A Bloody Field by Shrewsbury

  They were still sitting together when Hotspur came from the prince’s apartments. Julian rose as he came in, and bowed herself unnoticed from the room; but from beneath her lowered lids she saw them meet, and the private radiance that lit their faces was still a dazzle in her eyes as she closed the door upon them. She saw him cross impetuously to his wife, lift her bodily by the waist, and kiss her heartily; and she knew that before the latch clashed into place they were in each other’s arms. Proof, she thought, astonished, that men and women do love. For she had seen little enough evidence of it in her life so far.

  She watched them in hall, from her place among Elizabeth’s ladies, and they were two bright lanterns burning with sparks of laughter and joy and prodigal kindness, for pure pleasure of being together after an absence. They lit the whole of the high table, startling the prince’s grave face into gaiety. Julian watched them, and every moment of watching only confirmed his election, though it set him another league away from her.

  Nevertheless, he had felt her need and advanced to fill it. She did not suppose there would ever be another such moment to hope for, yet few could ever have had so much. It was unlooked-for grace that after supper he should send his page to ask Mistress Hussey to be kind enough to come and speak with him in the small chamber the prince was using as a study. And a prodigy that he should receive her there alone.

  * * *

  “Now that we are private,” he said, looking her in the eyes, “you may speak out openly what for some reason you did not wish to speak out before the prince. Why are you so urgent to get away from your husband’s house and back to your father’s? Oh, the wish I well understand. You’re young and handsome, and your family clearly wealthy enough, you have a life before you. But if that were all, would it be so insupportable to stay a few more weeks in Hussey’s household? And you yourself made it clear to me that you would not stomach so much as one more day, if we could but be induced to open a way of escape for you. If we had not provided you this delay, and this opportunity, what would you have done?”

  His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact and kind, and his eyes smiled at her with interest and curiosity, she thought, beyond the mere charm he must use by native grace upon all who came near him and were weaker than he. She debated for a moment whether to answer, and then how to answer.

  “My lord, I have good reason to know that it was you who said a word for me in his Grace’s ear, and gave me this day for thought, and even offered me arguments I was not wise enough to find for myself. If you had not, and the prince had consigned me again to that man’s house, I should hardly have known what to do, or where to turn. Though I should have discovered a tolerable way,” she said, with force and finality. “Needs must, and I have had some practice.”

  “And why was it so urgent to you to go? And to him that you should not go?”

  “He wants me to remain under his roof,” she said deliberately, “because I am young and handsome—it was you, my lord, who called me so—and his wife is neither. Widowed and childless and penniless, a woman is at the mercy of her husband’s kin—or so he reasoned. He offered me a fat life as his whore, and I laughed in his face. Since then, twice already he has attempted me by force. In his house I should never be safe.”

  “Then why have you not spoken out and accused him?” demanded Hotspur warmly. “If he has done you such injury this fellow must be held to account.”

  She smiled, a small smile as bitter as rue that just curled the corners of her lips. “He has done me no injury—yet. It is I who have left my mark upon him. Your lordship may see the print of my affection scored across the back of his left hand and wrist, if you care to make him hand you his manor roll tomorrow. But give him his due, he does not give up for a scratch or two, and not even a dagger could hold him off for ever.”

  “No!” said Hotspur, flushed with anger. “This cannot be allowed to pass without redress! You should have spoken out boldly before the prince. Why should you hesitate? Do you think he would not see right done to you?”

  “With all my heart, my lord, I believe he would, but it would be a costly redress to me and mine.” She leaned forward, flushing in her turn. “I do not want right done. All I want is silence, and to go back to my father’s house.”

  “And how much silence will there be when your father hears how you have been used?”

  “He will not hear,” she said vehemently. “Never from me, and never from you, my lord, if you regard my good. What I have told you here I have told you in confidence, whether I exacted any promise from you or no, and you cannot violate my trust.”

  “God forbid!” said Hotspur, baffled and frowning. “But why should you be willing to let so gross an injury pass? For I think it is not out of any maiden meekness in you,” he said, with a sudden blazing smile that turned the stricture into a compliment.

  “Because he is English, and noble, though he may be only the small cousinly fry of his house. He is distant kin to Arundel himself. And I am the daughter of a Welshman, a settler in this town for many years, but still Welsh. Your lordship of all people knows what that means now. We Welsh are all suspect since the Lord Owen raised his banner in mid-Wales two years ago. We cannot own property, or hold office, we must give hostages for our good behaviour—we are prisoners and outcasts in our own town. My father was to have been bailiff, now that and all other honours are out of his reach. He had a great and flourishing trade with the Welsh weavers, bringing their wool and piece goods into England here, and transporting them to London. Now all trade with Wales is forbidden. My father is a proud man. If he knew of the insult offered me he would want revenge—and against the Husseys he cannot possibly speed. I want my father living, not dead. What use is revenge to me if it means the destruction of what life we have left? No, my lord, I beg you keep this thing secret. I need only one thing from you and his Grace, to return to my home and take part at least of my dowry with me. And if you can give me that relief, I will be grateful.”

