opened for her, darted through the side door leading into the nave of the cathedral. She stumbled at once into disaster, tripping over one of the tables set up in the west end of the nave, where scribes wrote letters and legal documents for any willing to engage their services. As she lurched against it, the trestle board buckled and dumped the contents of the table onto the floor. The scribe stared in dismay at the ruin of his labor, at the puddle of ink soaking through his supply of paper. With an outraged shout, he grabbed for Véronique.

  “Look what you’ve done to my stall, you clumsy jade! You’ll pay me for the damage done or, by God, I’ll call a constable!”

  By now, Véronique had regained her feet. She evaded his outstretched arm by purest luck, looked around wildly for escape. Across the nave
, several loitering youngsters who were watching the commotion with amusement shouted at Véronique, “The north door, sweetheart! Take the Si Quis door!”

  Their words meant nothing to her, but they were pointing and gesturing; she saw that there was a small door on the other side of the nave and ran toward it. Behind her, she heard laughter, a thud, a curse, and more laughter. Looking back, she saw that one of the boys had thrown a footstool into the path of the pursuing scribe. With a sob, she fled the church, out into Paul’s Alley.

  Not knowing if she’d shaken off pursuit, she gathered up her skirts and pushed her way through the press of people milling about in the north side of the churchyard. Not until she reached the street did she pause to draw breath into her air-starved lungs. She’d gashed her knee on the edge of the scribe’s table, torn her stockings, snapped a garter, and she saw now that her skirt had swept the ink spill, was spotted with dark blotches.

  She leaned against the doorway of a cookshop, ignored the youth urging her to buy “a nice hot pie, mistress? We’ve a right tasty smoked pike pasty, or if you’d rather, ribs of beef.” The greasy smells from within hit her knotted heaving stomach like a fist; she fought back a wave of nausea and backed away from the shop. The man was not in sight. She began to walk as swiftly as she could without attracting notice, found herself whispering “Jésus et Marie,” over and over, until the words had no meaning whatsoever to her.

  Anne’s fever broke that night. By the next day she was able to take barley broth, and soon she was propped up on makeshift pillows of chaffing sacks while Alice spooned a mixture of honey and wine down her throat. She was back on her feet by the week’s end, the same day that Véronique had an unpleasant encounter in the stairwell with a drunken inn patron. Stephen Brownell had handled it with his usual quiet competence, somehow avoided outright violence while making a most persuasive case for the man’s immediate departure. Véronique’s outrage had taken hours to cool, left a sour aftertaste in her mouth. She and Anne had to get out of here. Blessed Lady, but they had to!