The Wounded Hawk

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PART ONE Margaret of the Angels (#ulink_02ba1aaf-451f-5ed3-a775-67586f70cf96)

Ill father no gift,No knowledge no thrift.

Thomas Tusser,

Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandrie

I (#ulink_25ce6f70-ed86-50f6-a557-1876d781d1ec)

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.

Well … that time was far off, God willing, and there would be many years yet to rearrange his rhymes into decent verse.

Tusser reached the edge of the field and nimbly leapt the drainage ditch separating the field from the laneway. Once on the dusty surface of the lane, he looked quickly about him to ensure no one was present to observe, then danced a little jig of sheer merriment.

Harvest was home! Harvest was home!

Tusser resumed a sedate walk and sighed in relief. Harvest was home, praise be to God, even though it had not been an easy year. No year was ever easy, but if a steward had to cope with a new lord descending upon his lands in the middle of summer …

When he’d commenced his stewardship of Halstow Hall eleven years ago, Tusser had been proud to serve as a servant of the mighty Duke of Lancaster … even if the duke had never visited Halstow Hall and Tusser had not once enjoyed the opportunity to meet his lord. But the duke had received Tusser’s quarterly reports and had read them well, writing on more than one occasion to thank Tusser for his care and to congratulate him on the estate’s productivity.

But in March preceding, Tusser received word that Lancaster had deeded Halstow Hall to Lord Thomas Neville as a wedding gift. Tusser was personally offended: had the duke thought so little of Tusser’s efforts on his behalf that he thoughtlessly handed the estate to someone else? Was the duke secretly angry with Tusser, and thought to punish him with a new lord who was to actually live on the estate? A lord in residence? The very idea! Tusser had read the duke’s news with a dismay that increased with every breath. No longer would Tusser have virtual autonomy in his fields … nay, there would be some chivalric fool leaning over his shoulder at every moment mouthing absurdities … either that or riding his warhorse at full gallop through the emerging crops.

Good Lord who findeth, is blessed of God,

A cumbersome lord is husbandman’s rod:

He noiseth, destroyeth, and all to this drift,

To strip his poor tenants of farm and of thrift.

Thus it was, that when Lord Thomas Neville had arrived with his lady wife and newly-born daughter, Tusser had stood in the Hall’s court to greet them with scuffling feet and a scowl as bad as one found on a pimply-faced lad caught with his hand on the dairymaid’s breast.

Within the hour he had been straight-backed and beaming with pride and joy.

Not only had Lord Neville leapt off his horse and greeted him with such high words of praise that Tusser had blinked in astonishment, Neville had then led him inside and informed him that Tusser’s responsibilities would widen to take in Neville’s other estates as well.

He was to be a High Steward! As Tusser strode along the lane back towards the group of buildings surrounding Halstow Hall, he grinned yet again at the memory. As well as Halstow, Tusser now oversaw the stewards who ran Neville’s northern estates, and the second estate in Devon that Lancaster had deeded Neville. Admittedly, this necessitated much extra work—Tusser had to communicate Neville’s wishes and orders to the northern and Devon stewards, as well as review their estate books quarterly—but it was work that admitted and made full use of his talents.

Why, Tusser now had the opportunity to send his verses to his under-stewards! Thus, every Saturday fortnight, Tusser sat down, ordered his thoughts, and carefully composed and edited his versified directions. He was certain that his under-stewards must appreciate his timely verses and homilies.

Tusser tried not to be prideful of his new responsibilities, but he had to admit before God and the Holy Virgin that he was not completely successful.

Not only had Neville praised Tusser’s abilities, and handed him his new responsibilities, but Neville had also proved to be no fool meddling with Tusser’s handling of the estate. He had a deep interest in what happened to the estate, and kept an eye on it, but he allowed Tusser to run it in the manner he chose and did not interfere with his steward’s authority.

Neville was a good lord, and surely blessed of God. And his wife! Tusser sighed yet again. The Lady Margaret had an agreeable manner that exceeded her great beauty, and Tusser rose each morning to pray that this day he would be graced with the sweetness of her smile.