  He thought it over, to judge by his frowning face with something of a struggle, and gave way reluctantly. “Well, you shall have it as you wish, though it goes against the grain with me to see this fellow go free. But you must give me leave to confide in the prince, and I make the same promise for him. Tomorrow’s audience must be managed plausibly, he will need to know what he is about.”

  She hesitated. “And can you so promise for him, my lord?”

  “Never fear for that. His Grace is wise beyond his years. I pledge his secrecy as freely as my own.”

  He sat silent for a long moment, considering her soberly from beneath knitted brows. She felt that the interview was over, and yet his stillness held her still, and the solemnity of his regard filled her with a curious sense of freedom and enlargement, as though she enjoyed the very fashion of intimacy with him that he might have shared with a man and his peer, even with the prince himself. Those who were his companions in arms must have known such moments. He was at peace with her while he reasoned and thought before speaking; and the lengthening silence had neither weight nor tension, but lay between them gently like the comfortable warmth of a fire. She had never before known how to be still and wait; there had never been anything as worth the waiting for as this was.

  “Lady,” said Hotspur, “there is yet something you may do for me, if you will.”

  “I will,” she said, without haste or hesitation.

  “Gently, you do not know yet what it is. You said well, no one knows better than I what it means to be Welsh now in these border towns such as Shrewsbury, with trade forbidden, and restrictions bearing down hard on every man with Welsh blood. I know that for two years now Welsh labourers and students and journeymen have been stealing away out of England, to make their way back to Wales and enlist under the banner of their self-styled prince. I know the manner of this same Lord Owen’s disaffection, and I tell you honestly, though I must and will fight with him wherever I may, yet I think his cause not all empty and not dishonourable, and there have been fau
lts committed against him foolishly and grievously, which a man may well resent. It is gross waste that a man with such qualities should be turned into a traitor, when I think he never willed to be any such monster, but wanted only his native right. And if I could bring him to reconciliation with the king, without more bloodshed and without revenge, I would count it a good deed both for England and Wales. You see, I speak with you as with my own conscience. I have already attempted something in this vein, but there are those who deal distantly with such realities, and the prince and I, both, suffer from them hardly less than Owen does. Nevertheless, it is our purpose to keep a channel open by which we may still talk with Glendower.”

  “I have already heard,” said Julian, “how in the council of last November you spoke for a parley with the Lord Owen, and told the king’s ministers that he would be willing to talk peace. And how there were some there who thought no shame to recommend that you should invite him to a meeting, so that he could be taken unawares and murdered there. And I have heard,” she said, “how you answered.”

  The eyes that dwelt upon her had opened wide in surprise, perhaps even in amusement; but the mind behind them was held and deeply exercised. How came she to know so much?

  “And how did I answer?”

  “You said it was hardly in accord with your rank and honour to make use of the oath of fealty to lure a man treacherously to his death. And the prince,” she said, watching him narrowly, “approved you. And so the matter lay.”

  His eyes were very bright now, though the constancy of their regard never wavered. Looking down into them, she could see clean into his soul. If ever this man needed to deceive, she thought, dismayed, he might as well bare his neck for the axe, for he could not save himself. He has no mask to cover his intent. He is like a naked light. And his lady is no different. Does that come from living and loving together? Or from choosing after his own kind?

  He said drily: “You are very well-informed concerning the workings of the king’s council.”

  The Welsh are all wizards,” she said. “And the Lord Owen is the greatest wizard of all. Have you not heard as much?”

  “Lady, I study to learn. There are more secrets than those belonging to the English, and well I know it. Your father, as I hear, was the main channel through which the Welsh woollens reached England. Parliament in its wisdom or folly has banned all such trade, true enough. But parliament is far away, and the border of Wales is very near, and is there a soul in these parts who does not know that smuggling goes on day by day, and that life here would be impossible if it did not? Almost half of Shrewsbury has Welsh blood, or at the least friends in Wales. How can such a border be blockaded? It cannot, nor it is not. The Severn, even in spate, is not impassable. Now supposing, lady, supposing, I say, that there are traders who have kept their contacts across the water. Then such men can be of use both to England and to Wales. Peace is in the interests of both. You believe me? You trust me?”

  “I believe you,” she said. “I trust you.” She did not say: “I love you.”

  “Good! You have spoken openly with me, and I speak openly with you. No penalties! I am neither a bailiff nor a tax-collector. What you say to me has been said only to me. Is there a reliable man who goes back and forth freely into Wales?”

  “Yes,” she said, “there is such a man.”

  She had said it, and she was committed, and had committed others along with herself. The thought did not daunt her, but she had great need of a moment of silence, to take breath and consider how much she dared tell. He had dealt with her honestly, not as with a mere woman, one who must necessarily be only on the fringes of her menfolk’s concerns. He had asked her only for what he needed, though there must be many blunter questions he could have put to her had he been so minded. She trusted him, for her own part, without reserve or doubt; but she was trusting him for those who crossed the river and took the risks. Moreover, he himself had loyalties of his own to preserve, and it was well for him that he should not know too much.

  “Yes,” she said, picking her way delicately for his sake, “the cloth still finds its way in, though not so freely and not so profitably. Yes, the money still finds its way out to pay for the cloth.”

  “And letters can find their way both in and out,” he said, “by the same route?”

  “Yes,” she said, “they can.” Can and do, she thought, ever since that September of two years ago, before I was given in marriage, when Owen fired Ruthyn, and his men plundered Oswestry and Welshpool, and the king came storming through here and across the border with all his army, but never found any enemy to fight. The Welsh had all vanished into the hills, as they always vanish, and Henry marched his army back through Shrewsbury empty-handed. The despatches that mapped every move he planned went into Wales ahead of him by this same route. And that was only the beginning.

  “Will you bring me in touch with this messenger?”

  She hesitated, pondering means. “You must meet him?”

  “I think it may be even more important that he should meet me. Will he take your word for my good faith?”

  “Do you take my word for his?” she said.

  He smiled. “Come, then, let’s be plain. I have warrant from the king to deal—to keep open, if I can, a means of communication with Glendower, any honest way of continuing the debate that may yet stop this fighting, and let tradesmen and students and friars move freely about their business again. I want pacification. I want an open border, as you do. I want Owen back lawfully on his own lands and in good odour again with his king. What I do in approaching him thus I do with the king’s goodwill. But well you know, it seems, that one such attempt has been ruined and rejected by the council, and it may take us a weary while to find a fair agreement and a council sobered enough and sensible enough to abide by it. Yet I think the trying well worth while. If I move as privately as possible, it is to hold off the fools and rogues until the thing has a chance of success. And if I handle all with my own hands, and keep the prince clear of it—though he knows my mind, and it is his mind, too—I do so to preserve him from harassment by those who will hear of nothing less than Owen’s head on London Bridge. The letters your man will carry will be in this hand! He has a right to come face to face with me, and judge for himself whether he can honourably deliver them, and never fear that he is helping to lure a brave man to his death.”

  “My man knows your reply to the council,” she said, “as well as I do. But your lordship says right, it is better there should be as few hands in the chain as may be. No one between you and Prince Owen but one man.”

  “Will you bring me to meet this man?” he asked.

  “He cannot well come here. Or to the castle.”

  He nodded assent, and did not ask for a reason.

  “I would rather come to him. There must be no suggestion of the prince being involved. If your father will receive me in his house, I should be glad. I would not have him think I have taken advantage of his daughter, and shun facing him. Nor that I will to borrow his messenger without his knowledge. I need not ask if he can be secret.”

  “He can be the most secret man alive.”

  “Will you be my go-between to him?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’ll be answerable for my father.”

  There was nothing he could have asked of her that she would not have done for him. She had never been afraid to look straightly at whatever fortune sent her, to map its every feature, and acknowledge it for what it was. She had examined with analytical precision her empty and disgusting marriage with an impotent old man, and her candid delight at the death that had put an end to it. She had even considered the possibility that the old fool’s frantic efforts to match a young wife had been the cause of his death, and the idea had not caused her to turn her eyes away and evade the issue. She had rejoiced at her childlessness, and even found the heart to laugh at the lamentable end of her father’s fond dynastic ambitions. If there was one thing not ugly and absurd about that marriage, it was a
small but irreversible change in her own situation. She was no longer an unmarried daughter, but a widow, and widowhood represented status, and liberation not merely from spinster hood, but also from any expectation of fulfilment in marriage. Through that illusion she had walked with blessed speed, and out beyond it into a world of other possibilities. Eventually the experience might have to be repeated, in her own defence, but she could not hope to find much more in it than she had found in this first venture. There were other relationships. Whatever she could look for in the future must be looked for outside marriage. What was here being offered to her she took with both hands, roused and grateful. She had not yet even recognised what it was, but she knew it for better worth than she had ever yet been given.

  “You will go home with him tomorrow—”

  “If he gets his money,” she said with a rueful smile.

  “He’ll get his money, or part of it, at least. How soon can you bring me to meet the man you speak of ? If he goes and comes, it may be days yet? Or weeks? I cannot afford weeks.”

  “He is here in Shrewsbury,” she said. “It can be tomorrow. Give me but one day, and by night he shall be waiting for you at our house.”